Chapter Thirteen

I never thought I'd see Adam Kent again. I figured he'd live on half in my memories and half in the spotlight and I'd remain squarely in the median, empty-handed. I'm doomed if I think I can move through this week unscathed.

His disdain for me at dinner tonight dripped like venom. I tasted it in my food. I much prefer the cold-hearted indifference of yesterday morning; life would be better if he forgot all about me. At least then I wouldn't bear the brunt of angry, prideful looks.

I'm in my pajamas, but I'm not ready to sleep. My mind's too wired. I walk downstairs as the others get ready for bed, passing Kate in her room, talking on her phone.

"He's so hot," she growls. "I know! I can't believe it. No, I brought all my best stuff. Tomorrow we're going hiking, and I've got – yes, the one –"

There goes my head again.

At the bottom of the stairs, I catch Francesca sitting in a chair. Lamplight shines on her freshly washed face. Glasses tip down the edge of her nose, toward the book in her hand. She looks up. "Hey."

"Hey." I brush back my wet hair. "You're not going to bed?"

"I'm not tired yet." She smiles. The exhaustion in her eyes gives her away. She relents, "I'm just not used to so many people around at night. For a year, the kids would go to bed, and it would be so quiet. I'd have whole weekends to myself."

I remind her, "You hate the quiet. You hate being alone."

"I know." She glances around. "But when it takes a long time to get used to it, it takes just as long to get un used to it."

David's voice calls for Alice to stop hiding in her closet and go to bed. She screams and his footsteps rattle above our heads.

Francesca twists in her chair. "Adam was a little hostile toward you at dinner tonight, huh?"

Looks like someone picked up on it. I sway side to side, thinking of how I can interpret our conversation to an outsider.

"He and I are just different," I decide. "I must just rub him the wrong way."

She nods after a moment of consideration. "That's what he said last night." She explains, "Maggie asked why you didn't hang out with us that summer, and I didn't have a clue. Adam said you guys just didn't get along."

That's a pretense that might be true now .

Francesca laughs, "Maggie told me privately that Adam had a thing for you initially. He had called her and said some beautiful girl lived next door to their dad's new house."

"Why is that funny?" I wonder.

She pulls off her glasses and touches her eyelashes. "Because if he liked you, he would have made a move. There's no way two teenagers would spend an entire summer an arm's length away if you were hot for each other."

Frustrated steam pumps from my nose. "Because you told me to stay away from him."

"What?"

"You told me the first day we met him to stay away from Adam."

"No, I didn't," she replies incredulously.

"Yes, you did!"

"No, I didn't . Why would I say that to you? I don't care what you do."

I focus hard on keeping my forehead from squeezing into a permanently wrinkled state, all the disbelief rushing to my facial muscles. "Are you kidding? You told me – multiple times – that we were on a sister's only summer vacation and I was not supposed to date the hot neighbor boy!"

"Vienna, I don't demand things." She slams her book shut. "I have bigger things going on in my life than to worry about what you do with yours."

With a slack jaw, I watch her eyes roll and her body stand.

She adds, "If Adam wasn't interested in you fourteen years ago, then I'm sorry. I'll bet that's a tough pill to swallow." She bites back a laugh. "Did you think he was secretly obsessed with you all that time? I'm not making fun of you! That's what every teenage girl thinks. It's just…maybe that's why he didn't like you."

She brushes past me. I stare, silent, at her empty chair, wondering what conversation we just had. The lamp's light hits the divot where she just sat.

How apropos: the light of the gaslighter.

"Where are you going?" she calls out, her voice easy, as I slide on my puffy black coat.

I'm less unaffected.

Rage bubbling up, I mumble, "Just for a little stroll."

"It's dark and freezing out. You'll be mauled or eaten by something, Vienna."

"I won't leave the property," I say, stepping into boots. Stabbing them with my bare feet, more like. "I just need some fresh air."

She begins to walk up the stairs. "Don't die and ruin our Thanksgiving. Oh, and I want omelets for breakfast tomorrow!"

You love her, you love her, you love her.

She's your sister. Her whole personality is not a good enough murder defense. It won't hold up in court.

I let the door slam behind me as I head outside.

One time in middle school, I held a bottle of Gatorade while I walked with Francesca and her friends around the mall. We'd had such a nice day until she made a joke about how my dad probably paid to get me on the Varsity cheerleading team. She went on and on and on.

I knew she was wrong: I could backhand spring circles around her, I had pep in my step, the calves of a mountain climber. I earned my spot for freshman year. She was wrong. Yet, I stayed silent and imagined I lived in an episode of Real Teenagers of Atlanta where I could toss my Gatorade in her face.

No jury would convict me for that.

The temperature outside has dropped, thankfully and sucking in this icy chill cools my red cheeks and boiling anger. My blood pressure slowly drops.

The porch light is on, making the lawn, the lake, and the woods appear black. My hands snatch lantern beside the door and turn it on. For old-time's sake, I feel like being a kid again, my attention drawn to the treehouse.

If I could relive my childhood, there's so many things I would want to experience again.

I'd lay in the grass and just exist. I wouldn't worry so much about my sister turning bitchy on a dime or boys who won't give me the time of day. I would care less about school. Until middle school, they're just going to pass you right along to be the next grade's problem. Nothing's ever that serious.

I would stand next to my mother and smell her vanilla perfume. I'd watch her bake in the kitchen and listen to every recipe hack she verbalized but didn't scribble down. I'd take the sign from the bakery, Kneaded and Nutty, and hide it, so she didn't burn it in a summer bonfire when the bakery closed.

I'd have asked her unrelenting questions and begged for her opinion on everything, so that I had some guidance after she was gone. So that when I looked at sunset, I would know how my mother felt about it, and she'd live in on millions of passing thoughts I'd have every day.

My feet stop. I look up at the green treehouse that Billy built before I was born. The lantern swings, and I climb the two-by-fours nailed into the trunk, something that felt so much easier as a kid. Easier even as a teenager, climbing the ladder at night where Adam would be waiting.

I crawl onto the flat surface and slide my back onto the planks of wood under the square window, testing their strength.

Not too bad, Billy.

I set the lantern down and straighten my legs, listening to the sounds of animals cry out into the night. My jacket makes squishing sounds as I get comfortable. Right beside me, the door of a repurposed metal mailbox hangs open, revealing the empty inside.

It used to be filled with little notes written on scraps of junk mail or cardboard from cereal boxes. Adam would tear out articles from his stepmom's magazines that he thought I would like to read. Celebrity gossip, usually, and he'd leave judgey remarks in the margins. We came out here all the time after that first kiss on the dock.

One night, I held his right hand to mine, keeping it close to the lantern.

"This is your love line," I said, dragging my fingertips along the fold in his palm. "It's nice and long, that's good. It's not broken. I don't see a cold-hearted spinsterhood in your future. You're going to have one great love."

He lowered his head and kissed under my ear.

"What's the male version of a spinster?" I wondered.

"A spinst him ," he breathed into my skin.

I laughed and continued, "This one is your life line."

Adam's fingers twitched.

"A little ticklish on the old palm, are we?" I teased.

"Concentrate on your thing," he ordered, smelling my hair. "And I will concentrate on mine ."

I read, "It's curvy. Kind of short. Be careful eating too much fried food and don't take unnecessary risks. Look both ways before crossing the street. Did you know that's how Margaret Mitchell died? Crossing the street? We went to her house on a field trip."

I heard the smile in his voice as he said, "Okay," and kissed my jawbone.

"This long line here," I danced my finger along the vertical line from his wrist to his middle finger, "this is your fate line."

He rubbed his nose along my collarbone.

"That's really good. It means you're going to be successful and lucky in your career."

Adam drew himself back up and sighed. His left arm straightened to support him, pressing into my back. "How do you know all of this?"

"Heddy." I traced the other lines without purpose, just to feel his warm, scratchy skin.

"And you have this shit memorized?" he asked with disbelief.

I twisted my head to face him. "She's practically my mother. I listen to everything she says." My eyes closed as he pressed his lips into the hollow of my cheek.

He pulled back and pressed his forehead to mine. "Tell me something else about you."

I stared under my eyebrows at his searching eyes. "I don't poop."

"What?" He laughed.

"I'm a girl , I don't poop, just so you know."

"Then you should get that checked out." He rolled his eyes.

"Okay." I stopped. "What do you want to know?"

"Your favorite book."

"People Magazine," I answered.

Adam leaned back and ruffled his hair. "No, Vienna, that doesn't count."

"There are important, hard-hitting articles in there!"

He threaded his fingers through mine. "Yesterday you were reading about a pregnant teenager, I saw the cover."

"It was kind of a political article," I attempt.

He gasped, laughing. "No, it was not! Her mother is a politician. She's a teenager with a kid!"

I swayed in his orbit as he laughed. I said, "How do you know what magazine I was reading yesterday? You and Adam were working on his car."

"Because you insist on sunbathing outside until you turn into a piece of leather."

"And you were watching me?"

"Of course."

I pretended to be offended. "Pervert."

" Yes ." He nodded emphatically, playing with my fingers in his.

I thought about the last time I read a book that I really, truly loved. I had stopped reading for pleasure when my mom died. She used to take me to the bookstore, read to us before bed, and curl up with a new book from the lake house library that she would devour in days before going in for another.

I told Adam, "Okay. So, sometimes my mom would have to cover a Saturday shift for her manager, Jamie, at the bakery. She would have to bring us with her. She'd give us a book and challenge us to read the whole thing before the day was over. If we did, we got a cupcake. Whoever finished their book first got to pick the movie for the night."

"Cupcake flavor?" he asked.

"Lemon Blueberry."

He made the face of respectful surprise. He followed his fingers as they slid between strands of my hair. "And the movie?"

"The Parent Trap."

"Well, obviously ," he joked.

"I, mean come on, is there any other choice?"

Adam smiled. "So, what's the book?"

" Beezus and Ramona ," I recalled. "I must have read that ten times."

"And you've never read again. So, is that, like, the only book you've ever read?" he frowned. "Do I need to start speaking slowly and using shorter words?"

I shoved him and he fell backward, laughing.

"Shh!" I ordered. "You're going to wake Heddy!"

"You're the one making all the noise!" he whispered back. Adam tucked one leg in and bent the other around me, cocooning my body into his. One hand on my knee and the other raking through my hair.

I bit my lip, swallowing. "What are we doing?" I murmured.

Adam's hand cupped the back of my neck. "Being neighborly. Getting to know each other. Sampling each other's sugar."

My ears tipped red as I mouthed, " Adam ."

"Sorry," he said, but he didn't look sorry. "I'll try to be a little less attracted to you. I can pretend that you gross me out instead." He squinted his face into disgust. "Ugh, what hideously soft, wavy hair. I can't believe I'm touching this. It smells like lake water. You should burn it all off."

I pressed my lips together to smother a smile.

He dropped his chin, trying to force my eyes into his. "And you call these knees?" He gagged, rubbing his hands in circles around them. His grip moved higher. "And these thighs…" He swallowed, faltering.

"Disgusting, huh?" I whispered.

He nodded, returning to the act. "I'm offended you walk around in your shorts, with these things out on display. David's sisters come around. They're children. Their eyes don't need to be exposed to such soft, toned legs. Cover them up, please." He rolled his eyes, dramatically.

His wide hands slid around my backside, and I stiffened, my spine straightening. Adam's eyes hot on my face, he quickly moved his grip to my hips. I relaxed when he placed them in a more neutral zone. He knew I was uncomfortable; his fingers dug into my sides.

"Shh!" he scolded when I broke into giggles and started squirming. "People are sleeping!"

"Stop tickling me!" I gasped.

His mouth broke into a grin. He zoned in on my mouth.

"And these lips," he muttered, dragging a thumb across them. He bent to gently kiss me, my eyes wide open. He squinted his nose. "No. Far too soft. I don't think that's going to work for me."

We met eyes.

He cupped underneath my chin and pulled me to him, catching my bottom lip. "I can't put my finger on it, but I don't think I like this at all." His other hand came to my neck, and I was held between his strong, gentle hands.

"I think I know what it is," I offered.

He kissed me again, deeper still.

"What's that?" he breathed into my mouth.

My arms came up between us and broke his, forcing a scowl, and I set my hands on the sides of his face. "I think you'll like it better if I kiss you ," I teased. Before he could respond, I pulled him to me, reaching his mouth, and moving my open lips against his.

Adam's hands wrapped around me, scooting me closer into the cage of his body.

How can something hurt and feel amazing at the same time?

Alone in the quiet, I feel his phantom touches on my body like burns, but my skin's so frozen and numb, I barely register the pain. I relax into these memories. They felt like the beginning of something bigger.

I touch a wet spot on my cheek.

Somewhere in the woods, the sound of a harmonica hangs heavy in the air. At first, it sounds sad, but then I remember that slow harmonica playing songs like that. This person isn't sad. He once pretended to find me disgusting and that's apparently how I appear to him now.

That's the harmonica playing of a smooth-talking, deeply focused, not wounded at all, musician man.

And I listen to him play for another half hour.