Page 64 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“Did you just snort-laugh?” He chuckles, low and rumbly.

“Yes.”

“It’s cute.”

Sparks erupt in my belly.

He swallows into the receiver. “I’m drinking water right now. You’re a good influence on me. But you didn’t send a cryptic text message to talk about that.”

“I get it,” I say, a giggle bubbling up in my throat. “I should’ve texted a more complete summary of my thoughts. I’m guessing you consider phone calls an ‘act of aggression.’ ”

“Not at all. I hate texting. I always come off wrong. So you were saying that we’re friends…,” he nudges.

“Friends. Of course.” Though I’d suppose making out in his truck like teenagers has stretched the bounds of friendship. “I keep thinking about how this all started at the funeral. Mrs.Lewis told you who I was, and maybe I should have said something then, but we weren’t friends yet. You didn’t even like me. But it’s different now. We’re—”

His sharp inhale sputters against the phone. “I promise that’s not what I felt about you.”

The word promise in Adam’s low voice folds into me like a secret note. Suddenly, the radio frequency between us feels intensely private. I pull myself up over my pillow and prop my head on my hand. “What were you thinking when we first met? I swear you gave me a look like you hated me or something.”

Adam pauses. Anticipation trickles through my veins. “That day was kind of a blur,” he finally says.

“Of course.” I’ve broken an unspoken agreement by bringing up the funeral. We never talk about it. “It’s weird to think Sam’s apartment is almost ready. I’d started to think we’d never finish.” Or maybe I’d started looking forward to each small mishap that extended our time together. “I’m going to miss you…when it’s done. I wanted you to know that. This was important to me. You’re important to me, in a nonfriend way.” I don’t know what he’ll make of my well-intentioned fib, but I need him to know everything about Sam and his family and my role in trying to make everything a little easier. I need him to know that I’m completely available and have been as long as I’ve known him. “You should know—”

“Ali.” He says it like it hurts. “I think you know how I feel about you. You’re…” I hear his breath as he searches for the words.

I’m what? I wonder.

“…you,” he says with a breath. I can almost feel it hot on my cheek. “But it’s better this ends now. As friends. I don’t want it to get any more confusing.”

I blush at his allusion to our forgotten kiss and his admission that he might share my desire for more—and suddenly admitting that Sam thought I wasn’t good enough for him feels all the more vulnerable.

How can I tell the man I want that his friend found me lacking? I settle on an in-between truth. “Sam and I broke up before he died. I don’t know why he didn’t tell anyone, but I couldn’t bring myself to break it to his family at the funeral, and then Rachel begged me to go along with it for his parents, and then I met you and—”

“Really?” His voice cracks open, sounding almost…hopeful, but maybe I’m only hearing what I want to hear. I wish I could see his eyes and puzzle together everything he’s not saying. “You broke up with him? Before?”

Relief rushes through my insides, and I can’t bring myself to quibble with the details of who dumped who.

“Yeah,” I respond, sounding hopeful too. Even if this is too confusing for him, he knows now that it’s not confusing for me. That this could be real if only he wanted it.

“It’s still weird to think about you and him. And the more I get to know you, the less I can picture it.” His voice feels different now—weighed down.

“I was surprised by it at first too, with his whole Instagram-model look. We were always mismatched.”

Fabric rustles against the receiver with his groan into his pillow. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make me tell you how beautiful you are.” His voice is a hungry rasp, and the raw sound fills my abdomen with heat.

There’s something too intimate about late-night phone calls. I can close my eyes, and Adam is lying on the pillow next to me. I can open them, and we’re staring at the same ceiling tiles. I wonder what his ceiling looks like and whether he imagines me looking up at it too.

My body’s heavy, like I’m under the weighted comforter Instagram keeps pushing on me. I need to hang up. “You sound tired,” I whisper.

“I could talk a little longer.”

So we do.

16

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