Page 16 of Dear Adam
Aly:Hey Levi! Adam is back in South Carolina now and is staying stable. He’s still in a coma but his doctors are staying optimistic and hopeful. How are you? I actually called the hospital to check on you a few days ago and they said you had been released and were doing okay. I had to pretend to be your little sister to get any kind of info from them…hope you don’t mind lol
She called to check on me? Grin on my face, I type back,I am doing pretty good, all things considered. I’m really sorry about Adam. I hope you know I would trade places with him in a heartbeat if I could.
Instantly, those three dots appear followed by another message.Don’t say that. It was a freak accident that no one deserved to be a part of.
Me:Still…How are you though? Are you doing okay?
The dots pop up and then disappear a few times before a new text comes through.Yeah…I’m doing okay. It’s weird not being able to talk to your best friend like you have every day for the past twenty-seven years though.
Me:I can only imagine. I’m here if you need anything.
Aly:Thank you, Levi.
While I’m struggling to think of a response, another message pops up from her.
Aly:Hey, can I ask you for some construction advice? Our toilet in the back isn’t working right and I’m wondering how to fix it or if it’s even fixable. I checked with my landlord and apparently it’s my responsibility to get it looked at which kinda stinks. No pun intended.
Me:It could be a leaky wax ring or a bad seal. I’d have it checked out sooner rather than later.
Aly:That’s what I was afraid of. Is your dad still in business? Maybe I can give him a call.
My thumbs take on a mind of their own as I type the next sentence.
Me:Actually, no need. I’m flying in tomorrow so I can come take a look at it.
I frown at the screen for a second, anxiety gripping my chest. I jab at the text repeatedly, looking for any way to unsend it. What had I done? I had no plans of going back to Charleston anytime soon, let alonetomorrow. She might not even want to see me. Those infernal dots appear a moment later, and I hold my breath waiting for her reply.
Get a grip, Middleton. You are calm, you are cool, you are collected. Some might even say you’re a nice, handsome, tall drink of water. Or…maybe that’s just Mom. Whatever you are, you arenotthe middle school girl you’re acting like.
As I’m giving myself my pep talk, Aly’s text comes through.
Aly:You are? That’s great! I have plans around seven tomorrow evening but if you get in before that, maybe you could swing by? Or anytime you’re free!
Relief floods my chest and I send a thumbs up emoji in an attempt to not sound so eager. Then, I open Google and scrounge around for a last minute flight to Charleston.
Chapter eight
Levi
“Howexactlydidithappen?” my mom asks. Her reading glasses are perched precariously on the tip of her nose and she’s frowning at the piece of pink paper she’s holding.
“We were almost out,” I say, releasing a huff of air. “I couldseethe exit doors. But a toddler at baggage claim screamed he had to potty, and that word is Hank’s kryptonite. He went nuts.”
“Potty?” Dad asks, his face wrinkled in confusion. He leans against the counter and takes the slip of paper from Mom, scanning it over.
“It’s how I trained him to go outside to do his business,” I explain.
“So you’re telling me, he busted out of his crate, and then just…did it?” Mom and Dad both share a look then do their best to stifle their giggles.
I groan, reliving the memory. “I still don’t understand how. One second he was firmly in his crate, and the next he was free and headed toward a garden of faux plants roped off in the middle of the airport. I tried to stop him but, by the time I caught up with him, he had already hurdled the ropes and hunkered down.”
Dad grimaces then hands the ticket to me before wandering outside. I scan it before wadding it up and shoving it in my pocket, then let out a low whistle. “Two hundred fifty dollars, all thanks to a nervous stomach.”
Hank, relieved to be out of the airport, is laying under the kitchen table, happily snoozing. I glance toward him and notice a couple of the legs on the chairs scattered around the table are a little wobbly.
“Mom, do you want me to fix your kitchen chairs?” I ask, already bending down to examine them.
“Your dad was supposed to fix them months ago. It’s just so hard on his knees to squat.” She joins me and rubs my back. “Don’t worry about it right now. First, you need to eat.” She sets a sandwich piled high with bacon, lettuce, and tomato in front of me. My mouth waters. Nothing compares to my mom’s BLTs on her homemade sourdough bread. She’s added my favorite barbeque kettle cooked potato chips to the plate, and my stomach grumbles louder when she sets down a homemade glass of sweet tea.
