Page 80 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“Can I…” When he speaks into my hair, his voice is so close to me, I startle. “Oh, don’t drop the…” The bookcase tilts forward, but Adam acts quickly, catching the top above my reach. He helps me right it, and I hold it steady while he silently picks up the drill from the end table and anchors the piece to the wall. “Being tall helps with this part.”

“Sorry. That was a bit dramatic.”

“It all worked out. And now you have a bookcase.”

“It’s a miracle,” I say flatly, blowing an escaped curl out of my eyes.

“Look at it. You built this!” He congratulates me, rubbing my shoulders.

“I assembled it.”

“Don’t do that. This is my favorite part of making something, seeing what was just pieces of wood become beautiful and useful. You have a space in your home for books and photos and memories, and you made it.”

He’s the most animated I’ve ever seen him as he talks about building something “beautiful.” It must have been hard for him to do the opposite each day in Sam’s apartment—hollowing out that space.

He pushes my hair back and kisses my nose, oblivious to my melancholy thoughts. “I think I’ve found the perfect Christmas movie.”

“That’s the spirit. Remember how hostile you once were to Christmas in November?” I grapple with the bedside book stack while Adam queues up a movie on my TV.

“I’ve only known you four weeks, and you’ve completely corrupted me.”

“I reverse grinched you.” I grunt, turning my tower of books sideways and pressing them into the shelf like a broken accordion. “There.”

I plop myself on the tiny couch, and Adam pulls my legs over his lap, grasping my thigh like we do this every Sunday morning. I’m looking at this Polly Pocket apartment in a whole new light today. “What do you think?” he asks.

I don’t answer at first. I sink into his deep brown eyes and admire the way the light from the TV dances on the hard lines of his face. Finally, I look at what he chose. “Dear Lord! What’s this?”

“Krampus. It’s the only Christmas horror film on Netflix. The ultimate compromise.”

“A great man once said, ‘A good compromise is when both parties are dissatisfied.’ ”

He tightens his grip on my thigh and curves his brow upward. “Henry Clay?”

“Larry David.”

“Fine. You pick.” He tosses the remote in my lap.

“What was your favorite Christmas movie as a kid?” I ask.

He considers the question for a moment before answering, “Babes in Toyland.”

“Which one?” I ask cautiously.

“Keanu Reeves, Drew Barrymore, trolls…”

I gasp dramatically. “Oh, that’s very dark, Adam. I’m so worried about your childhood now.”

“It’s about toys,” he says, like it makes that waking nightmare of a movie reasonable.

“We’re watching Elf. End of discussion.”

And we do, but Adam is up and wandering around my bed before Will Ferrell has taught anyone to embrace Christmas cheer.

“Buddy is about to ruin spaghetti and maple syrup for you, and you’re missing it!” I holler over my shoulder from the couch.

“I need my other sock. My left foot is cold.” His voice is muffled under my bed.

“Is it at the bottom of the sheets?”

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