Page 73 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“If you have to duck when going into the bathroom at the Pizza Lucé on Selby.” I tap his forehead lightly, and he nudges me with his shoulder. Just like that. Like we’re two people who touch each other affectionately.

“Too Tall hit his head on the ceiling there and bled all over the place. We’re talking The Staircase–level blood splatter. Total gusher.” We collectively wince at Chelsea’s visceral description.

Adam turns to face me, deep brown eyes catching the light of the Edison bulb over our table. “And now it’s all you see.”

A smile sneaks across my lips before I can contain it.

Mara points to Adam, disrupting our flirtatious exchange of glances and half grins. “I wouldn’t worry, Bob Vila. I’m the one who prefers men not to loom over me. Alison likes ’em tall.”

Hot embarrassment creeps up my neck.

A teasing smile pinches the corners of Adam’s eyes. “Too Tall. Handlebar Mustache. Am I ‘Bob Vila’ when you talk about me?”

Mara nods. “Yep.”

“Sometimes ‘Hot Adam,’ ” Chelsea says over her.

“We don’t talk about you!” I choke out, but not quick enough to beat the others or prevent Adam’s self-satisfied lean against the table. I chug the rest of my water to cool my red-hot cheeks and hope for a well-timed natural disaster to divert everyone’s attention.

“Focus up.” Mara’s eyes sharpen as she enters competition mode. “Since you’re playing with us tonight, Adam, you’re eligible to play in the tournament on New Year’s Day if—and only if—you prove useful to me.”

“Don’t listen to her. There’s no pressure.” I cover Adam’s hand with mine but then lose my nerve and remove it to tuck my hair behind my ear, like this series of movements was utterly intentional. Luckily, Chelsea gives Adam a friendly shoulder pat that I hope cancels out my too-familiar touches. Look, Adam, we touch each other here. All friends do.

Chelsea eyes the bar. “Don’t be dumb, and you’ll do fine. I’m putting in an order for tater tots. Anyone thirsty?” Adam and I both want IPAs, Mara asks for her standard soda water, and Chelsea trots off to fetch them along with her typical order—whatever beer is light and cheap.

“We’re a pretty tolerant team. You can be dumb and quiet, but you cannot be dumb and persuasive. No convincing Al to back your wrong answers. Team rules,” Mara decrees.

Chelsea finally returns with a tray of beers and the quiz sheet, which Mara immediately snatches to study the image sections on the back. “Who’s the host?”

Chelsea sighs in relief. “Darren. We can use either name.”

“Mara got our first team banned by insulting the host,” I murmur to Adam.

“I wasn’t insulting Stu. I was describing him. He’s the one who didn’t like what he heard.”

I lean closer, and smell oranges and wood shavings. “It was a whole ordeal. We changed our name, and Mara dyed her hair brown for a couple of months.”

Chelsea leans across the table. “Her reverse Sydney Bristow. Oh! We should keep Sydney Quiztow in our back pocket for when your thing with Risky Quizness escalates to criminal levels.”

Mara looks to the ceiling. “It wasn’t a disguise. It was an unrelated hair mistake. Are we Otrivia Benson: SVU or Marquizka Hargitay tonight?”

Under the table, Adam’s hand swipes against my knee, and it sends a jolt up my spine.

“Let’s be bold,” he says, and I try not to notice what the words do to me. “Go with the original.”

Playing as Otrivia Benson: SVU, we coast through the first few categories. Adam answers a few but primarily watches our practiced game of mental table tennis with awe. The general trivia round is reliably straightforward. Round two perplexes the neighboring teams with a series of pop culture questions in the form of palindromes, but Chelsea inexplicably knows every answer. By the end of the second half, we’ve only been stumped by two questions.

The music turns back up to the typical Saturday night bar volume—too loud—and Mara leaves to submit our sheet for scoring. On his way to the bathroom, a stranger thanks Chelsea for inspiring him to reconcile with his mom, a life-altering conversation I’m assuming Chelsea squeezed in while picking up our tater tots.

I take a swig of my beer and freeze, feeling the heat of Adam’s mouth on my ear.

“You guys are incredible.” His breath makes me squirm in my seat.

I turn my head toward his, only slightly. It’s so loud that he doesn’t move away. His nose—his lips—barely graze my cheek.

“It’s Mara, mostly. She’s always been a trivia and crossword addict, and if you play enough, you catch on to the structure—hear variations of the same questions.” I manage to make words come out of my mouth, but he’s watching me with an intensity that sucks the air from my lungs.

He places a hand on the back of my chair, turning his body to face me dead-on. I scooch forward, and our knees puzzle-piece together until my leg can’t feel anything but his, like he’s water and I’m weightless in a pool of him.

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