Page 79 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

I nudge his shoulder with mine, and he presses a quick kiss to my lips.

I feel drunk with hormones and giddiness. Anxious to get back to my apartment, I curse myself for choosing a breakfast order with such a long cooking time. I see Adam’s knee jiggling and wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.

When his phone rings on the counter, the name flashing on the screen is a pinprick to our happy little bubble.

Dr.Lewis’s name glows up at me like a stoplight. “You should take that.”

His jaw ticks. “Yeah. I’ll just…” He trails off, pointing to the sidewalk outside the restaurant.

I watch him answer through the window, his face tight. I feel like a snoop staring at him like this. I feel like the other woman, tucked inside while he sorts out his business just out of earshot. The stool squeaks as I force my legs to swivel away from my view of the sidewalk and peek into the kitchen.

The chef is preparing a mini pot pie. It isn’t until he calls for a coworker that I recognize him as Glasses from Risky Quizness. I pull my phone from my coat pocket to message Mara, so she can add another red string to the serial killer board she undoubtedly keeps on their team—but I stop myself.

She wanted to talk things through after our argument, but I haven’t made the time. I’ve been consumed with Adam and the shift in our relationship. Would Mara welcome a casual text from me right now?

Adam’s tap on my arm releases me from my thoughts. “What are you staring at?” He rubs my shoulder, and I cover his hand with mine to keep it in place.

“Glasses from the enemy trivia team works here.” I tilt my head discreetly in the chef’s direction.

“Better alert Mara.” His breath kisses my ear.

“What was Sam’s dad calling about? Is there something more he needs us to do?” My voice is remarkably nonchalant.

“Reminding me of their party.” He sniffs, and I know better than to press. “But mostly, he was telling me about his friend who wanted to hire me for a carpentry project. They’re envisioning a shed that doubles as a playhouse or something.”

“That’s great!” I cheer with too much enthusiasm. I’m making it weird. “Do you need to go measure a baseboard or a stud or…how long are you going to let me say words I don’t know before you rescue me from myself?” I ask in the face of his rapidly growing smirk.

“No, please go on. I’m loving this.” He spears a piece of my French toast. “I’m not taking the job, so it’s fine.”

“You don’t have to give up work on my account. I could help. I recently went through a home improvement crash course. I got very high marks, but full disclosure, I am sleeping with my instructor.” He ends my bit by planting a kiss below my ear.

“I can’t take a job like that anyway,” he says, pulling himself away and leaning against the counter at an angle that emphasizes that fairly devastating jawline. “I’d have to take too much time off work. It’s not possible.”

“Why? You’re moving down here to start your carpentry business anyway. Isn’t this exactly the type of job you’d want?”

He rolls his shoulders. “Yeah. Eventually. But not now. And I’ve dealt with Paul before. When I’m halfway through the shed, he’ll decide it’s too impractical and want me to repurpose the material for a basement bar or some shit. I’m not committing to something with someone who doesn’t know what they want. Plus, I don’t want to tangle myself up with the Lewises if we’re—”

He’s saved by our server, who asks a flurry of questions (More coffee? Do you need butter for that? What about sugar for the oatmeal? Jam? It’s lingonberry!). It veers us off course from the conversational landmine we were sprinting toward.

We bicker about oatmeal—perfection or gruel?—and settle back into our routine of quick pecks and addictive touches, as if the phone call—and the unanswerable questions it prompted—never happened at all.

—

The first thing Adam does is search my apartment for additional home improvement projects. Once he’s zeroed in on something that needs fixing, he grabs his tools from his truck, and, to avoid more tow trucks, I text my landlady Adam’s license plate number. When he sent me the photo of his front bumper, it felt like the first real indication that this might happen again.

Adam strolls through the door, wielding a drill like a handyman fantasy. “Put me to work.”

“I want to do it myself. Make more coffee. You’re already off pace for the day.”

“Really?” His expression’s dubious.

“I hate to tell you this since it’s your chosen vocation and all, but using a drill is not that hard.”

He yanks off his backpack and removes a pouch holding different drill bits. “Putting together prefab furniture is not my job. Is riding the light rail your job?”

“I’ve ridden the Green Line while on the clock, so I can’t say it’s not part of my job.” I position the tool in both hands like it’s a Super Soaker. “Enjoy your coffee and pick out a Christmas movie for us.”

I walk to the corner, where that bookcase box has been splayed for the better part of autumn. With the appropriate tool, I make quick work of building it while Adam searches Netflix from my bed. I pick up the narrow bookcase unsteadily for the final reveal.

---