Page 32 of Dear Adam
Adam and I are forced to put on something my parents deem appropriate, sit at a table with them, and look like the happiest little family in Charleston. I’ve always had Adam to rely on through when the “when are you going to join the family business?” and “when are you getting married and settling down?” questions get to be too much.
Mom and Dad give me eager looks from across the table, and I know if I say no, we’ll be right back in the same situation we are in now.
Suddenly, a small, furry torpedo rockets past, a pair of Dad’s underwear clenched between her teeth. In a second, Dad is up and out of his seat, chasing Pretzel around with another ever-present golf club, swinging wildly at the floor.
Pretzel turns and locks eyes with me. I swear in that instant, she’s finally decided we’re a team.
She darts under the table to lose Dad, and I follow, weakly yelling, “Pretzel…noooo…bad dog.”
I find her pawing at the front door, clearly ready to leave. When Dad and Hudson catch up, she drops the underwear, and I hand them over, which my father accepts with a look of disgust. He unfolds them, and sure enough, the whole butt is chewed out.
“Sorry about that,” I laugh weakly. “I must’ve forgotten to—”
“If that dog ruins one more family dinner…” Dad warns. My mom finally joins us and is furiously trying to unscrew the cap from a prescription pill bottle.
“Take your blood pressure medication, dear,” she says to my dad, shaking two out and trying to force feed them to him.
“You’re right,” I tell Dad. “I better get her home and put her in time out. Thanks for dinner!” I open the front door, but Hudson grabs my shoulder.
Before he can say anything else about the charity gala, I cut him off. “Hudson, It was a pleasure seeing you as always,” I choke out before all but running toward the Vespa.
Dear Adam, I could really use one of your big, smothering hugs right now. I’m really not having a good day.
I’m sitting on a bench by the waterfront, wondering for the millionth time how much longer I’m going to have to keep updating Adam like this. Beside me, Pretzel is happily slurping up a celebratory pup cup for her actions earlier. As a pair of dolphins jump in front of an incoming cargo ship, my phone buzzes with an incoming text.
Chapter fifteen
Levi
“Glenda,we’vegoneoverthis a million times. The code to the front door is one-one-one-one.”
“I’ve tried that and it’s not working! I’m just going to FaceTime you, okay?”
“I really don’t think that’s—”
An incoming FaceTime call jingles my ear, and I mentally kick myself for deciding it was a good idea to buy Glenda an iPhone and add her to the company plan a few months ago. I know she can get in the door just fine, so she must’ve recently discovered FaceTime and wants to try it out.
I pull the phone away from my ear and peer down at the screen. It’s a perfect shot right up Glenda’s nose. “Hey Glenda, you might want to turn your camera around so I can see the lock.”
“I was getting there,” she bristles then adds, “millennials,” under her breath. “Watch. I type in one-one-one-one and nothing happens.”
“Glenda…you’re hitting the seven, not the one.”
“Isn’t that what you said to do?” I watch as she hits the one four times. Sure enough, the door slides open, exactly as it has every day for the past three years she’s worked for me. When she asks to see my face, I’m definitely onto her game.
“Long time, no see!” she beams.
Before I can respond, Adam’s phone buzzes in my pocket. Forgetting I’m on FaceTime, I pull it out and read the text, a million things going through my mind. Why is Aly having a bad day? And why do I still have Adam’s freaking phone? I set it back on the counter with an all too familiar dullness seeping into every corner of my chest.
“Why do you have two phones? Also, why is your face all red and blotchy? And why are your eyes all googly?” Glenda asks, one eyebrow raised in suspicion.
Shoot.Of all the people to forget I was FaceTiming, it had to be the nosiest person alive. “It’s a…um…” I stutter. A flashback of the time I cheated on a test in elementary school and confessed because I felt so guilty comes to mind. I’ve never been a very good liar.
“Spill the beans,” she commands, practically quivering with excitement.
My hand finds my beard and I stroke it absentmindedly, wondering how much to tell her.
“Remember my friend Adam?” I finally ask. When she nods, I continue. “Our things got mixed up at the hospital after the accident, and somehow I wound up with his phone.”
