Calm Like Home (12 page)

Adam trails his fingers along my arm until he reaches a scar on the back of my hand. “And this?”

I glance to where his fingers are rested then meet his eyes.

“Lizzie Mark’s pool party. Scraped it on the concrete edge during a fierce game of Marco Polo.”

“See, I told you there were safety issues where you and pools are concerned.” His smile is in his eyes. It’s in his voice. It’s seeping into me.

I trace a scar on his right hand, a wide gash over the second knuckle. “Your turn.”

He looks at me for an instant, hesitating. There’s surprise in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected me to ask, but he murmurs, “Tooth.” He quickly returns his gaze to my body, the look of hesitation dissipating into one of fondness. It’s just one more fragmented piece to the puzzle that is Adam Westbrook. I add it to my collection of little mysteries, having no idea why he’d have an inch-long slice on his hand from someone’s tooth. Who would want to bite him?
Then again, who wouldn’t?

His touch slides over my skin until he reaches the next scar, in the crease of my elbow. “How about this?”

“That’s from breaking my arm flipping off that damned coffee table.” I smile recalling the memory. “I was so terrified to get the cast off because my brother told me if it didn’t heal right the doctor would cut my whole arm off with the cast. And then she nicked that fold with the scissors and I thought it was done for.”

He grins at me, his smile brightening his entire face, warming me all over. “She let you keep it?” he asks softly.

I nod, beaming back at him. His gaze slides over my face and rests on my lips. He is positively radiant. “I can tell this is a real smile,” he murmurs.

“You can?”

“Yep. Nine teeth. That’s your tell.”

“What’re you talking about?” I ask, still grinning emphatically.

“When you’re really happy, really laughing, you show nine teeth in your smile.”

I can tell by his own smile that he’s pleased with himself. He’s happy he can tell me something about myself even I don’t know.

I’m astonished by his astute attention, how he notices the little things I had no idea were even there, the tiny quirks and details that make me
me
. I feel so treasured, so important, so astounded that he would take time to notice and appreciate the little things no one else has ever found or bothered to seek out.

There’s not a doubt in my mind that he has irrevocably changed me. He is inside me now, nestled up in dark corners, wrapped around sharp edges. He has forever enveloped my heart and mind, drawn out the best parts, shown me the light. I can’t go back to the middle now. I don’t want to go back to the middle now. I want to stay forever in his glow, soaking in his essence, letting him bring out the best in me, hoping that somehow I bring out the best in him.

That is what Adam Westbrook means to me.

If only I could find a way to tell him.

By late afternoon we’re unbearably hungry. Adam orders a pizza, saying that answering the door doesn’t actually count as leaving the bed as long as I stay in it while he retrieves the pizza from the delivery guy. He brings the entire box and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s into the bed with us and we have a picnic in my room. It’s well after dark when his phone beeps with a text. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a rapid transformation; his entire face goes dark, something like sorrow or anger or remorse washes over him when he sees the screen.

“I gotta go, bear.”

I make a sad face, and he leans over and kisses the corner of my frown, which instantly elicits a smile.

“I don’t want to, but that was my mom.”

“Is everything all right?” He’s never explicitly mentioned her before.

His lips tighten and he nods. “Yeah, just one night. Then I’ll be back.”

I want so badly to keep this conversation going, to get any tiny little piece of him I can. I keep my voice light when I say, “I guess I should be surprised you got away with it this long.”

His voice is bitter when he responds. “Yeah, well they’re both pretty much always at the hospital or traveling and I don’t like being in that house alone.” Dejected eyes come to a rest on my own and I wonder if this reaction is more than him not wanting to leave my side. If maybe there’s something else to it. “I’d rather be here with you any day.”

After I kiss him goodbye I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is tangled in the back from rolling around with him in bed all day. My lips are red and swollen from kissing. My face is flushed and there are bright pink blotches along my collarbone, no doubt from him. I look completely disheveled, completely ravished, and all I can think is I how badly I wish he’d come back for more.

Chapter 13

“I feel like I have to do something. Only I have no idea what,” I tell Annabelle, feeling exasperated. We’re sitting in my living room flipping through magazines. Well
she
is flipping through magazines, her feet casually slung off the end of my couch. I’m laying slack on the floor obsessing about Adam leaving.

I keep talking, trying to sort through my thoughts. “I’ve been trying to force the words out, to tell him how I feel, but I just can’t. And knowing him, he’s not going to bring it up.”

Adam and I don’t talk
future
. We talk hours, maybe days, but never weeks or months. Never what’s to come. And I wonder if it’s a sign. I wonder if that’s my answer. Silence. Nothing.
The end.

“Well it makes perfect sense. You’re probably the two worst people to have that conversation.”

I stare at her dumbly. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not like either one of you is an open book.”

I sigh in resignation. “For all I know he’s going back to school and that’ll be it. We’ll have never talked about it. I need him to know I didn’t think this was nothing.”

“I’m pretty sure he already knows that.”

I groan in frustration. She doesn’t get it.

“What’re you going to do, make him a CD or something?” she asks flippantly, rubbing a perfume sample from a magazine flap on her outstretched wrist and inhaling sharply.

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

“I was kidding.”

“But it could work. The boy loves his music. I clearly don’t have the guts to tell him, but maybe he’d listen. Maybe he’d understand.”

I’m suddenly energized. With Annabelle still on my couch I start pouring through the music on my laptop. I spend hours deciding which songs to include, long after she’s gone. I ponder the perfect mix during every spare moment I’m not with Adam. I play with the order, substituting songs in and out of the playlist a hundred times, trying to get it right. The track list ends up telling a story, our story. There are songs of attraction, songs of sex and passion, songs of falling in love (yes they use those words even if I can’t), and songs of letting go. I try to hint through the song selection how I really feel: how crazy about him I am, that I’ll still be here if he wants to continue whatever this
thing
between us is, but also that I understand this might be the end and I’ll find a way to handle goodbye. Summer is over. He is leaving, pure and simple. The finality stings, but I know expecting anything beyond what we currently have is probably nothing more than wishful thinking.

Once I’ve told him everything I possibly can with those sixteen songs, I begin on the case. I decide to make a collage for the front and back covers. I pour through magazines, clipping out images that remind me of us. There’s a picture of a palm tree to remind him of summer. A picture of an ice cream cone to remind him of all the Ben and Jerry’s we ate together. Of course there’s a grizzly bear and a school of fish and a man winking. I even stumble upon a picture of a girl with tangled hair and I clip that too for all the nights we rolled around in my bed, doing anything but sleeping. I disassemble the entire case and make a label for the spine, titling it
Oh My Goodness: The Soundtrack
. And then finally, it is done. I have no idea what he’ll think of it, but it’s quite possibly the only way I can really tell him how I feel without ever saying anything at all.

His last shift at the restaurant arrives way too soon. He gets cut first and is rolling his silverware in the back. I spot him when I’m dropping off some dishes and come to stand beside him. He’s pulling off his tie when I reach him and he flips it around my neck, still holding both ends, and pulls me closer. I can’t help but smile and sneak a quick kiss because no one is around, but it’s soft and solemn. It’s nothing like the passionate kisses we’ve stolen in the freezer.

“Want some help?” I ask.

“You’d be willing to roll extra silverware? For me?”

“I’d do a lot more than that for you, Adam.”

He gives me an ornery smile. “I have a few ideas.”

I poke his side and pull half the napkins from his stack.

His expression softens and he stares down at the napkins in front of him. “I’m going to miss this,” he finally whispers.

The way he says the words sounds like he’s saying goodbye. I hate the finality in his voice. I hate the truth behind it.

That night when he comes over I can tell he isn’t himself. He’s quiet, reserved, pensive. He hovers in the doorway, leaning against the frame as though he can’t bring himself to come inside.

He fiddles with his keys before asking, “Want to go for a drive?”

I nod and take his hand, wanting to feel closer when he feels so far away. He drives out past the city lights, just like our first nights together. When we’ve reached the outskirts and it feels as though the whole world is a million miles away, he pulls the car over. We climb out and I sit on the trunk of his car. He leans in beside me, pressing his side to mine as we stare up at the night sky. The moon hangs high and bright, illuminating his face in the darkness.

“I used to look at the stars with my dad as a kid,” I say softy, giving him something new, a different piece of me he’s never had before, hoping maybe he’ll give me something in return. “On bright nights like this he would always say, ‘There’s Alexa’s moon.’ I loved the idea it was up there just for me.”

After a beat he turns to face me, standing between my legs and wrapping his arms around my waist. When his lips meet mine, his kiss is slow and haunting. He barely pulls away, his lips brushing mine as he whispers, “You make it so hard to say goodbye, Lex.”

Without thinking I murmur back, “So don’t.”

His face falls and he presses his forehead into my chest, his fingers knotting in the hem of my tank top. He exhales for what feels like eternity, his breath heavy and weighted and filling up all the space between us with the words we can’t bring ourselves to say.

We don’t have a plan for Thursday night, our
last
night. I’m assuming I’ll see him because it’s the last night we have together, but we haven’t really talked about it. Go figure.

When he finally calls around eight, his tone is subdued, quiet. “Can I see you?” he asks, all reservation and slow monotone. “I was thinking maybe you could come over here tonight. My parents are out of town for a conference.”

Admittedly I’m excited to see him in his element, hoping it’ll be a tiny window into the real Adam, the Adam outside of work or the confines of my apartment, the Adam he tries so hard to keep to himself. Maybe by inviting me over he’s actually inviting me in.

“When should I come?”

“Now. I’ll text you my address.”

My heart is racing as I hang up the phone. He still hasn’t said anything about what his departure means for us and I take his silence as a clue. As much as I want to see him, part of me is filled with dread. Tomorrow I will say goodbye to my other half. Tomorrow my heart will break into a million little pieces.

I collect my purse and put the CD in a small manila envelope then pull the front door shut behind me. The realization slams into me that the next time I open it he’ll be gone.

As my car edges closer, the houses become noticeably nicer, the neighborhoods more affluent. Pulling in front of his parents’ house, I decide to park on the street to hopefully draw less attention to my presence. Knowing how private Adam is, he may not want my visit getting back to his parents.

I take a deep breath to steady myself, fingering the envelope. My confession. But it suddenly feels all wrong. It feels pitiful. How can I expect sixteen songs to tell him what I can't bring myself to say? How can I possibly hope for more when he’s leaving, when he probably hasn’t brought it up for a reason? It's unfair. It's pathetic. I stuff the envelope into my bag, the weight of hesitation bearing down on me, feeling inept, feeling unworthy.

Adam steps onto the front porch in loose house pants and a fitted blue V-neck, his feet bare. As always he looks completely relaxed and at ease; only his eyes betray a hint of reservation, that and the noticeable absence of his smile. I trudge up the long drive and climb the steps to meet him. He doesn’t say a word, just wraps his arms around me, tucking me into an embrace. I take a deep breath, savoring the way he smells, the real Adam smell.

After a minute he leads me inside. The interior could be clipped from the pages of a magazine. The open floor plan is all dark, hardwood floors and understated furniture. The house is beautiful, if not a bit sterile. There are no family photos, no mementos lining the bookshelves. The focal point of the open room is a wall of floor to ceiling windows looking out on a large, shimmering lake behind the house. The summer sun is setting, casting rays of pink, orange, and yellow hues in every direction. They reflect off the water, filling the evening sky. It is calm and beautiful and absolutely breathtaking. I could stand here and stare at it forever, if only time would stand still, if only tomorrow would never come.

Adam catches me gazing out the back window and comes to stand beside me, wrapping his arms around me once more and pressing his lips to my temple. “See, I told you. You’re my sunset.”

I swallow hard, my eyes focused on the horizon, trying desperately to fight back the lump forming in my throat. So this is what he had in mind. This is what he sees in me. He watches me an instant then tucks his finger under my chin and raises my eyes to his. He kisses me slow and soft and light and even though I’m trying desperately to hold it together, a part of me is already falling apart.