Chapter Eleven

My hair is straighter than a pin. I add an extra layer of mascara to my lashes and slide small gold hoops into my piercings.

At eighteen, I had a bouncy bob of mushroom brown hair that frizzed and twirled in the summer heat. I didn't wear a lick of makeup and lived in jean cutoffs, bikini tops, and ratty tee t-shirts. If I can't avoid Adam, then I might as well look as different from that girl as possible. If he views me as a stranger, then maybe I can breathe.

Francesca stops in front of the bathroom door.

"You look nice," she notes. "Only you could pull off a short skirt like that."

I tug the ends of my corduroy mini skirt and fix the sleeves of my scoop neck top. "You're always looking at my ass."

"It's not fair the way that genetics work."

"You get the top, I get the bottom." I scowl. "If anyone has the shitty end of body proportions, it's me. Grandma Opal wouldn't fit in a chair, her butt got so big. And only her butt."

She leans against the doorway. The tassels of her new dress sway. "Hey, do you think I should tell David not to invite Adam over anymore? This is supposed to be a family holiday."

"Yes!" I say, quickly. Too quickly. I drop my mascara wand.

She makes a face. "What is your deal with him?"

"No deal," I answer, standing up quickly. I zip up my cosmetic bag and hope my heart stops thumping.

Francesca follows me out into the hallway, saying, "No, I remember more and more of that summer. You two barely ever spoke to each other. And when you did speak, it was usually to argue about something."

"Some people call that banter ."

"Yeah, if you're fucking or you're on Love Island ." She pauses, dropping her voice. Her cold hand grabs my wrist. " Were you fucking? Are you going on Love Island ?"

We reach the threshold of my door. My cheeks flush, and I turn so she can't see my face.

This is my opening to tell her, but it's blocked by Adam's sudden presence, Francesca's lack of chill, my lack of self-esteem, and stress baked goods that now feel like a dirty secret. I'll never get through the narrow passageway unscathed.

"Yes," I reply calmly. "That's what was happening all those years ago." I toss the bag on my bed beside a twenty-year-old butterfly pillow I won at a festival twenty years ago.

Facing her, I add, "And I'm thinking about going on Love Island, but only as a bombshell. So, if you would like to contribute to my boob job, I'd appreciate it. I'll get up a GoFundMe in the morning."

"There isn't enough money in the world to get you the boobs you'd need."

"Maybe it's cheaper if they use my ass fat."

Francesca snorts a laugh and immediately moves sideways as Kate brushes into the room. Her face falls.

Kate breezes, "What are you guys talking about?"

"Love Island," Francesca grits.

"Boob jobs," I say at the same time.

Kate's golden curls bounce as she hikes up the top of her strapless jumpsuit. She only arrived an hour ago, giving David an earful about how that's not enough time to get ready after a long – three hour – drive. Now fully dressed, she stares at herself in the round mirror above my blue dresser, dragging a finger along her perfectly-shaped mouth and says, "Thanks for the lip liner, Vee."

Before I can respond, Francesca blurts out, "Isn't it a little cold to be dressing like you're waiting for your sugar daddy's yacht?"

Kate doesn't respond initially, but we're waiting for it. She picks up a tube of lotion and delicately deposits some into her palm, missing her long, glossy nails, and rubs her hands over tanned shoulders. They glisten, not dissimilarly to the shimmer around her sharp blue eyes.

I think she's made from the glitter that shines in the sun on a Mykonos beach.

Even as a little girl, Kate had a capturing, effervescent look. She'd giggle and dance on the dock, those curls flying into the air, and I'd think, as a teenager, she might as well be in a Ralph Lauren photoshoot right now. If that moment ended up on the cover of a catalog, I wouldn't question how it got there.

Her eyes meet Francesca's in the mirror. "I love that you're into shaming people for their sex life, Francesca, how misogynistic of you. Good job. Besides that , we're not going outside and it's warm in here." She tilts her head. "And I don't need a boob job."

"She's got you there," I respond, taking a swig from the glass of water on my nightstand.

Kate turns. A sly smile creeps the corner of her perfected mouth. "What's Adam Kent like?"

Oh . I see.

My throat constricts.

"Fat and bald," Francesca snaps.

Kate blinks and addresses me. "What's Adam Kent like?"

Fat and bald, fat and bald, fat and bald.

"Dark and brooding," I stomach. I tuck my hair back. "Carefree. Adventurous. A little too fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants if you ask me."

I catch Francesca's frown from my peripheral vision.

"But he's really into classic rock music and not buying anything that five people haven't already owned and disposing of plastic properly."

That meant to come off as dismissive like, he's a weirdo that cares about the environment, but the opposing looks thrown at me say: ‘Tell me more, tell me more – like does he have a car?' And: ‘Are you the reason for the bodies in the walls?'

"I'm not stalking him," I tell Francesca.

"I didn't say you were."

I shrug and rush, "That's just from what I remember about him from fourteen years ago. We didn't spend a lot of time together so maybe I read him wrong I just felt like that was the vibe he was giving out and I was picking up, it's just what I observed."

Silence.

"Are you ill?" Francesca asks.

Kate sighs. "Well, I will just have to see for myself. Dark and brooding is a vibe I can definitely entertain. I also love a man who cares about the environment."

"He's a musician. He probably has chlamydia," comes Francesca's response.

"Like I said, I'll have to see for myself," Kate sneers. She smacks her teeth and walks out of the room.

Francesca leans into the hallway. "Um, do you know what chlamydia is?" she demands. She stands upright and points her thumb backward. "What is with her?"

"She's beautiful." I sink into the bed. "Attractive people like attractive people, it's how the world works. It's obvious that she would be interested in Adam."

How did I not see this coming?

Francesca waves me away. "No, she's been like this. All year."

"She's just protecting her brother."

"From me? What did I do?" She throws her hands in the air. "We were separated for a year. A mutual decision. Nobody did anything. I'm not the big bad wolf in this scenario."

"You did just make fun of her outfit."

"Because she's barely clothed! I have every right to comment on her attire. I'm her elder. And her sister-in-law."

"She's twenty-three," I point out. "I think her Malibu beachwear is fine."

Ignoring me, Francesca continues, "I have no idea where the sweet little girl I once knew has gone. She used to love me. We went to the mall together, we danced, we sang. We were a freaking joy. Why does she hate me so much now?"

I grab a pair of knit socks from my suitcase. "She doesn't hate you. But she does think you're shrill."

Her eyes go wide. " Shrill ?"

I grimace, bunching the socks at my ankle. "So, you don't follow her on TikTok, huh?"

"No."

"Good." I stand up just as the doorbell rings. "Let's get this over with."

Francesca says, "Don't act like this is a giant chore. They're nice people. Plus, it's nice to have a distraction from each other. Seven days, just us, is a long time."

I follow her out to the staircase. The eyes of Heddy's ancestors stare us down from photographs on a wall, and the wind chimes nailed into the ceiling sing as Grayson rushes out in front of us. A timer rings in the kitchen.

"I'm not a big fan of being neighborly," I say. "You just can't trust people nowadays. Invite someone into your home and you never know what they're going to do to you…"

She pauses mid-stair. "First you didn't like Adam because he was hot and adventurous, now you don't like him because, what, he's a vampire?"

I think it over. "No one truly knows anyone in this world."

"I don't know you anymore."

At the bottom of the stairs, under a purple pendant light, Caroline screams out, "They're here!"

Clad in jeans and a knit sweater, paler than the moon, she has her sister's blonde hair and her brother's nerdy interests, qualities that make Caroline a chameleon. Easy-going and up for a party, she's the first one at the door.

Alice comes around the corner and snuggles into Francesca's leg.

Grayson runs up beside Caroline, holding a slingshot and proclaiming he can't wait to show it to Adam, all while his mother screeches about where he got that weapon from.

Kate stands like a goddess at the top stair.

David walks out of the kitchen in Heddy's celestial apron, crystals tucked into the pockets.

Adam stands on the other side of the door. And I…can't be here right now.

"Excuse me," I mutter, weaving through everyone, sneaking past Caroline's hand on the doorknob.

While the door opens and cheery introductions are exchanged, I've managed to disappear back onto the closet-turned-wet bar and fish out a bottle of wine.

My heart pounds, my ears roar.

I didn't think it would be this hard. This affecting . I can't decide which memory infects me more: how lovingly he once touched me, how destroyed he looked when I walked away, or how full and happy he shows up through my phone screen.

The social media algorithms know what they're doing. I don't seek Adam out, but I click on his face when I see it, just for a second, so he's dropped on my feed like bullets and the only way to escape the gunfire would be to sell my belongings and move off the grid.

"What are you doing in here?" Grayson asks.

I pop the cork.

"Getting the wine ready," I answer. "What are you doing in here?"

"Mom was looking for you. She said you might be on an island."

I spin around. "Do you want to do me a favor?" I bend to his height as he leans his head backward. "Do you want to be my little buddy tonight, Gray? We can sit beside each other, talk, I'll give you my dessert. It's brownies, you love those. When you're ready to go upstairs for Legos, I'll go with you –"

"No." He turns on his heel and walks away.

"We can tell each other secrets!" I call out. "I know where the cookies are!"

He's gone. I stand, brushing off a five-year-old's rejection effortlessly.

God, I wish I had offered to cook. Then, I could be hidden in the kitchen instead of in this cave where I'm planning to play bartender all night. I'm being rude, but I can also be helpful and that's what people remember after they leave a dinner party. The helpfulness. Helpful people get into Heaven.

Not that anyone will get a drink with how tightly I clutch the neck of this bottle. Then, I hear his voice enter the dining room and I'm glad I've got a tight grip because I can't afford to keep cleaning up glass.

Francesca rounds the corner. "Here you are!" She shakes her head at me in admonishment. "And it looks like she's already starting drinking."

I glance at Adam beside her. His hands dig into the pockets of his jeans. A tiny red leaf rests on top of his hair and the bottom buttons of his flannel shirt have come untucked. He and I meet a moment that spans seconds, his expression blank.

"I haven't started drinking yet," I explain. Which is dumb, because, obviously . I'm still holding the corkscrew in the opposite hand.

"I see that," he replies.

Francesca claps him on the back. "Well, Adam, I'll let this awkward butterfly get you situated. We've got plenty to drink. She's not holding it hostage."

"I'm not a huge wine drinker," he says.

"Well, it doesn't look like you and Vee are going to have a lot to chat about, then," she teases.

When she walks off, I say, "I'm not an alcoholic."

He frowns. "I didn't say you were."

"It's just, she implied…" I swallow. "There's other stuff in here."

I drop the bottle on the dark marble counter and bend down, opening the cabinet, hoping my short skirt is tucked under my ass and then remembering that Kate has her shelf on display, Adam's not looking at my ass.

Not that I'd want him to.

He clears his throat. "I'll just take a glass of wine."

"Sure?

"Yeah."

"Okay – ow!" I stand too quickly and knock my head on the counter.

"Are you okay?" Adam asks. He doesn't rush to my side or sound remotely concerned.

I nod through the impending concussion. "I'm fine." My eyes remain shut, my hand plastered to my head. When did an alarm start ringing in here?

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks again.

I exhale and shake my head out and say, "I'll just keep an eye on my pupils. I should be fine." He's staring at me with furrowed brows. "What?"

He gestures under his eye. "You've got some black stuff. Your makeup smeared."

I freeze, hand still on my head, probably dying of blunt force trauma, and he's commenting on my smeared mascara. Really? Really ?

If he cared an ounce about our summer together, then he'd remember everything in this cabinet. He'd remember that day Heddy went with Fran when Dave took the girls to the movies, and I remained behind.

Adam and I had at least three hours alone in the house together, so we raided Heddy's bar to make a cocktail he said he drank all the time with his dad. He mixed up a bunch of stuff, it tasted disgusting and then we were immediately drunk. I fell into the lake, he fished me out, and he apologized profusely for being a bad influence.

Sopping wet in our clothes, no mascara on my face, we dangled our legs over the edge of the dock. His damp, cold hand reached up and settled against my jawbone. He said he wanted another taste, just to see how bad it was. Then, he kissed me. For the first time.

He pulled away and said, "I guess it's not so bad."

I blinked and swallowed, not sure of what to do with my hands.

"Let me be the judge," I whispered, suddenly brave and feeling so safe beside him. He smiled as I kissed him, our teeth touching a moment. "Too much cherry," I sighed, licking my lips.

"When did the world stop spinning?" he sighed.

"When you had to save me from drowning."

"I thought you said we couldn't date." He stared at my mouth.

"I didn't say we couldn't do this ," I replied, listening to the sound of his unsteady breath.

Half a smile lit up. "You saucy girl," he purred.

"What did you just say?" I laughed. I leaned back, my legs kicked out in front of me.

Adam snatched me to him. His hands held my waist, tight around my rib cage, and he smirked. "I heard that in a movie, once."

I stopped laughing when he stopped smiling.

He straightened up. One hand went to the side of my face, and I rested in his grip felt like I'd left my body. That time stood still. That what was happening right now had nothing to do with changing seasons, schoolwork, learning to drive a car. It was a highly spiritual experience, just like Heddy claimed everything should be.

He kissed me deeply then and continued to do so every day for the next two months.

Adam's eyebrows raise. "Maybe you should go lay down," he says now.

I remind myself to breathe.

"That's not concussion protocol," I argue.

"You take a lot of hits to the head?"

"I'm first aid certified, and I watch Gray's Anatomy ."

He mulls this over while continuing to look at the ground. Barely a sound emits when he says, "When you're baking for one, alone in your house."

"What was that?" I ask.

He shudders, rubs the side of his face. "Nothing. Never mind."

With every movement, I catch a whiff of his scent. Aftershave, cologne, cinnamon. I was gifted a candle that smelled just like that once. It was labeled: Hot Man Smell.

Kate is definitely going to ask for a layer of his clothing to get warm. Damn that tube top. The kids these days know what they're doing.

I gingerly touch my wound. "You can go. I'll bring you that wine after I've cleaned my face up."

He tilts his head, catching the edge in my voice. "Don't worry about it. You have a lot on your plate, I'll get myself something later."

"What does that mean?"

He slowly points to his head.

"Oh, you think I'm too busy with my head injury to pour a glass of wine?" I snap.

It's nonsensical, but out of everything I could find offensive, I've suddenly become enraged at the idea that I can't be half conscious and still pour wine. I'll show him.

I collect a glass from the rack overhead and slowly, carefully, with mind-numbing cautiousness pour him a very small, small glass of wine. Just enough to trap a fruit fly or make me seem incompetent.

He takes the glass from my outstretched hand and inspects the contents. "Don't be stingy with it or anything."

"That's a proper restaurant pour," I say. "Just be glad I don't charge fifteen dollars for it."

He's quiet, but he doesn't move. I notice his chest rise. Air sneaks out of his nostrils like he has something to say but doesn't. He simply raises his glass and nods in my direction before walking away.

Well, this is going to be a fun night.

I pour myself a very not restaurant glass of wine and head into the dining room.

"Where's mine?" Francesca asks.

"I didn't know if you wanted home wine or Italian restaurant one," I say with a shrug.

She cocks an eyebrow. "I don't know what that means, but home wine. Always home wine ."

As I move toward the table, some liquid sloshes out of my glass, and a drop lands on the carpet.

"Ah, shit," I mutter.

Grayson twists his chair. His mouth drops. "Oooh, Auntie Vee, you can't say bad words."

"You should hear what your mother said to me upstairs," I say, pulling out the chair beside him.

David leans over us and drops a basket of garlic bread on the table.

Grayson gasps. "Swear jar, Mom!"

Francesca sets two glasses across from him and responds, "There's no vacation swear jar."

"So, I can say whatever I want?" he asks.

She shrugs. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." She gestures to the glasses. "Maggie, please sit down! Diego, you haven't met Vienna yet, have you?"

I stand and reach my hand across the table to shake his. His cheeks rest on round glasses as he smiles, and his handshake feels like a bearhug. Maggie and Diego wear matching Christmas sweaters with broken gingerbread men and both have their nails painted red and green.

He booms, "Nice to meet you, Vienna! I've heard so many wonderful things."

"Not from Adam, I take it." I laugh a little too loudly and no one gets the joke. Is it a joke? Or am I concussed?

Diego lightly laughs. "Adam's been mute about you, but Grayson sang your praises last night. Told us all about you."

Grayson digs his fingers into a ball of bread. "No, I didn't," he mutters.

I jostle him in the ribs.

He tries not to smile and gives me a shove in return.

David and Francesca come around with salad and pasta. Caroline takes a seat beside me, and David sits at the end of the table. Alice scampers into the chair between Grayson and their mother while Kate hovers behind Adam, watching his move, fighting back a smile when she notices only two seats remain. One in front of me, one in front of her sister. Naturally, she chooses to sit beside her brother and Adam takes the one beside Maggie.

He's my mirror opposite.

"Dig in, everyone, please!" David announces, still wearing the apron.

"Thanks, Dave, this looks great," Adam says. He reaches for a roll. "I appreciate all the effort you went to, man."

"He cooked it in the crockpot," Francesca announces. Then, she freezes. "I didn't mean for that to sound…he did a lot of hard work –"

I chime in, "Fran's idea of cooking is reheating day-old KFC in the microwave, so, we're glad she stayed in her lane and Davey took over."

"Yes!" she points to me. "That's what I mean! I wouldn't know how to use a crock pot to save my life. If he didn't cook, our children would not eat."

Alice adds, "Mommy takes us to Chick-fil-A."

"Yes, see. See ." Francesca tensely looks at Kate.

Maggie laughs. "Well, Adam and I didn't grow up with family meals like this. Our dad was so scattered with multiple marriages and stepkids and half kids and whatnot, that we rarely, if ever , had a home-cooked meal."

Adam spoons spaghetti on his plate. "What's a half kid , Maggie?"

She bares her teeth in a grimace. "The ones I remember the names of but won't ever know their ages."

The bowl of pasta is passed toward me, and Diego asks, "So Vienna, I hear you're a kindergarten teacher. How's that? Did you always want to be a teacher?"

"Um, it's fine," I respond, passing the bowl. "It's a steady job. And no, I didn't always want to be a teacher, it just kind of fell in my lap."

Maggie asks, "Did you major in education?"

"Early Childhood, yeah," I answer.

Adam makes a sound. My eyes aren't the only ones that land on his.

He glances around. " Well …that's not exactly ‘falling into your lap' then, is it? You chose to study education to become a teacher. That was a choice."

My head begins to throb. "That's not what I meant," I say.

It's quiet at the table. Awkward quiet.

David begins with a light laugh, "At least Vee is using her degree. Fran and I haven't done a thing with our Art History and Anthropology degrees."

"Someone would have," Francesca starts, "if he had continued to become Indiana Jones like we had agreed upon."

He shrugs, "I couldn't handle the anxiety of constantly losing my hat."

Diego laughs, "And the snakes?"

"No." Francesca shakes her head. "He likes snakes."

"I would love a pet snake," David says with a high finger.

This must be a family discussion that's been had one too many times.

I chase down a bite of pasta with a sip of wine, glad for the change in conversation, but it doesn't last long. Another biting comment flies across the table at me.

Adam grunts, "So you're both doing things that you enjoy."

So maybe the statement wasn't directed at me, but it was flung at me, sharp and shiny, intended to distract.

Francesca tears up a few pieces of Alice's bread. I watch the needlessness of it.

She says, "Yeah, I think so. Working in the corporate world has been good for both of us. Not what we planned, but we're pretty happy."

Adam looks across the table at me. On purpose. He continues, "I don't know why people choose to spend their lives somewhere they don't want to be."

I hold his gaze. The throbbing in my head begins again. I say, "Because we don't always get to blindly follow our dreams. Some of us have to make practical decisions and take big girl jobs."

His lips purse together. "I don't believe that. No one has to do anything."

"The world doesn't always tip in my favor."

"That's bullshit." He grits his teeth and says to the kids, "Sorry."

Grayson shrugs. "There's no swear jar on vacation."

"It's lawless," Francesca adds with her mouth full.

The otherwise sharp tension at the table doesn't dissipate.

Adams keeps going: "There are crystals and trinkets and…tchotchkes all over this house. Heddy was all about manifesting your desires and being the main character of your life. If I remember correctly, you used to be into all that sh – crap – too . " He looks at Grayson for confirmation.

The kid teeters his right hand back and forth. Crap is one of those words.

"I indulged Heddy's wisdom," I clarify.

Adam pushes food to the side of his mouth, and checks in with the others, like Can you believe this chick? His eyebrows raise. "What does that mean?"

I also glance around the table.

Francesca and David know that Adam and I barely spoke to each other, so he has no reason to talk to me now, let alone care about my life path. I'm wondering why the others aren't intervening, demanding he put down his weapons and back away from their precious Auntie Vee. By their mild expressions, I realize that only I hear – no, feel – the disdain in Adam's voice. They don't notice the stormy clouds rolling in. They can just tell that the sun has disappeared.

I try to keep myself composed. I tell Adam, "I'm a practical breed, unlike Heddy, but she raised me, and I respect her wisdom ."

His fork hits his plate. Loudly.

"There's that word again." He grumbles, "I didn't find Heddy so wise."

It's quiet at the table while I think about what he said.

The unspoken part: I didn't think Heddy was so wise when she ordered you not to run off and marry me.

Before I can respond, if I can think of a response, Kate drops her utensils and rests her dainty chin atop her hands. She watches him dreamily.

She asks, "Adam, what's it like being a professional musician? It must be amazing."

He swallows, and we lock eyes for a moment. Whatever he was trying to pry out of me, he'll never get. Reluctantly, he answers, "Uh, it's good. Loud. Tiring. Overwhelming. But, it's the only thing I've ever wanted to do with my life."

"I love that," she says, breathy and charming. "I love people who follow their dreams."

Maggie says, "One track mind, this one."

"We always knew you were going to make it big one day," David adds.

"He wrote the most beautiful songs that summer," Francesca chimes in. She points to her husband. "If this one didn't follow me around all the time, I'd think Adam wrote all of those songs about me."

David snorts. "If he wrote them about any of us, it would be me, okay? He couldn't stop staring into my eyes."

"Dave, don't let them in on our secret," Adam deadpans. "Don't make light of what we had."

Francesca laughs, "At least we know they weren't about Vienna! She called you a vampire earlier!"

" Fran ," I hiss.

She hiccups and looks at her glass. "I'm sorry. What is in this?"

"Called me what?" Adam asks.

I rip open a roll and trace my plate design with my eyes. "Nothing. She misheard me."

Francesca sighs. "The point is that Dave and I were about to enter our last year of college and had no idea what we were going to do with our lives, but here was Adam, dead set on his goals. It was inspiring."

I twirl my fork into noodles. "It's easy to do whatever you want when no one expects anything from you."

He retorts, "If you don't let people tell you what to do, then you're free to make your own choices. Whatever pressure another person puts on you is your own fault."

I gaze across the table and it's like everyone else has disappeared and we're sitting here, he and I, listening to my father tell me everything I'm supposed to do with my adult life. Adam remembers that, at least, and he's not over my betrayal.

He doubles down. "I appreciate people who make their own choices in life and can't be talked out of their dreams because they scare someone else. You fall, you fail, you get back up. Too many people sit in comfortable boxes because they're scared to put themselves out there."

Kate says, "That's why I pursued my career as a hairstylist. It's my passion. It doesn't matter how much money I make. I love helping people feel good about themselves. It's my dream ."

Adam stirs the food on his plate. A fold appears between his eyebrows. He chews on the corner of his bottom lip.

In our final conversation, he'd asked me, "Why are you doing this?"

He cried, and I'd never seen anyone cry like that before. Not dramatic or stifling or out of grief, but rather from an uncontrollable faucet of energy that he didn't seem to consciously turn on.

"Why don't you trust me?" he'd asked.

I stare at my food. My appetite has gone cold.

Into the abyss of our awkward group dinner, he mutters, "Integrity. It seems like people these days can't seem to find it or hold on to it. They say one thing and do something completely different."

Francesca knocks her wine back and sets the glass on the table. "So, what are you working on right now, Adam?"

"Writing a new album this winter," he says. He stabs at his spaghetti. "I'm taking it slow."

"Evaluating his life," Maggie calls out wistfully.

"I'm not as melancholy as she thinks I am." Adam half smiles.

David argues, "I've heard your music, my man. Someone hurt you ."

Adam shakes his head. "And now I'm in a different phase of life. We're coming full circle here. I'm not thinking about the past anymore." He emphatically gestures a forward motion with his knife. "I'm moving on."

Francesca tussles Alice's hair. "What are you moving toward? A farmhouse in the country? A brood of children? Grass-fed cows? A cult?"

"I'd love a family one day. A big one. For me, it's the full Vonn Trapp or nothing," he says.

Diego throws his head back. "He's not joking. That collection of guitars in his garage is going to be very busy one day."

"Make a plan and stick to it," Adam replies. "I'm not going to be this handsome forever. Profiting off your eleven children is the way to go, according to Instagram."

"I'd love to have eleven children do my housework," Francesca mutters.

Kate clears her throat. "So, you're ready to settle down with someone?"

I choke on my wine.

Grayson pounds me on the back.

Adam nods, slowly. "I am." He swallows. "I don't have to work so hard to be seen anymore, so I get to make more choices about my work. There will always be tours and reasons to put off having real relationship, a family, but I'm ready to make that a priority. My label can come at me if they disagree."

"I'm totally in the same boat," Kate says quickly. "That's crazy how much we have in common!"

I think I'm going to be sick.

"I've always wanted a big family," she continues. "I'm very domestic. I'm so intrigued by the whole Trad Wife movement."

This time it's Francesca who chokes on her wine.

Maggie cheers, "Well as a stay-at-home cat mom, I'm a huge crafter, myself. Kids, if you want to come over tomorrow, we can make peanut butter pinecone bird feeders!"

Chapter Twelve

After dinner, David lights a fire in the living room and Francesca fills up everyone's glasses. The plush couches and worn, stately armchairs become cozy and filled with blankets, giggling, and conversation.

Grayson shows Diego how his Transformer toy works. Alice pulls Caroline's hair into a ponytail with sticky fingers. Maggie, David, and Francesca discuss their mutual obsession with government conspiracy theories. I sit on the hearth, staring at the fire through my glass of wine, and focus on the snap and crackle, trying to tune out Adam and Kate's conversation behind me.

Mostly I just hear her say: "Oh my God, I love that," on repeat.

My watch timer buzzes, so I shrug off the blanket I've wrapped up in and toss it to Kate.

"Thanks, Vee," she smiles, covering her shoulders.

I venture into the kitchen and turn off the oven. Maggie's brownies arrived crumbled and stuffed in a Ziploc bag, so I'm glad I prepped my own dessert before dinner. I pull out the baking sheet and set an apple and pear galette on a cooling rack. I hold the sifter over the sink and scoop some powdered sugar into it before carefully returning to my hot, crispy, crunchy dessert. As sugar is dusted over it, I feel eyes on me.

I see Adam through my periphery, leaning against the archway into the kitchen. Just standing there like a shadow. He doesn't move. Maybe he doesn't realize I see him watching me.

Fourteen years ago, I would bake in this kitchen, despite the heat of summer, and he would sneak in while Fran and David went out on the lake. He'd help if I asked, but mostly sat in a barstool, leaning on his elbows, or standing as he is now, warm and rough, observing me with softness.

He would push off the wall to kiss me, so long as Heddy wasn't in the room.

"Vienna's?" He suggested one day, snuggling his face in the crook of my neck.

"No," I vehemently objected. "That's gross."

"People name bakeries and restaurants after themselves all the time."

"Narcissists. All of them."

He said, "Then, how about… Adam's ."

I spun around and wiped frosting on his bottom lip. "Musicians are narcissists, too."

"Not all of them," he muttered, leaning in so I could kiss him clean.

On this dimly lit, cold Autumn night, I finally lift my eyes to his. Adam doesn't look away. His arms are crossed, his mouth pinched tight, and his body twitches when Diego laughs loudly behind him.

My throat tightens.

It's just two of us, standing in a kitchen I've called home for my entire life, and everything I ever felt for him comes flooding back in a wave of pain and anguish, like I'm not allowed to remember how good it felt without being reminded of where it led me. Which is here. To this place where Adam stares at me with an unreadable expression.

He swallows, I hear the click in his throat. He lifts his eyebrows and comes back to his senses. "Bathroom," he sputters, pointing down the hall.

"Oh," I respond.

I close my eyes, breathing in the smell as he walks by, pushing away old memories. They stir feelings too low in my belly to control how I show up in the present. I can't concentrate.

Giving myself a few moments to steady, I look for a cutting board. They used to be in the cabinet beside the sink. Now that David is the only one who cooks in this kitchen, he's moved some things around, but I'm not going to go ask him. He'll mansplain to me how he's found the optimal location for kitchen tools.

I spin around the island, pushing a stool in, headed for the pantry.

"Whoa," Adam says as we bump into each other.

He grips me by the arms. Our chests press into one another. I'm leaning backward and he pulls me upright with him, my arms hooked behind his elbows. Once on my feet, he drags his hands down my sleeves, fingers still gripping the fabric.

Goosebumps electrify my neck. We're an inch apart, if that, and the urge to sink into him overwhelms me. He's different and the same. This close, our bodies in a familiar position, the eighteen-year-old in me recognizes safety and comfort and it's as if no time has passed.

Then, the mind kicks in.

What are you doing?

Adam releases me abruptly and I clutch the countertop to keep from falling again. He grumbles, "Watch where you're going," and leaves.