Chapter Thirty

Adam turns the map upside down. "This place is massive." We walk down a blue carpeted hallway and nod to a woman on the phone. I catch the tail end of her sentence and she's as impressed as we are.

"This is it." I point to the plaque on the door. "The Red Room."

Adam stands at my shoulder. His voice turns gravely. " Redrum. Redrum. " A condescending frown tips the side of his lips. "You don't know what I'm talking about do you? You poor illiterate girl…"

"You'd better be nice to me or I'll hatchet the bathroom door down when you least expect it."

"There she is."

Suddenly, the door next to us opens, and I hear my name being called.

"Go, go!" I mutter to Adam.

Francesca peeks her head out before I can see if or where he's gone. She stares only at me, though, saying, "I thought that was you, Vee! Oh good, you're in the room next door. Check it out, it's insane. We have a balcony! I feel like a queen!"

"Okay." I smile.

"Ooh, and I'm going to come over tonight and we can hang out in your room!" She squeals. She's already in a plushy white bathrobe that she did not pack for herself.

I give her an awkward thumbs up. "That's a cool thought that you have, cool, okay then."

Francesca leans back into her room and then adds, "We're going to get dressed for dinner and then find that wine tasting. See you out there."

" Bye ," I respond, thumb still in the air.

She shuts the door, and I spin around.

Adam peeks his head out from an alcove in the wall where a piece of art hangs. He whispers, "I feel like a dirty little secret."

"They can't know we're sharing a room," I explain, putting my key in the lock.

"No, I agree. Too weird."

I open the door. "They'll think we're having sex."

His mouth twitches. "I understand the implication, no need to spell it out."

We step inside and shut the door behind us.

"Well, damn," Adam mutters.

The room, encased in a rich floral wallpaper that looks like an oil painting, feels as large as a studio apartment.

I drop my jaw. "He inherited this house? Is he some kind of royalty?"

Adam releases a whistle and head shake. "We bartended together my first year in Nashville and he was always asking to borrow cash." He touches the petal of a red rose to test its realness. "I am getting what I'm owed with interest tonight."

French doors lead to a balcony overlooking the garden and a pair of leather chairs sit on either side of a skinny cherry wood fireplace. A deep red tufted headboard surrounds the generous king-sized bed. Adam and I stare at it, then each other, at the same time.

"I'm going to check the bathroom," I croak.

"Yeah, I'm going outside."

I open the doors to the bathroom and hiss, " Adam . Look at this!"

He peers over my shoulder at the floor to ceiling marble bathroom and repeats, " Damn ."

"Oh my God, I always dreamed of having a bathroom like this."

"You dream about bathrooms?" he asks.

"Yes." Obviously. "I'm a woman."

He opens the glass door separating the bathtub and shower head from the rest of the room. "This seems impractical. It's a shower room. Who needs a room to shower in? This is bigger than my closet."

"I need it. And it's not impractical, it's fancy," I insist, walking inside and running my hand along the porcelain claw foot tub. "I am bathing in this tonight. You know what, I'll sleep here, you can have the bed."

Adam walks in, stands on top of the drain and looks at the two flat rectangular shower heads. "Why are there two shower heads?"

I turn around. We're nearly touching, chest to chest. I clear my throat. "So, you know, two people can shower at the same time."

He feigns confusion. "But why would people want shower together?"

I roll my eyes and walk out of the room.

He calls after me, "Tell me, Vienna, I'm so very confused." He smiles and leans against the bathroom door hinge as I touch every textural object in this room. He watches me do it, saying, "You know, we're not far from the lake, I can just take your car and go back home tonight."

"No." I pick up the old-fashioned gold telephone on the nightstand and coo with admiration when I hear a dial tone. "This is your friend's place. We wouldn't be here without you, you're not missing out." I stare out at the hedge maze in the English garden. "And I'm not leaving because…I don't want to."

"I didn't ask you to." He laughs. "I know how badly you want to take Copper's place in my bed tonight."

That phrase pinched something needy not too far below my surface. I exhale, picking up the complimentary bottle of red wine on a table and studying its label. I buy wine based on the price. I don't know what I'm reading, I just need to look in a direction that it not Adam's.

He walks up and takes it from my hand. "This place is pretty romantic," he muses, peeling off the foil. "You know, if we were…"

"Romantic?" I finish.

He doesn't respond. The cork is popped, and the bottle opened. I lay my head against the wall and watch Adam pour me a glass.

"You were always romantic," I sigh. It came out more swoony than intended.

He gazes up at me from under his eyebrows.

Just then comes a knock at the door, pulling us both out of a potentially dangerous moment. When Adam goes to answer it, I grab his arm and pull him back for fear that it's Francesca, but the voice announces: "Ma'am, sir, I have your luggage."

I relax, and Adam collects our bags.

"This feels like it's full of bricks. What do you have in here?" he demands, dropping Heddy's quilted overnight bag on the bed.

"Essentials." I sip my wine.

"That sounds suspicious."

He bends over to open his bag and the bottom of his shirt rides up. I allow myself this tiny moment to wonder why he has defined abdominal muscles if he just writes music all day, and then warmth runs straight to my face.

Tonight, I might sleep in a bed next to Adam.

We only did this once, toward the end of that summer.

He had brought me into his bedroom one night when his parents were already asleep. I was silent as a mouse, but not him.

"Aren't you going to get into trouble for having a girl in your room?" I whispered.

"I'm eighteen," he responded incredulously. "I could get you pregnant, and they would be like, welp, have fun buddy, welcome to adulthood."

That statement rendered me mute.

"They don't care what I do," he said.

"Must be nice."

We entered his room, which I had pictured different in my mind.

I imagined it dark and moody, great American novels stacked in columns in the corner. I thought he'd have his guitar on the wall, harmonica on a scattered dresser, five half-drunk coffee cups on the windowsill.

The reality was one single bed with plain white bedding, an open suitcase, and a book on the nightstand.

"This is your bedroom?" I double checked.

He shut the door behind us.

I made sure he didn't see how stressed that made me because then he would just open it and that would be worse with other people in the house. I wanted to be alone with him in this room, but it also terrified me.

Adam flopped on the bed and answered, "It's the room I sleep in."

"There's nothing in it."

"We just moved here. I'm going to Nashville after the summer ends. There's no reason to plant my flag."

I sat on the bed next to him.

He reached out and caressed the top of my hand. Then, he stopped suddenly. "Is this okay?" He glanced around. I think he realized at that moment that I could be uncomfortable alone in his room, on his bed.

"I'm okay just sitting here," I responded.

Message received. He relaxed and resumed his soft touches, shooting question after question my way. He had an insatiable need to know everything about me and we spent the whole night talking. I don't remember falling asleep, but I remember being tired, not wanting to leave, and him laying down beside me atop the comforter.

When I woke up, Adam murmured in my ear, "Please don't freak out about my dick. It's involuntary."

I felt him pressing into my back with his arms tucked under mine, his palm resting on my boob, our legs stacked into a single layer. I pushed myself up and looked at the daylight outside, the clothes I was wearing the day before, and the boy rubbing his eyes beside me.

"Oh my God," I whimpered, scrambling off the bed.

Still half asleep, Adam nearly faceplanted trying to get up. "Vee, it's okay, nothing happened."

"I'm not home." I panicked. "Heddy's going to freak out if I'm not home."

"Then what?"

Shoving my tennis shoes on, I swallowed. "She'll be angry, and she'll send me back to Atlanta and…" My hands pressed to my face. "I don't like doing the wrong thing."

"I know you don't." Adam put his hands on my shoulders as I began to hyperventilate. He pushed down on them, squeezing me slightly, and he breathed steadily.

I stammered, "What – what – do I say?"

"You wake up at dawn. They're probably still asleep," he reasoned. "If not, just say you went for a walk. Everything's going to be fine. It's fine."

He handled me so gently that morning, and he was right about everything. I had no reason to panic because Francesca and Heddy were still asleep when I got home. Later that day, I apologized to Adam for acting so unhinged, and he wouldn't let me get the words out. He insisted I had nothing to be sorry for. I didn't think any other eighteen-year-old boy would have been so mature or sensitive.

Now I glance at our probably-to-be-shared bed and the pants he places on it.

Could Adam and I sleep together tonight and have it mean nothing? Would we finish what we started last night? Would he push me up against one of those hedges and ravish my mouth like a Bridgerton?

No.

I couldn't be intimate with him physically because I'd want more. He might want more too, but that wouldn't be an accurate want. It would be fourteen-year-old pain begging to be bandaged without realized the wound had already healed. We've both moved far beyond what we once had. As already established – too little too late.

He looks up from his bag. "Did you want to change for dinner?"

I nod, putting down my wine.

I unzip my bag quietly, listening to every sound he makes. I remember calling my friend Lauren that summer and gushing, "I'm obsessed with everything he does. Even the way he breathes is perfect."

My fingers grip the hanger of a cream-colored Free People dress. It absorbed my entire Fall shopping allowance, but it's worth it, and to be on the safe side, I'm done drinking red wine once it's on.

"I'll give you some privacy," Adam offers, getting to his feet.

"No!" I hold up a hand to stop him. I don't want him to leave. "Someone might see you leave the room."

Adam thinks about this. Maybe he has a response to counter my concern, but he doesn't share. "You're right."

"I'll go take a quick shower and change in the bathroom."

"Okay." He flickers his eyes to me. "Since we're going to be in such tight corners, have you got any new tattoos I should be warned about?"

"None that you get to see," I tease, only because he started it.

With my dress and toiletry bag, I walk into our beautiful bathroom. There's a gold garment rack where the dress hangs while I peel off my clothes until I'm naked with Adam on the other side of the door. This feels more sensual than it should. This is why he had reservations about us sharing the room.

I listen to the sound of a belt buckle. Fabric rubbing together. Jeans falling.

"Vienna, are you okay?" He calls out.

I plaster my hand over my mouth. "Fine," I manage.

"It just got really quiet in there."

After a beat, I ask, "Are you listening to me get undressed?"

He inhales and says guiltily, " Yes ."

At least we're in this together.

I rinse off in the shower, deciding at the last minute to wet and restyle my hair. I have this one last night to make myself feel pretty and get dolled up, one last night to enjoy being the object of Adam's desire.

Francesca said last month, "I feel like David thinks I'm not pretty anymore, but it's because I don't feel pretty about myself ."

Truthfully, she could grow out all of her body hair and David wouldn't notice, let alone have an opinion about it, so I didn't understand that statement at the time.

Now, drying myself off with a soft, expensive towel, I realize that part of the struggle of any relationship is not losing ourselves along the way. She needed to get reacquainted with the version of herself she feels good about.

I stare back at myself through the steamy mirror with a scrubbed, fresh face and damp, bare shoulders.

Growing up. I belonged to a cliquey group that required a certain look in order to be accepted, but when I went to the lake, just us girls, I dressed like a slob because there was no one to impress. Then, I met Adam, looking like a slob, and he could not have cared less. I didn't even look in the mirror before running out to see him on the porch every morning.

Then I just…forgot how that felt. For years, I told myself that she was special. Not me, her . The Vienna that Adam had loved. She was vivacious and bright and charming, but I lost her, lost myself, and stopped seeing the truths of that summer. Eighteen-year-old Vienna was flawed, but she didn't care, and she let Adam love her in spite of that.

I haven't loved myself in a very long time.

Now, it's suspiciously quiet on the other side of the door. I dry myself off and then realize my underwear was still in my bag, on the bed. With the towel wrapped around my midsection, held together with one hand between my boobs, I peek my head out of the door.

Adam sits on the top of the comforter, in black boxer briefs, reading a glossy wedding magazine.

"What are you doing?" I stifle a laugh.

He looks at me and his eyes widen. "What are you doing?"

"Cool your jets. I realized that I didn't grab everything." I walk toward my bag where it sits beside his crossed ankles and ask, "Why aren't you dressed?"

With zero chill or attempts to pretend he's not ogling me, Adam says after a moment, "I was going to change and then I decided to take a shower, too. I didn't want to put my clothes back on."

"Why are you reading a wedding magazine?"

He clears his throat, studiously focusing on the literature in his hand. "It was this or a hunting magazine. I'd rather learn about the latest wedding trends than look at the pleading eyes of a dead deer."

"So, I can cross serial killer off my list of your possible hobbies?"

"You know what my hobbies are," he answers.

I wait, knowing from his tone that some quippy, suggestive joke will soon follow. True to form, his voice drops, and he says, "Watching you right now just became my favorite past time."

" Adam ." I half smile in spite of myself, it just encourages him, and rifle through my bag with one hand. I stop and he knows why.

"You can go ahead and pull your underwear out right in front of me. Don't be shy."

I goad, "Why are you watching me?"

"Because it's fun ." He laughs lightly, his stomach muscles rippling.

Don't look at it. I'll never get out of this room alive if he sees me looking at his tan, half naked body and those dark eyes staring at the edges of my towel.

"You know what?" I pick up my bag, "I'm just gonna take the whole thing in there."

"Spoilsport."

-One

I dress in the bathroom and dry my hair at the vanity in the room while Adam showers. He hums and sings to himself in there.

It's not as chilly today, so I've opened the French doors and let some cool air in, since we're both warm from the shower and I'm warm from the wine. Happy voices laugh and chat in the garden. Everything feels rosy and romantic. I can't even hear Alice's inevitable tantrum in the room beside us.

Adam opens the bathroom door while he's shaving and I'm applying makeup. I'm not above discreetly gawking at the muscles of his bare chest.

"What do you like about your job?" He asks, pulling his upper lip taut.

My mouth falls open while I apply mascara. "The kids."

"That's the part I couldn't handle."

"I love how they're funny and innocent and want to know everything."

"Do they have pee pee accidents?"

I laugh. "I would love to say no, but …"

He shudders and questions, "What do you hate about your job?"

"Ugh. How much time do you have?" I move to the other eye.

He swirls his razor in the sink. "For you, I have all the time in the world."

I expect a cheeky grin to meet me in the mirror, but Adam's serious, focused on his task and waiting for me to answer.

"Feeling like I'm always underwater," I answer.

"How so?"

"There's never enough time in the day," I groan. "The curriculum is a mess, but I'm always expected to both follow it implicitly and add my own lessons, so the kids actually learn something, and the school board can pretend it's because of their sparkling curriculum."

I listen to the scraping blade on the side of his cheek. He says, "My step-mom was a middle school teacher."

"I didn't know that."

"Yeah, she threw a huge party for herself when she retired." He laughs. "She said she could finally celebrate an achievement. She told me that she didn't get the same sense of accomplishment that I did when I wrote a song. The job was never done."

I commiserate, "It's like filling a pot that I will never see full. And some teachers like that. They like being one brick in the foundation and it's fulfilling for them. I'm starting to think I'm just not like that.

"Plus, everything's the teacher's fault, the teacher's responsibility, the teacher's problem to fix. You're never doing enough . It's never enough of yourself and your money and your time."

I fix a smudge on my eyeliner and glance apologetically at his reflection. I offer, "Sorry. I didn't mean to go off on a rant."

He meets my eye. "Don't apologize. I asked and that's your answer."

I bite my lip. I pretend to look at my makeup, but really consider the question I both want and don't want to ask. This is the leap from being easy-going pseudo friends to stumbling into the hurdle of what ended our short relationship in the first place.

I ask him, "How is it being a musician?"

Adam continues to shave. "Everything my fate line told me it would be." He flickers his eyes back to mine. "It was hard in the beginning. It's still hard, in different ways. I feel this pressure to make the next thing I do better than the previous. I keep trying to remind myself to just be in the moment and be happy."

"Because it makes you happy," I envy.

Adam likes his lip and pauses. "Yes. I'm happy writing and performing. It doesn't mean every part of my life is perfect, just that slice."

"And if music stops making you happy?"

"Then I'll do something else."

I rub my ring finger in a jar of highlighter and brush it along my cheekbones. "Like what?"

"I don't know. I think that's for me to find out when the time comes. I'm doing the only thing that has ever brought me joy. My one single dream. I guess a new thing will present itself if need be."

I have one thing that brings me joy and I had a vision for what it looked like. I want to tell him: that's what I hate about my job – that it's not my dream.

Adam cleans his face and walks out of the bathroom in blue pants. "A job is just a job, Vienna. You can get them anywhere."

"It's not that easy," I sigh, adding another layer of blush to my cheeks.

"But it doesn't have to be that hard either. Being unhappy is pretty hard enough." He stands at the foot of the bed and puts on a crisp white shirt, that he must have ironed before leaving.

I steal glances at him as he buttons his shirt. He does the same to me, standing at my back while I apply lipstick, fixing his collar in the mirror.

It's quite domestic, the two of us getting dressed for a night out, alternating between talking and moving in an easy quiet. I thought Adam would need something exciting and adventurous. I thought the mundane life I lived would bore him.

He seems pretty content. When he does catch my eye, he smiles. He pauses after putting on shoes to watch me fiddle with my jewelry.

"Can you clip this?" I ask, holding out a bracelet.

"Yeah, sure." He kneels in front of me, large fingers securing the clasp. Then, his hand wraps around my wrist to look at it, observing, "That's nice. Where'd you get it?"

"It was my mom's," I breathe as his thumb moves from tracing the gold chain to dancing along my veins.

Immediately, a question floats to my mind that I can't swim away from.

"Adam," I start. "Why didn't you tell me about your mom?"

He meets me face with a frown. "Maggie?"

I nod.

Rolling his head contemplatively, his hand smoothing the sleek locks at his hairline, he replies, "Because…I didn't talk about it. To anyone."

"Why?"

"I didn't like to say what it really was. To say it out loud." Adam's absently runs his fingertips along my knuckles. "I was living in denial about it for a long time."

When Maggie told me about his relationship with their mother, I felt guilty for the months I spent going on about my parental woes, knowing now that he has his own issues bubbling inside of him.

"I would have listened," I say. "You could have told me. I hate that I went on and on –"

" No , Vee." He stops me with a quick grasp of my fingers. "It wasn't you. Really, I didn't tell anyone . And, yeah, you had a mother who died so mine abandoning me felt a little insensitive to mention, but I know I could have talked to you about it."

I insist, "You didn't have to compare your situation to mine. They're both awful and both valid experiences to discuss. Hell, you could have had a perfect mother who gave you trauma for insisting you…eat chicken even though you didn't like it, I don't know."

He smiles, cocking his head.

"I just mean, trauma is subjective, and it's all valid. You should never hold back from a conversation with someone you lo–" My mouth stops just as it picks up the train of thought my brain was driving.

That last word isn't something that should be uttered in the red room.

Adam's smile returns, his hand releasing mine but falling, instead, to my knee. He doesn't even look at it or wait for my reaction, acting like it's a natural movement.

"You must be a really good teacher," he says.

Swallowing, my body warm from his touch, I respond, "I don't have to therapize kindergarteners. Just make sure they learn to read."

" Do they learn to read?"

"Most of them."

"Then I stand by my assessment."

As his hand slides off my knee, Adam moves his eyes to the pleated skirt and tailored bodice and mid-length sleeves of my dress. Then, he notices the soft curls in my hair, the dainty gold hoops, the crimson of my lips. The color matches this room.

The sounds crackle: his shirt moving, the television buzzing, the wind hitting the curtain. I try not to add my uneven breathing to the cacophony of intensified sound. We've made it to the portion of the evening that pleasant conversation and seductive banter can't salvage. If I don't say something soon, I'll do something stupid.

"I feel like a prized pig," I say carefully. "Are you trying to decide how much I'll fetch at the market?"

His gelled hair shines from light in the overhead chandelier. His hands move in the air around my body. "Well, to do that…I might have to touch you." He drops his arms. "And friends don't put their hands on each other."

"No, they don't," I respond.

Adam's eyes soften, drawing me in. "But I already know the answer, anyway."

"What's the verdict?" My mouth crinkles into a smile. I can't help it.

An inch from the skin, he hovers his right hand under my ankle, as though holding it with magic, and says, "Strong, flexible cheerleader legs. Two hundred, easy."

The hair on my skin stands on end. My shoulders lift slightly to my ears, wanting to squirm from the sensation of his energy. His hand moves across the bottom of my dress.

He says, "I have no idea how much women's clothing costs so I'm going to guess, fifty bucks?"

I snort a laugh and slap my hand over my mouth. "Try three times that."

"Damn, you're a high maintenance lady," he mutters, pausing both hands on the sides of my waist. "Now, for these good old-fashioned child-bearing hips –"

"Watch it," I growl.

"You'll fetch a pretty penny for those," he winks, biting the bottom of his lip.

My breath hitches as his hands move across the top of my dress, past the faintest bit of cleavage. His body angles toward me, our heads aligned since he's on his knees and I'm on this squat vanity stool. We're so close without touching, and it's provocative, thrilling.

His breath hits my hair. My stomach twists, heat in my core.

Adam runs the back of his hand in front of my collarbone as if he were going to sweep back my hair. He says gruffly, "And this whole area…" His lips pinch together, pretending to whistle, and he bites his knuckle.

He settles both hands astride my face. He's still not touching me, but my body doesn't know that. His dark lashes flutter and he sways, locked to my eyes, and I'm thinking he won't be able to manage keeping the distance of his hands for much longer. He's bound to fall because I'm on the verge myself.

Do not kiss him.

My eyes linger on his mouth. For some reason, it makes me want to cry. I think of all the times his hands and lips touched me. If I kissed him now, I'd never stop thinking of it. It might take another fourteen years to get over him.

Adam's hands pull away. His mouth twists into a soft smile. "And this beautiful face. Those pink cheeks and mossy green eyes and pouty red lips. Priceless ."

I sigh, and my head leans to the side.

He mirrors my movement.

We give each other the same look but I'm having my thoughts, and I don't know his.

In two days, I go back to Atlanta and spend the weekend preparing lessons for the week ahead. He goes home to Chicago and starts recording new music. We'll spend Christmas with our families, welcome in the spring, have drinks with friends, promote a new album, get through end of year testing, attend the Grammy's with an actress on the arm. All things that don't fit into a singular, shared life.

For all I know, Adam's only interested in this one night, this shared bed, and that's it. We're still practically strangers. We've still only known each other for two months. The version of me who stood her ground this morning remains the level-headed, correct one, and this girl, who just got phantom groped, isn't thinking straight.

Adam stands. I follow the movement, seeing the long love line on his right palm as he holds it out toward me.

"We should go out there," he says.

I stand and brush smooth my dress, but he doesn't give me space to do it, "I'll put on my shoes and go first," I say, an inch from his face. "So no one sees us in here together."

He blinks. "Yeah. Of course.'