Page 45 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“That is a while.” I walk around the upturned tables. “And all while listening to faux-eighties horror soundtracks.” I pull a face of mock terror.

“This morning, I was listening to John Carpenter.”

I waggle my eyebrows. “Ooh. The pure, unfiltered stuff. What’s with the horror movie music?” I ask, leisurely wandering his garage and admiring his skilled craftsmanship.

The space smells like him—well, part of him. Maybe the inside of his house smells like oranges.

He leans into the frame of the garage door, his eyes following me as I invade his space. “It fades into the background and becomes part of the environment.”

“A terrifying environment.”

“That’s what I like about it. It’s immersive. It’s impossible to listen to it without having a physical response.”

“I could see that.” I run my finger along a smooth tabletop. “Can I order a custom piece?”

“Like a table or something?”

“I’d like a wall rack for hanging hiking and climbing gear. Maybe it could have a shelf above it? If I had all of my outdoorsy stuff out in front of me, I’d have no excuse not to use it. Like how the hardest part of working out is getting the clothes on.”

“That’s not accurate.”

I dismiss his comment with a flick of my hand and examine a grouping of furniture. “It’s an expression. I like whatever style this is best.” I point to one side of an upturned coffee table.

“I like this one best, too.” He scrubs his beard with his hand but it doesn’t hide his smile.

I love being the source of that smile.

“It’s beautiful. It’s not too fussy, but it has clean lines and complements the wood grain. It’s like high-end IKEA.”

“Oh, god!” he chokes. He pushes his hands through his hair, clearly scandalized by my comparison.

“I don’t know what I’m saying.” I tug his hand down, laughter bubbling out of both of us. “I oversold my spindle expertise earlier.”

“You talked a big game.”

“I’m sorry.” I squeeze his hand, my giggles teetering over into a full-on fit. “I take it back. I take it back!”

Water presses into the corners of my eyes, and our giddy gazes tangle together. The light of the bulb refracts off the warm richness of his brown irises—there’s a knotty tone and texture to them I’ve never noticed before—but then he blinks and steps away from me, toward his truck.

“It’s getting late, Alison.”

•••

By the time Adam drives me back to the deli, the sun has started to set. He parks in the same spot we started in, and I offer a stiff wave goodbye from the passenger seat. When I hop down, I see him trudging toward me from the other side.

It seems that he’s walking me to my car.

So now we’re trapped in one of those awkward moments where you say goodbye but then have to walk in the same direction—except he chose to do this to us, which only intensifies the discomfort. I keep opening my mouth to make idle chitchat, but nothing comes out. My vision drifts to a municipal employee wrapping twinkle lights around a streetlamp, and I smile. Is there any inconvenient feeling a twinkle light can’t fix?

Adam clears his throat. “In a couple of weeks, there’s this massive Christmas display on the water.” He points to the banner on the light pole advertising the bentleyville tour of lights: 4 million+ lights! “It’s the largest one like it in the country.”

“I don’t think I’ll be coming up for work again for a while.”

I don’t know why I say it. I know he’s not asking me on a date, but this walk back to my car feels suspiciously date-adjacent. My insides are shimmering with sweet, anticipatory end-of-a-great-date feelings. Maybe that’s why I think the moment demands clarity.

He looks between my face and the street like somewhere in the space between us he’ll find something else to say.

I point at my Subaru. “This is my car,” I say, pouncing on the quiet, because old habits die hard. Still, the relief in his eyes is palpable. Giddiness bubbles and fizzes in my stomach at the sight.

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