Page 81 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“I already checked.”

“Then it’s lost forever. Maybe your right foot will share with the left every so often.”

“What’s this?” he asks mischievously.

I jump off the couch to intercept whatever humiliation he’s set in motion. When I spot my plastic bin of model train cars, I’m equal parts relieved and mortified. “Oh. Those.”

His long fingers remove the clear lid almost reverently. “Is this your famous model train? Your locomotive superhero origin story?” He carefully pulls a forest-green steam locomotive out of its bubble wrap. “Why are they in a box under your bed?”

“One, they’re incredibly dorky, and, two, have you seen the size of my apartment? If we hold hands in the center, we can each touch a wall.”

“You built these with your dad?”

“We just fixed them up. We used to find cars with missing wheels and broken engines at rummage sales and discount bins and paint them in festive Christmas colors. My dad used to give them to me as Christmas presents until he realized how embarrassed I was by them.”

I remember bouncing into the garage, shoving a reference photo of a new tunnel system or car we needed to be on the lookout for under my dad’s nose. New railcars could go for over $200. Luckily for my family’s finances, my dad and I agreed that the joy was in the hunt—finding the discarded treasure and breathing new life into it.

Adam holds a train car in his hand like it’s a precious artifact. “These should be prominently displayed.”

“No.” I laugh self-consciously, rewrapping the car. I snap the clear lid back on the bin and tuck it away again. “Your home is the vision board you live in. The hobby I share exclusively with elderly men and nine-year-old boys is not the version of myself I’m building toward.”

“So the self-improvement books get prime real estate and this special thing you love gets shoved under the bed?” The edge of frustration in his voice catches me off guard.

“Those books are aspirational and empowering.”

“What about the hiking junk? Forget that shelf you wanted. I could build a display case for your trains instead. It’d be perfect.”

“It’d be mortifying. I want to see the things I should be prioritizing every day, not my embarrassing secrets.”

Adam shakes his head. “I don’t understand why you’d prioritize something you have to remind yourself to tolerate over something you actually love.”

I cross my arms. “I love hiking.”

“Now say that with a straight face.”

“I respect hiking,” I clarify. “And I’m challenging myself to love it. That’s what healthy people do. I’m healthy.”

Adam growls out a soft sigh. “Fine. Yeah. I’m sorry I said anything.”

I want to pull us out of the weird energy field we’ve fallen into. Whatever we are feels too vulnerable to withstand even the smallest of conflicts. I shove him playfully, hoping to jolt us out of the negative charge. He catches my wrists to keep me close, feeling it too. Giddy warmth radiates from our point of contact.

“Okay,” Adam says with a forehead kiss. “I hear you.”

I pull myself into his chest. “Good. The shelf for my hiking gear makes more sense anyway. You’d probably have to take off work to build a big display case here.”

“There are other things in your apartment that I might be interested in skipping work for.” He kisses the top of my head before pulling me onto the bed. We cuddle in positions that prevent attentive viewing of Will Ferrell and Zooey Deschanel. When Adam rises to drive home, he kisses me so casually, like there will be a thousand more kisses just like it. I tamp down the longing that rises in my belly and close the door behind him.

Two hours later, my phone beeps.

5:03 PM

Adam:

I already miss you.

My heart swells and swoops at the message from my new favorite person, and I’m starting to wonder if Adam and I were ever only friends.

21

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