Chapter Nineteen

I always wake up in the dark. I crawl out of bed immediately and start my day.

Not today.

Today I feel Adam's words on my skin and in the haze of my muddied brain. My head hurts, and my mouth is dry and dehydrated. I curl the covers over my head. My pillowcase is crinkled from wet tears. I close my eyes and wish myself back to sleep.

I wasn't a body, I was just a soul.

Leave it to a songwriter to say exactly the right thing and spell out so perfectly what I had never been able to understand. For fourteen years, I beat myself up for thinking about Adam. He and I were two ends of the spectrum, teetering on opposite sides of a scale, fighting to become the heavier entity. It was impractical to think he'd fallen in love with me or I him. We were eighteen, secluded, horny and scared of the outside world.

Yet, I never lost that feeling. It was more than attraction, more than lust. I'd never met another person – romantic partner, friend, family member – who made me feel weightless. The world sits heavy on my shoulders, always. The bubble of Adam and I had no time, no concrete matter, no responsibilities but to feel and be felt.

I was just me around him.

When I finally make it downstairs, the sun has well-risen, but I'm still the only one awake.

Baking always quieted my brain. My mother taught me that. When I came home from school stressed or a friend yelled at me or I got into a fight with Francesca, mom and I would bake something.

Today I get ingredients from the pantry and fridge, including little plastic squeeze jars and food coloring I keep in a basket labeled Vienna's Baking Stuff.

I whisk together the dry ingredients, milk and eggs. I pour some of the pancake batter into the six jars, put in drops of food coloring and use a skewer to mix them. Heddy's electric griddle is plugged in.

I've watched two dozen YouTube tutorials to figure out how to make pancake art. I'm relatively creative, I figured I can do it, as long as no one asks for Bart Simpson or a Toy Story character. I'm very good at plain yellow suns. Or polka dotted hearts. Snowflakes. That sort of thing.

With a towel under my wrist, I draw on the griddle with black pancake batter to make the outline of a smiling frog. I add green batter, pink for the cheeks, uncolored for the eyes, then turn on the griddle to cook it. After a minute or so, I glide my spatula underneath and flip it.

See, baking clears the mind. I didn't think about Adam yelling at me once during that entire activity.

After I've make several designs for the kids – smiley face emojis, hearts, a bear, a unicorn – I make plain round ones that can be frozen for later. Someone shuffles into the kitchen.

"Is that Adam's coat?" David asks.

I glance at it on the rack, where I hung it last night. "No, that's mine," I lie.

David scratches the blonde hair that sticks up in all different directions like a dry, dying fern. "That's a man's coat, Vee."

I grumble, "You don't know anything about fashion."

"Anyway, speaking of, Adam texted me and asked if you would bring him some pancakes."

I turn around at the griddle, holding the spatula out and gesturing with it in lieu of my hands. "How did you know I was making pancakes? Does he not have food in his own home? What makes this man think he can just demand I bring him breakfast?"

"Whoa." David pours himself a cup of coffee.

I spin around and flip a slightly burned pancake coin.

"I could smell the pancakes, as could anyone within a five-mile radius. He texted me what you were making for breakfast, and I told him."

"How would he even know I was cooking breakfast?"

David doesn't respond, so I glance at him over my shoulder. He's staring at me, sipping his coffee. There's something unreadable in his eyes. Finally, he says, "When I would drive over here in the morning, Adam would be here, in the kitchen with you, eating breakfast."

I wipe my nervous hands on my pants. "So?"

" So, he knows you wake up early and make breakfast. And you make a mean pancake." David tilts his head side to side. "The man likes a good meal." Then, he pauses with his coffee cup hovering in front of his mouth. "Is there any other reason he would ask for you to bring him breakfast?"

I swallow. "No."

"Okay."

I turn off the griddle, pull a plate down from the cabinet and plop a few pancakes on it. I hold them out to David. "Here."

"He requested you bring them."

"Well, I don't work for him." I shake the plate again, but David doesn't take it.

Instead, he walks off down the hallway with his coffee and says, "I'm going to go get dressed."

My arm is tired. I put the plate down.

Adam would never request that I bring him food, especially not after our fight, in the current climate of our non-relationship. I told him to pretend that I didn't exist anymore, and Adam always listened to every word I said. He respected every boundary set. If he wants to see me, this morning, it's for one thing: an apology.

My knuckles rattle his wooden, paint-peeled door. His heavy, good-smelling coat hangs on my elbow. On the walk over, I noticed the label had a red Sharpie line through it. Even with his newfound fame and wealth, he bought it from a second-hand shop.

After a second of waiting, Adam opens the door.

"Morning," he says, his voice deeper with sleep, eyes dark, hair sweeping high like a wave. His breath catches me off guard. I watch his bare chest rise up and down.

Okay, yes, the shirtlessness of it all also catches me off guard.

The lean muscles of his youth are now stronger. Sturdy. The smooth, tanned skin that would fall over my carefree, creak-free joints and carry me with him into a lustful stupor are now covered with dark curls. Above that wide collarbone I would drape my arms around, his throat constricts.

So, yeah, I'm a human woman with eyes, so I'm glancing at the display, but it's not my focus. His heavy energy sparks between us. I know what he's thinking: he's nervous. Mister attractive musician man walking around half naked in near freezing weather is nervous to see me. Pink ears. Soft eyes. Nostril breathing.

"Hi," he places.

I edge my boots to the threshold and measure my expression.

I'm not nervous to talk to him. For once, I've said everything I needed to say, and I've got nothing to apologize for. I'm bringing him the requested pancakes casually, as if I could not care less about our fight last night.

I hold the plate out, silently.

Adam bites his lip. "I wasn't trying to be an asshole, asking you to bring me breakfast."

I'm silent.

He ignores that, taking the plate and his coat. "I wanted to talk to you. This was the only way I thought I could get you alone."

"To murder me?" I ask.

"Sorry?"

"You didn't get enough hits in last night, wanted me all alone to finish the job?"

He raises a brow. "You poisoned these didn't you?"

I glance at the pancakes. Now that he's turned the plate, I see pink in the pile. "No," I answer. My fingers dig into the food and pull out a pink, butterfly pancake. "But I didn't make you the fancy ones. I don't know how this got in there."

"I don't eat fancy pancakes anyway. I'm a man."

"I've noticed." Shit . Why did I say that?

I tear a large bite out of the pancake and call out, "Feel free to tip me for the delivery later," as I turn around.

Before my feet hit the porch steps, he calls out, "Vienna, wait!"

Through the open screen door, I listen to the sound of ceramic on wood, a scuffle of boots, the door shutting.

Adam tugs a gray hoodie over his head. He shakes back his flattened hair and says, "I need to say something."

I swallow and dangle the half-eaten pancake in my hand.

"A few things, actually," he continues. "Starting with an apology."

"I wondered if that was coming." I put the rest of my pancake in my mouth, cross my arms and stare at an acorn resting between two planks of wood.

He says, "About last night."

I nod, mouth full.

"I was out of line."

I wipe a hand across my lips. "I didn't know you were trying to walk a line. It felt like you were swerving, looking for ways to hit me."

"I was a little drunk."

"That's not true," I mutter.

He pauses. "No. It's not."

I'm not looking at him, but I feel his gaze. I imagine it's the same warmth he used to wrap me in, but it won't be. The wood creaks when he shifts.

Adam continues, "I'm sorry for what I said."

"What exactly?"

"Yelling at you in general was a dick move, but I'm sorry for thinking I know what you should do with your life. It's not up to me to have an opinion."

I can tell he's trying to be mature and comfortable about saying this to my face, but his darting eyes reveal the struggle. He's having a hard time looking at me.

I feel bold this morning.

"I don't care if you have a silent opinion about my life, Adam." I meet his eyes. "I care about you judging me. Out loud . And telling me what I've done wrong without knowing me at all."

He nods, solemn. "You're right. I don't know you. I don't why you've made your choices."

"Why do you care?" My voice comes out quiet. Pained. I don't care if he hears it.

He fiddles with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

I add, "You think little of me, I get it, but why do I need to know about it? Why do you need to hurt me?"

His head twists toward the window. He takes careful steps to stand opposite me, leaning against the frame of the porch's screen door. My spine straightens against the wood panel. The toes of our shoes settle between one another.

"I was mad at you, Vee." He exhales. "I've been mad at you for fourteen years and I finally got to take a swing at you."

My face crumples in confusion.

"Come on," he says, reading it. He leans his head to the side. "You have to know that."

"Mad at me for –"

"For rejecting me, Vienna," he completes. His eyes dance a circle around my body. "Obviously…"

Rejecting him?

That's not a word I would have used, ever , in our relationship. The thought of him entertaining an emotion like that surprises me. Confuses. In fact, realizing that my actions meant a damn thing to him, after all this time…

I take a moment and then respond, "I just thought you just didn't like me."

Now he's the one with the furrowed brow and parted lips, eyeing me with confusion. "When was I supposed to not like you? When I had my tongue down your throat or when I asked you to marry me?"

My cheeks immediately burn. My chest constricts. Hearing him put words to what I thought he'd left in the past opens something in my brain that pops and fizzles, leaving me lightheaded.

Speak, Vienna.

Dear god, say something.

I start. I stop. Finally, the twitch in my eye calms down. "I meant now," I say stupidly.

"I wanted to not like you," he admits. "I wanted to hate you."

"Yeah, that's the vibe I was picking up."

"I don't hate you." His eyes peer up from under his brows. "I could never hate you."

"Just indifferent, then?"

Adam straightens up. He narrows his eyes, mouth curved, wincing as though in pain. "If only it were that easy."

He motions toward me with his right arm. Panic sets in as I imagine he plans to console me with that appendage. This isn't a moment that requires a pat on the shoulder or a squeeze of the hand. My hamster hasn't died. This is the movement of a man wanting to put into action what he's not able to say with words.

He could grab me under the arm and scoop me towards him. He could lay his forehead against mine and tell me that he is far from indifferent to me.

Adam looks at his arm. He drops it.

I breathe.

"I'm not oblivious to your presence, obviously," he settles. "Last night, case in point. You do exist for me, despite me not wanting to accept it." Adam raises his shoulders. "But that's my problem. Not yours. I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

I do exist for him.

This man could have any woman he wants, and his life is champagne bottles shaken on a yacht, yet I matter to him, even if he doesn't like it.

Someone messes with a dish in the kitchen. I glance through the window at Maggie. She inches up toward the glass and holds her coffee mug out, squeezing cheeks into a smile. I wave back.

I walk down the porch steps and mutter, "You said I was boring."

"When did I – oh ." He jogs down after me. "You heard that?"

"We were on a group hike," I point out. "Voices carry."

Adam kicks up a pile of leaves. "I should say I'm sorry for that too. I didn't mean it like that. I could explain what I meant, but…I don't want to beat a dead horse. Kind of laid it all out last night."

We've reached the treehouse. I pause underneath it. In all our days and nights meeting at this secluded, convenient location, we never stood underneath it like this, two individuals not climbing the same ladder. A broken plastic fairy toy sets the tone for outside the treehouse. A mailbox, once stuffed, speaks to what the inside turned into.

"People change and grow apart," I say. I look up at the branches dancing in the wind. "We should just leave it behind."

Adam radiates beside me. I close my eyes, ready for what he'll suggest next, wondering if I'll ever be able to stand beside him without his presence being a tangibility I feel in my bones.

He says, "Do we pretend like it never happened?" Before I can answer, he adds, "It did happen, I'm glad it did." He plasters a pacifying smile on his mouth. "It'll just be easier to move forward without thinking about what could have been."

I catch Adam's eye and I know the question is plastered on my face. Does he think of what could have been? I do, all the time, but that's because I'm living a life so far from what I envisioned, one that's been left entwined with him in the past. Adam lives his dream life. I was a spec. A blip. A fleeting moment that didn't stick to his already gaining momentum.

I glance away and suck in fresh, clean air. "So that would mean we have to act normal."

"And our normal would be…?"

"Two people who barely know each other. Like a famous musician and a schoolteacher."

He tugs absently on the strings of his hoodie. "A schoolteacher who doesn't like the musician's music."

I narrow my eyes. "That's what's really grinding your gears, isn't it?"

He pauses. "Well, I pour my heart and soul into my work all I ask for is recognition and praise and validation and money."

"Fame hungry," I scoff. "I knew it."

"A man's gotta earn a living." He attempts a smile but is too busy wondering if that's allowed.

A child's laughter wafts through the trees.

I tell Adam, "In all honesty, it's not that I don't like your music. I've never listened to any of your songs."

He shifts his weight. "Why?"

I stare at his confused face, waiting for him to realize. "I just…couldn't," I answer, my tone carrying the obvious subtext. Duh. Obviously. I was incredibly in love with you, and I couldn't handle listening to songs you wrote about your love for some other girl who is probably a supermodel.

"That makes sense," he mutters.

I take a beat and say, "We haven't seen each other in fourteen years, so we are basically strangers. It shouldn't be too hard to play that role."

"You must have changed so much," he says with a dramatic sigh.

This part, the one where we try to move past our history, feels awkward. Do I joke? Do I ignore him? Do I ask him everything about himself and listen to the sweet scratch of his intoxicating voice?

Not that last one.

I say, "Oh, I have changed. I eat salads now, sometimes."

"I've only ever seen you eat baked goods and Pringles."

"And I don't get winded when I run a mile anymore. I have the stamina of a racehorse." I tilt my head. "Well, like an old, ready to retire, no one's betting on me anymore, racehorse."

Adam's crooked smile returns. "We can race later. I'll be the judge of that." He bends down and picks up a rock. "Any other new hobbies I should be aware of?"

"That wouldn't make us strangers," I point out.

He nods, rubbing his thumb over the smooth, flat stone. He points it toward the kids running back and forth from the house. "We were invited to game day."

Grayson hops down the steps and runs around the yard, stabbing herb plant markers in the thinned brown grass.

I scowl. "Oh yeah. That's happening today."

David blows up a beach ball and Francesca shouts at Grayson to come put on a sweatshirt.

I explain, "Just so you know, it's weird . It's a mix of games the kids made up, that Fran and I made up, or Heddy claimed to witness when she was astral projecting. David has this thing where he sends us all on a scavenger hunt for stuff, but he doesn't remember what he hid, and everyone gives up but Grayson. Caroline's game is a talent show and we're all painfully talentless."

Adam rears his head back. "Are you uninviting me?"

"Just preparing you. And myself."

He's indistinct with his eye contact. "So, from now on we're just…going to act like…nothing's weird…there's no history -"

"Neighbors," I complete. "Strangers."

His throat bobs. "Okay."

"But don't be too nice to me." I jam my hands into my jacket pocket. "It'll look suspicious."

"I'm not normally nice to strangers," he says. "I like to kick them when they're down. Beat them at their own game."

"Oh good. I never make friends with my competition."

Adam's polite half smile falls, and he bites his lip. The wind whips his hair, and he takes the opportunity to smooth it down with the relief of a kid who hears the fire alarm before his big presentation at school. Finally, as I begin walking backward, he begins, "I am sorry, Vienna."

I wait.

"I was mean, last night." He screws up his face. "I'm never mean."

"I know," I understand softly.

"I don't want to be mean to you ," he says. "I've had a lot of time to get my head out of my ass and I never did it. I just kept being mad at you."

I try, "You had every right to be angry –"

"No," he stops me. "I didn't really listen to you that day. I'm glad we got to see each other again." He pauses. "I listened to you last night."

He's transformed himself into the boy I knew. The boy I loved.

"Thank you," I say. I glance over my shoulder, and he sticks his hands into his pockets, nodding, watching me walk back to my house.

Then, I stop. I remember what I wanted to say minutes ago, back on the porch. He didn't understand what really happened that last day, when I watched my dad throw my suitcase in the back of his car and felt Heddy's hand on my shoulder. He deserves to understand.

Over my shoulder, I say, "For the record, Adam, I never rejected you."

His jaw clenches. "That's what it felt like."

I consider how to tell him. "I wasn't rejecting you. At all. That's the last thing I wanted. I just…couldn't accept the offer on the table."

Saying this feels like breaking the rules. We just agreed to pretend it didn't happen. Now it's hanging between us, the invisible rope tethering our past and future, and I understand why it wasn't long enough and why it never broke.

I couldn't marry him, but I still loved him. He couldn't accept that I chose another path and was angry. If we hadn't had that misunderstanding, everything could have been different. We could have had some kind of future. We could have had the opportunity to try.

We're sucked into each other's energy for a moment, and it feels like that first day we met.

Adam had come out to introduce himself to David and Francesca, who were kicking around a soccer ball on the grass, in honor of David surviving his scholarship and never being forced to play soccer again.

I came down the steps with Amber. She took off toward Adam. He bent down and pet her behind the ears and his thin white shirt billowed over tanned skin, his handsome face breaking into a smile. Unprompted, he looked up at me.

I didn't think about how dopey I looked in my ratty clothes or beat myself up for unwashed hair. I stared at him and everything else faded. I knew it would end, that time would speed back up, but despite the distance between our bodies, I saw him clearly as if we stood nose to nose.

We were both frozen, staring at each other.

Then David kicked the ball into the air and clocked him in the face.

I feel that pull between Adam and I right now. The rest of the world has faded away. We've come full circle. The first time was hello and this time it's a goodbye.