Page 83 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

In front of your place.

3:55 PM

Adam:

Cut out early.

3:56 PM

Adam:

I need to see you. Can’t wait.

After making my transparent excuses to Josh and Patty, I sprint home through the skyway and find Adam’s truck next to my fixed-up Subaru in my apartment’s parking lot.

“Can you get the door?” He steps out of his truck holding two paper grocery bags. “When did Uncle Ricky finish your car?”

“He dropped it off Monday,” I answer, dismissing a notification on my phone that would plummet me to the truck floor if I weren’t mostly numb to them by now. I swallow the lump in my throat.

He smirks. “Is that work? Are you in trouble?”

“Patagonia reminder. From Sam. One of his ‘Messages from the Future.’ I really should delete those,” I explain, as casually as I can, but Adam’s face is frozen in place.

I shake the moment off my body and pull open the security door, peering into Adam’s shopping bags. “You know, your caveman texting style is much less frustrating when this is the result.” I spot a baguette, a bottle of wine, a bundle of green parsley, and a clear bakery box of Thin Mints before my eyes are drawn to a clay pot of delicate pink flowers. “Is this an orchid? Did you bring groceries and flowers?” My eyes take in Adam’s appearance behind the paper bags. His signature reversible jacket—khaki-side out—is covering a charcoal crewneck sweater and navy slacks. “Are you wearing fancy pants?” I paw at his clothes to get a better look.

He groans, seemingly embarrassed by my attention. “I changed out of my work clothes. It’s not a big deal. Can you let me up so I don’t drop these?”

I gingerly remove the orchid and lead Adam up the stairs.

“What are the groceries for?” I ask as we walk into my apartment, immediately turning into the kitchenette.

He unloads the contents of his grocery bags into the fridge. “Pies are for Thanksgiving. The rest is for dinner. I noticed you didn’t have any food that wasn’t cookies.”

“How long can you stay?” I ask, sidestepping the accusation.

“As long as you’ll have me. Or work on Monday. Whichever comes first.”

“Don’t you have Thanksgiving plans?”

“Yeah, but you’re coming with me,” he says into my lower cabinet.

“To your family’s Thanksgiving?”

He places my largest pot under the faucet. “When I asked you if you were busy and you sent me a GIF of a girl eating on a toilet in a bathroom stall, I didn’t realize that was like a firm plan.”

I consider explaining the scene from the cinematic classic Mean Girls but opt to stay on message. “Are you inviting me to the Berg Family Thanksgiving?”

“It’s just my sister’s family. My parents are on a cruise.”

I struggle to picture any human sharing DNA with Adam on a cruise, but I push past it. “Do they know who I am?” The moment the question falls out of my mouth, I want to suck the words back in like a rogue spaghetti noodle. My shoulders tense, anticipating Adam’s retreat at the suggestion of Sam, the Lewis family, and this scheme I’m trapped in.

Instead, he pulls me into him, and his chest shakes with a suppressed laugh. My body relaxes. “You’re Alison.” He tips my face up to his, splintering me with his mahogany eyes. His voice is sweet and reassuring. “I really want you to meet them.”

“Then I can’t wait.” I press my lips to his chin. “What’re you cooking for me?”

He moves the full pot to the largest of the three burners on my undersized range. “Carbonara. It’s not fancy.”

It looks fancy. He didn’t skimp on anything. The guanciale is from the butcher counter, and he bought two kinds of expensive Italian cheese. I recognize the pinot grigio as one that sits two whole shelves above what I deem a reasonable wine splurge.

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