Page 68 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“Try weeks.”

I run my hand down his hard chest, suddenly aware of the benefits of kissing Adam free of outerwear. “Weeks?”

He nods. “I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it.”

Dragging my hands to his belt buckle, I think, I’m going to have sex with Adam on Sam’s kitchen counter, when I hear a key jingling in the lock.

The sound punctures the delicious fantasy.

Wordlessly, we scatter like roaches. Adam’s in front of the fridge in an instant, and I brace myself as I jump off the counter. My pinky makes contact with a bit of tomato sauce, and I shudder.

“Hello?” I hear Mrs.Lewis’s tentative voice before I see her.

17

Are You Expecting an Edible Arrangement?

After the bare minimum amount of polite chitchat with Mrs.Lewis while Adam cooled down behind the fridge door, I fled the apartment and everything that happened on the kitchen counter.

I went to sleep thinking about the kiss. I woke up dreaming about it and imagined his lips the entire train ride and walk to Sam’s building.

Even now, I’m still thinking about it when I step into the apartment, currently overwhelmed by the smell of paint fumes and the jaunty notes of Charlie Brown’s “Christmas Time Is Here.” I look around to find that Adam has nearly finished painting.

“Whoa. Did you paint all night?” I plop the coffee on the counter while respectfully avoiding contact with it. If I return my eyes to the scene of the crime, I’ll only replay the kiss in my head to deconstruct it for clues.

“What?” He drops the paint roller in its tray to rub the back of his neck. He’s wearing basically what he always wears: a Henley, flannel, and jeans that fit perfectly but have seen better days.

Instead of my true painting clothes—a Pioneer High Robotics Team T-shirt and worn-out leggings with a hole in the crotch—I’m in what all women in rom-coms wear for the falling-in-love-by-way-of-home-improvement montage: a slouchy cropped tee and artfully distressed denim overalls.

He’s looking in my direction, but his eyes are darting around too much for me to be sure we’ve made eye contact. “Oh, because so much is painted. Right. I get it. That’s funny.”

I shrug my coat off slowly. So as not to spook him. “It’s really not.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and bounces on his heels.

“How much caffeine have you had today?”

He grimaces. “A lot. Too much. I have regrets.”

“Did you snort some cocaine too?”

“I had an extra-large coffee, two 5-hour Energy shots, and two Red Bulls. No, three. Two?” He counts on his fingers before he seems to lose interest and gestures in the direction of a wall that is primed, tarped, and taped. “So the paint only needs one coat, which is good. I have you all set up over there. I have my truck loaded with the last of Sam’s things. We’ll clean up, drop off his stuff, and be done by lunch. Maybe a little after lunch.”

“What’s the rush? You have big plans this afternoon?”

“Would you rather clean up while I paint?”

“What the hell is going on right now?” I ask, and his eyes double in size at my directness.

“We’re painting,” he says with infuriating simplicity.

“You kissed me. Twice. In the last week, you’ve kissed me two times.”

“That really was all this week, wasn’t it?” A playful glint touches the corners of his eyes. It brings me the tiniest shred of relief.

“Adam. I’m being serious. Do you regret what happened? Are we forgetting it, again? Are you expecting an Edible Arrangement? I don’t understand your energy.”

“I’m not a decorative melon guy,” he quips, but at my no doubt distressed expression, his aloofness falls away. He crosses the room, extracting his hands from his pockets to pull me into him. His hug unties me like a bow, every knotted-up muscle in my body releasing at once. I bury my face into his shoulder and allow his chin to find its place on my head. It’s a relief to know we fit like this, even if he’s vibrating with caffeine.

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