Page 31 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“Look, they’re giving Thanksgiving its moment. Did they know you were coming?” I whisper-tease. Adam looks to the ceiling as if someone might rappel down and rescue him.

I finally feel like I have the upper hand with him until a group of enthusiastic fifth graders ask for audience suggestions for an improvised holiday scene, and Adam’s breath grazes the shell of my ear. “What kind of school allows children to perform improv in front of people? Kids shouldn’t have this much confidence.”

I stifle a laugh and elbow him back into his seat.

Mercifully, Chelsea and her fellow teachers end the meandering skit on North Pole workplace conditions by pushing the rest of the kids onstage for “Jingle Bells,” and the adorably puzzling catastrophe comes to an end.

Adam is standing with an arm in his coat before the house lights come up. “The parking lot’s going to be a mess. Let’s leave now while the parents are looking for their kids.”

I grab my coat and point myself in the direction of the stage against the current of parents exiting the theater. “I have to say hi to Chelsea before I go, but I can meet you in the lobby.”

“I’m a tall man, Alison. I can’t loom over a crowd of children alone.”

“What do you think dads are doing if not being tall and looming about?” I scan the stage until I spot a blond ponytail. “There she is. Follow me if you’d rather.”

He grouses but trails behind me anyway.

I jump up the stage steps to Chelsea and wrap her in a hug. “Great job, Ms.Olsen.”

“You came!” she shouts into my ear, and I flinch instinctually in preservation of my eardrum. Her eyes are saucers at the sight of a man hovering behind me. “And you brought—”

“This is Adam,” I say before she can reveal anything damning I’ve said about him. “He’s the one I’m helping with the apartment.”

She introduces herself with a demure handshake. “I’m Chelsea, Al’s other other half.”

“Nice to meet you. The show was great.” His flat tone couldn’t be more unconvincing.

Chelsea holds up her arms defensively like a perp on a cop show. “I can only take credit for the educational animal skits.”

“Oh, I liked those. They were a nice reprieve from the singing.”

Chelsea chokes. “You’re a real straight shooter, aren’t you, Adam?”

Adam’s eyes flit to me. “So I’ve been told.”

“The kids did a great job, Chels,” I say pointedly.

“Absolutely.” Adam fastens his jacket, which he flipped to khaki at some point, and light catches the multicolored flecks falling from his wide shoulders.

“We’ll let you get back to work. I’ll see you later,” I tell Chelsea while pivoting Adam toward the exit. Over my shoulder, I catch Chelsea mouthing, Text me. I shake my head as we shuffle out of the auditorium.

At the top of the aisle, we get caught in the musical theater version of a roundabout, children running every which way toward family, classmates, and teachers. Adam grabs my hand to lead me through the chaos.

It’s one of those dreadfully lovely gestures that’s both deeply intimate and horrifically platonic all at once.

His hand is warm and rough in all the best ways and when he finally lets go halfway through the parking lot, I know I’ll be unpacking the significance of the gesture for hours tonight.

“You should know that you’re the worst audience member of all time,” I tell him while hoisting myself into the passenger side of his truck.

“I saved the show. The lion would still be dangling in the middle of the auditorium if it weren’t for me.”

Twisting his torso, he places a hand behind my seat to reverse, assaulting me with a close-up of his chin. His beard is shorter than last week, and this close, I can just make out his chin dimple. I’ve never had a “thing” for chins, but Adam’s is forcing me to reconsider this stance.

He pitches his voice lower to account for the closer proximity. “But I’m sorry I interrupted your experience watching ten-year-olds do improv.”

With his hand still on my headrest, he fixes his eyes on me for a beat—maybe two. I concentrate on each exhalation as our breaths mix and float toward the windshield in icy clouds. A car honks, and without a word, he brings his hand to the gearshift and pulls the car forward out of the lot.

“My sister was in a kids’ improv troupe,” I say to cover the moment—or what I think is a moment.

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