Page 69 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“I definitely don’t regret it,” he tells my scalp. “I want to talk about it, but it’s hard to wrap my head around everything when I’m still in an active text conversation with Sam’s mom.”

He squeezes my shoulders, pressing me so close that I can feel his racing heart thrum against my temple.

“I realized last night that we needed to close the book on the apartment before we could move forward.” He pulls his head back to meet my eyes as he speaks. “And I wanted to move forward as soon as possible. So, yes, I’ve been painting since four this morning.”

I look up at him. “You Billy Crystaled me.” His face registers zero comprehension. “It’s from a movie. With Meg Ryan. It’s a good thing. Don’t worry about it.”

He presses a kiss to my hair, squeezing me again before stepping out of the hug. “Should we paint?”

“We better. We have a very intense schedule to keep. First, why exactly were you listening to A Charlie Brown Christmas all alone?”

“You like Christmas music.”

“I wasn’t here.”

He bounces back to his side of the apartment and picks up his roller, slapping a perfect greige hue on the wall. “You’re here now,” he replies with a shrug.

In our rom-com-worthy falling-in-love-by-way-of-home-improvement montage, few scenes would make the cut. Sure, he holds me steady on the ladder as I paint near the ceiling, and the shock of his warm hand on my hip nearly topples me into a can of latex paint. And yes, at some point we flick paint across the tarp for no reason other than to prove the other wasn’t as good at flicking paint across the tarp. But mostly, we paint while Classic Christmas plays on shuffle.

When Spotify plays two different covers of “Santa Baby’’ back-to-back and Adam begs for death, I let him switch to an alt-rock playlist while I pour the rest of his Americano down the kitchen drain so his heart doesn’t explode.

Painting and cleaning up takes longer than Adam anticipated, so it’s nearly six when we climb into the truck for our final funereal duty. He’s crashing from the caffeine, so I let him nap while I drive and revel in the headiness of looming over the tiny cars below us in Adam’s truck.

He stirs when we exit the highway near Sam’s parents’, only to burrow his head into my shoulder. “You’re so snuggly,” he hums, and tiny butterflies flutter in my belly.

I pull into the empty driveway of the large, familiar house.

“You sleep,” I tell him, removing the keys from the ignition. “I’ll be quick.”

I hear the sharp knock at the window but Adam doesn’t.

“Kids.” Sam’s dad appears in the passenger door.

“Shit,” I whisper. I shove Adam awake, and he flings his body across the cab like I’m radioactive. After a slight delay, he recovers enough to roll down his window.

Dr.Lewis leans the elbow patches of his tweed jacket on the door frame. “Is that the last of it?” He points to the truck bed.

We nod.

“Good. Can you help me carry them to the garage?”

We fall all over ourselves piling out of the car. We carry the boxes to the garage, Adam stacking two effortlessly and me attempting the same inelegantly. Dr.Lewis grabs the last box, propping it on his knee while he punches in the garage code. “Judy wants a word,” he says ominously. He leads us through the garage door and into the mudroom, while we follow like prisoners to the gallows.

“JuJu, they’re here,” he calls out to his wife.

Mrs.Lewis putters in looking like a café au lait in head-to-toe cashmere that hangs off her body. She’s lost weight since the funeral, and I do everything short of pinching the skin of my wrist to keep my composure. “Alison, I didn’t know I’d be seeing you again so soon.” She wraps me in a hug and smooths my hair before releasing me.

Dr.Lewis clears his throat. “Judy mentioned running into you two yesterday, but she forgot to invite you to the Cookie Party.”

Pain flashes in her eyes before settling back into what is now her default expression: empty.

Adam stiffens at the edge of my eyeline. “You’re still having the Cookie Party?”

“Sam was looking forward to it this year, Adam,” he tells him. “More than any other year. Rachel’s flying in.” Mrs.Lewis releases a bemused snort that makes Dr.Lewis flinch. “It would be a betrayal to his memory to cancel.” He says it mechanically, like he’s repeated this defense verbatim to multiple people, including his wife, if her faraway stare is any indication.

Adam doesn’t respond, and silence descends on our quartet, huddled together in the spotless mudroom. I can’t take it.

“We’d love to come. I would. I don’t know about Adam’s schedule, of course,” I ramble. “Although I’d hate to impose if it’s more of a family thing.”

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