Page 111 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

I twist my face in confusion, and someone from Agatha Quiztie yells, “Who’s Sam?”

“How’s that possible?” Chelsea asks.

Adam shrinks a bit, noticing all eyes are on him. “Uh, can I speak to Alison privately?” he asks. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Blunt Bob from the Quizly Bears shakes her head defiantly. “He can’t tamper with the team, so unless he’s staying, whatever he has to say he says in front of all of us.”

“Tampering? Seriously?” Mara throws up her hands. “Fine. Adam, say what you came to say so we can finish the tournament.”

“Mara!” Chelsea reprimands her.

“What do you mean Sam invited you?” I ask.

Adam grabs the mic stand. “Should I just…in front of everyone?”

“Is he talking about the Sam who’s…” Patrick mouths the word dead to Chelsea.

Host Darren is now bouncing on his leg. “You can join their team. We just need to log your excuse, per the bylaws.”

I stand up so I can see Adam over the crowd. “What do you mean Sam—”

“The calendar alerts.” He points to the phone in his palm. “ ‘December twenty-ninth—Get a haircut. You’ll be so glad you did after your date with destiny and your hair always looks weird for a couple days after a cut. December thirtieth—DON’T bail on Sam’s NYE party like you always do.’ ” Adam’s voice cracks, and my heart clenches. “ ‘This is the beginning of EVERYTHING!’ And there’s like ten exclamation points after that last one. ‘January first, two p.m.—Trivia tournament with your perfect woman.’ ”

The memory of playing trivia with Sam after our breakup flashes in my mind. We should do it again. I’ll bring a ringer.

How many times have I reread that text since he died, never once wondering what he meant—or who?

Adam keeps reading from his screen. “There’s also a note about not wearing flannel, but I didn’t see it until after I left.”

“Sam invited you,” I repeat with renewed understanding. I issue either a wobbly laugh or a sigh of relief or a shocked gasp. Maybe all three, because my body is coming to grips with the notion that somehow Sam did all of this. Something that feels a bit like magic whirs between Adam and me.

Darren steps up to Adam’s mic. “You can just tell me you were caught in traffic, bro. I just need to—”

Adam grabs the stand back with more conviction. His eyes drill into mine, and, for a moment, I forget we’re making a spectacle of ourselves. It’s him—and he’s here—and I might be about to get everything I ever wanted.

“It was you he was talking about that night. I was supposed to go to his party this weekend so he could bring me here. Today. It was always you!” Adam wets his lips, waiting for me to respond.

Sam was always right about me. I was so determined to see it as a negative thing, but he saw how right I was for someone he loved.

I want to say something, anything. Our problems aren’t in the rearview. I’m finally grappling with my diagnosis and my mastectomy. We’re both facing our grief over the loss of our friend. I’ve only recently started accepting myself for who I am—a nippleless homebody who’s as deserving of life as anyone else. And Adam’s still stuck in his rut, by all accounts.

“And I bought a house. Here. Well, not here in this train station, but nearby. I’m done making excuses for why I can’t have the things I want, because I know what I want.” Adam looks around the open space surrounding us and the crowd in rapt attention. He makes a face that says, The hell with it, and it’s unspeakably sexy. “I love you. I love that you love trains and hate my music. I love that you listen to Christmas songs way too early. I love that you snort when you find something truly funny.”

I snort a little at that, and the sound emboldens him.

“I love that you love that I hate butterflies and that you’re afraid of gremlins. I love that you can’t help but tell me when you think I’m being ridiculous or too rigid. That you want me to move forward with my life, but you want me to want it for myself. I love everything about you, Alison. I only want to be with you. Exactly as you are.”

My heart stutters to a stop. Adam stares back at me like I’m the only one who heard his declaration. Everyone holds our silence, waiting for us to say something, but neither of us can speak. I don’t know any words.

Stu shoves his way in front of Adam’s mic, meeting the resistance of his rigid body. “I hate to interrupt, but this feels pretty personal…so if you’re not here to participate in this event, you’ll have to wait in the lobby until the end of the tournament.”

“Wait!” I cry out. Chelsea squeals directly into my eardrum before shoving me in the direction of the stage. I bound up the steps two at a time, unable to waste another second, because I know I love him too. The feeling doesn’t hit me like an oncoming train. It slipped inside my heart long ago when I wasn’t looking. When I didn’t think I deserved it.

A teary laugh bursts from my open mouth. I’m finally on the stage and the hot lights hit my eyes sideways, temporarily blinding me. Without the benefit of sight, I reach out for his waist to draw him closer. He loops his arm around me, and I hit his chest with a delicious thud.

He presses his forehead to mine, and I breathe him in, only vaguely aware that we have an audience. He smells so familiar. Like a warm drink on a cold day and a bonfire on a summer beach and a workshop garage in Duluth. Like Adam, everywhere I want to be, every time of year.

He lifts my face to meet his eyes, reintroducing me to every gold fleck within his chocolate-brown irises. “That was a good speech,” I whisper.

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