Page 91 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“The party’s always near his birthday, but this year it fell on the actual day. Sam was making a big deal about it. That’s why his dad wouldn’t cancel. How do you not know his birthday?”

“I knew he was a Sagittarius.” Chelsea unearthed this information in one of her two-minute soul-baring conversations.

I’m reminded again that Adam and I are grieving two different losses. Though mine is not insignificant, I missed out on a future with Sam as the friend who could push me out of my comfort zone. Adam lost history.

He looks back at me quizzically, waiting for translated subtitles to pop up on my forehead. “We didn’t date that long, remember?”

His eyes drift over my head at the guests milling in the other room, and for the first time since I told him the truth about me and Sam, he looks weary. Defeated.

Anxiety swirls in my stomach. “You are moving to Minneapolis, right?” The words burst from my mouth inelegantly. I sound panicked and needy and all I can do to stop myself from spewing more emotional vomit is stuff a carrot in my mouth from the hors d’oeuvre plate I managed to hold on to in the Great Paul Getaway.

“Of course,” he answers simply. “When I’m ready.”

My tension mutates into dread and picks up speed like a tornado. “It’s okay if you’re not—Duluth isn’t so far—I just want to know what to expect.”

His agitated hand tugs at the back of his hair. “I’ll move when I want to move, Alison.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. I want him to want to take it back—say his words didn’t come out right—but he doesn’t move. My eyes fall to my plate. I dip a carrot in the baked brie like it’s an important task requiring all of my focus and follow Adam back into the crowded sunroom, where we can’t discuss anything real. My only hope is that Bond Lover will return with follow-up questions, but instead, something far worse happens.

“My two faves are here!” Russell shouts from where he’s holding court across the room.

Adam’s face tightens. I half murmur, “Shit.” I let myself forget I’m only here to play a part for ten minutes, and Adam and I are sent the one person who could blow this all up.

I stuff a loaded cracker in my mouth, sputtering, “Russell. What a surprise.”

“Well, I am their Realtor.” He says Realtor as if the role is on par with a godparent or religious leader.

A cracker shard stabs my throat, forcing a choking cough, but it doesn’t do the kindness of suffocating me. Adam takes my plate and pats my back. I force out hard hacks until I finally will it loose, ending a small part of this waking nightmare.

Russell, wearing his most smug smile, asks, “Are you guys officially a thing yet?”

His question rings out like a warning shot. Is it me or did the whole party just go still? I stroke my throat like I’m still recovering from my brush with death and let Adam answer for the both of us. “We’re here for Sam’s family, Russ.”

Russell squints. “Two things can be true.” He turns to me, and his smile is more earnest. “Excited for Chile?”

I nod quickly, rolling my lips under my teeth. Adam white-knuckles my plate of assorted dips.

“Sam said it might not be her thing,” Russell continues. “But everyone should endure the rain on a trail in the Andes at least once. Right, Alison? It’s a rite of passage.”

“Oh, good. The weather will be bad. It was starting to sound like too much fun,” Adam says, his voice drier than sandpaper. He doesn’t sound like my Adam. He sounds like the North Shore Grump.

“Right?” Russell laughs, seemingly oblivious to Adam’s tone.

“Sam said it wasn’t my thing?” My brain is snagged on Russell’s evocation of Sam. It’s like picking at a barely healed scab and revealing the all-too-fresh wound beneath.

“He just meant that you’re sort of set in your ways. Like Adam.”

Before Adam can say something needlessly petty, I bring the focus back to my self-improvement. “That’s weird, because I can’t wait for Chile.” I snatch my plate back from Adam, mostly for effect. “I love hiking in the rain and sleeping outside where bugs live and carrying heavy things. It’s going to be great. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I saw someone walk by with a bacon-wrapped date that I’d very much like to eat.” I snap a piece of jicama between my teeth and follow the scent of meaty appetizers at top speed until I’m in front of a table of food next to my old friend Bond Lover.

I learn her name is Elin and that we’ve both seen enough Marvel movies to reach agreement on the superhero movie genre: we tend to enjoy them but couldn’t explain the plot of any of them if there were a loaded gun to our heads. I grab on to small talk with Elin like a lifeline as the energy of the surrounding party becomes increasingly fraught.

First, no one’s seen Mrs.Lewis. Dr.Lewis is buzzing between conversational clumps to ease our minds, but it’s clear from his stammering that he hasn’t settled on her excuse. From what I overhear, it’s a bit of food poisoning but more like a cold—but certainly not the contagious kind, lest she come out of her room at some point. When he makes his way to us, it’s a headache.

Dr.Lewis doesn’t speak to Elin and me so much as at us. He gets his lines out and surveys the room above our heads in search of his next exit.

I feel Adam come to stand behind me at a respectful distance, but I don’t turn to talk to him. I’m sick of today. I’m sick of fear and guilt and puff pastry with spinach surprises that get stuck in my teeth.

The string-quartet-Christmas-cover soundtrack can’t quite compete with the concerned whispers of the party guests. Has anyone seen her? Someone should check on her. Did you know today was Sam’s birthday?

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