Page 24 of Dear Adam
I stop in my tracks right behind her. A half-eaten sandwich covered in slobber sits next to Hank’s nervously thumping tail, and I choke back a laugh. The sandwich must’ve been worse than I thought if he didn’t want to eat it. She whirls around and gives me a quizzical look.
“Do you want to maybe go out for lunch next time?” I ask.
Chapter eleven
Aly
Mondaymorningstypicallyaremy favorite. A new week, a new palette of colors and flowers to choose from at the market, and an all-around fresh start.
Unfortunately, this morning couldn’t be any more different.
For starters, I woke up to find Pretzel had once again found the hamper and chewed through every single pair of underwear I own, right when I thought we were finally getting along. Last night, she fell asleep with her head on my shoulder, little snores and all, and it was so adorable that her little traitorous move this morning was the last thing I expected. Now, I’m wearing a pair that I found in the depths of my closet, turned inside out for good measure just in case, and they’re about two sizes too small. Nothing makes you feel like a less powerful woman than uncomfortable panties.
Then, Betsy wouldn’t start, which has happened before and normally isn’t a big deal because I have the Vespa. But today is market day, and I needed a big trunk to fit at least twenty variously-sized and shaped boxes of flowers and vases.
Reluctantly, I dial Emma’s number, fully expecting an ear full for calling so early. She answers on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Emma? Why are you awake this early? You never wake up until fifteen minutes before you leave for work.” I hear voices in the background and an elevator dinging.
“I had to run to the doctor’s office,” she says.
“Everything okay?” I ask, concern beginning to seep into every corner of my body. I’m barely managing Adam being in the hospital right now. I don’t think I could handle it if Emma was sick, too.
“Everything is fine!” she chirps in a voice that’s an octave or two higher than normal. She’s acting weird. “Just a…regular visit.”
“Oh.It was one ofthoseappointments,” I say, realizing she’s been to the lady doctor.
A car door slams on her end and everything quiets until her engine turns over. “Would you be able to run to the market? Betsy won’t start again. I can meet you back at the shop and help you unload in a half an hour?”
“Yeah, I can do that,” she says through a yawn.
Thirty minutes later, I’m pulling up to Bloomie’s on the Vespa, backpack strapped to my chest with Pretzel—who is wearing a pair of children’s swim goggles I picked up from the gas station on the way—poking her head out the front. She gives a little yip when we stop, and I scratch her behind the ears for not jumping out.
Emma pulls up a few seconds later and backs up to the door. “Fourth Street Flowers beat us there,” she says when she jumps out. “So I got what I could, but I think we can make it work. Also, you do realize you just became the new meme that’s going to be plastered all over the internet, right?”
Up until now, she’d been valiantly stifling a laugh with her fist, but finally gives up to double over in a full on fit of giggles.
“What else was I supposed to do?” I unstrap my backpack and peel off Pretzel’s goggles. She shakes and runs inside when I open the door for her. I reach for a box of vases in Emma’s trunk and wince.
“What’s wrong?” Emma asks.
“I’m a little sore. Levi helped me at the house all day yesterday and we got a lot accomplished, but it came with a price.” I massage my right shoulder and catch Emma wiggling her eyebrows out of the corner of my eye.
“So what did you accomplish?” she asks in a sing-song voice. I roll my eyes and reach for the box again, ignoring her suggestive tone. “I saw his new Instagram account. Has he said if his phone is blowing up yet?”
“No, why?” I ask as I haul the box inside.
“Did you not see how many likes his picture got?” Emma asks, following with a box of her own.
“No, I honestly forgot to check it. This morning has been a little crazy.” I set the box down inside, and pull my phone from the front pocket of my overalls. In seconds, Levi’s profile fills the screen, and I’m floored at the amount of likes, comments, and DMs that are waiting to be looked at.
I click one of the messages and begin reading. It’s from a girl in San Diego who doesnotneed help with any renovations, butwouldlike to know if he’s available for dinner one evening soon. She also looks like she’s straight from a Victoria Secret catalog with platinum-blonde hair, full pink lips, and wide, doe eyes. I frown, wondering if her genetics are that good or if her appearance is the result of a fantastic West Coast doctor.
Before I can think better of it, I delete the message. What Levi doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right? I delete a few more for good measure before I’m fully engulfed by jealousy and slam the phone face down on the counter.
Emma comes back in with a couple more boxes. She’s smirking, mouth open to speak, but I hold up my hand to stop her. “Don’t.”
“Oh girl. You’ve got it bad,” she says anyway and pats me on the arm. I brush her off and grab a ranunculus from a bucket for the arrangement I’m working on. Its delicate stem snaps, so I grab another and when it does the same, Emma slides the box over to her side of the table with a grimace, clearly not trusting me to try a third time.
