Page 46 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“It’s a good car for this climate. Do you have snow tires?” He cringes before he finishes speaking, so I know Adam also hears that he sounds like a robot learning passable small talk.

“I do, but I haven’t scheduled the appointment yet.” What is this conversation? “Okay. I’m going to go now. Thanks for showing me the sights.”

Adam doesn’t move. The strangeness of this exchange paired with our proximity spikes adrenaline in my blood. How do normal people end interactions with acquaintances they feel a sparking tension with?

I lean in for a hug, and he accepts, his strong arms fully committing long enough for dopamine to release into my system. It’s a lovely, solid hug—warm and firm. I catch a whiff of his familiar scent. Now that I’ve smelled its source, more notes of his complicated aroma unravel in my nose, like deconstructing a recipe of an indulgent treat.

When he releases me, he doesn’t walk away. Instead, his hands go to my arms as he tilts his head sideways. I think our coats are still touching.

His brown eyes travel down my face and land on the green plaid scarf over my jacket, then lift back to mine. This close, I can admire the flecks of gold I discovered under the lights of his workshop. The way he looks at me tickles my ribs.

Too soon, he returns his gaze to the scarf. I’m perfectly positioned to examine the length of his curly eyelashes until slowly—so slowly—his hands move to my scarf. His fingers still and I hold my breath, waiting to see what he’ll do. My lips tingle with anticipation and the bitter cold.

Finally, he gently straightens the wool fabric. His right forefinger makes the slightest swipe against the sensitive part of my neck, my pulse thrumming beneath it. He might not have noticed his effect on me if not for my sharp intake of breath.

“That’s better,” he breathes. His eyes pin me, examining me like a piece of wood, and I can’t tell if he sees striking potential or a problem to be solved. They dart to my mouth, only for a second, before he takes a step back.

Every one of my nerve endings—even the damaged ones—lights up like a strand of twinkle lights, but before I’m able to form words again, he’s walking away.

12

The Sky’s the Limit

The heat’s on the fritz at work the next morning, so I opt to leave my coat on. When I move to uncoil my scarf, I hesitate, unwrapping it from my neck carefully, like I might find a bit of Adam wrapped inside like a gift. I only find the last flecks of glitter from Chelsea’s holiday concert. I shiver off lingering memories of Adam’s fingers on my skin.

Since the scarf-touch yesterday, my fingers have been itching for an excuse to text Adam. It’s normal to casually text a friend in the middle of a workday for no reason other than wanting to hear how their day is going, right? Friends do that. And Adam is my friend. My attractive friend. My friend who stared into my eyes in a charged goodbye that ended in a featherlight neck graze I’m trying not to think about.

My group chat saves me from compulsively texting Adam an out-of-the-blue “Hey!” like a crushing dweeb.

8:32 AM

Mara:

Why did Patrick send me a formal text breaking up with our trivia team??!!??!!??!!

8:33 AM

Mara:

Chelsea!?

8:35 AM

Chelsea:

It’s not my fault! Patrick and Josie are focusing on their relationship right now without distractions.

8:38 AM

Alison:

She called you a distraction?

8:41 AM

Chelsea:

Just trivia, but I think I was implied.

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