17. Jamie

My phone buzzes with a text in my jogger pocket as I'm pulling the last of my mom's frozen lasagnas out of the freezer. My mom has never said it outright, but I think she knows that most of the meals I consume are takeout or from the hot bar section of Whole Foods. So at least once a month when I'm home in Cary, she'll load me up with frozen casseroles and single-serve meals to take back to DC. It's rare that I actually have an opportunity to cook and enjoy them on a weekday, but for the first time in two months, I'm home before 8:30 p.m. In fact, I'm home at six, which I don't think has ever happened except for right before a holiday break or long weekend.

I set the lasagna on top of the stove and press the button to preheat the oven, then lean against the counter and pull out my phone.

Adrian Wilks 3

July 7, 6:17 PM

Hey, are you busy?

My face splits into a smile as I read the text. In my excitement over not being at work, I decide to call him instead of texting him back.

"For the first time in weeks, I am not busy," I say the moment his warm voice hits my ear. Between being in the office and traveling home for Raleigh pride two weekends ago, and Fourth of July this past weekend, I haven't seen or truly talked to Adrian since DC's pride festival, and I've kind of missed him. "I'm not in my office. I'm not on the floor listening to a pointless debate for a bill that's just gonna pass anyway, no matter how hard the Republicans huff and puff about it. I have some reading I want to do, but I get to do so in my apartment, watching television and waiting for my oven to preheat so I can heat up one of my mom's frozen lasagnas. I'm even wearing sweats."

There's silence on the other end of the line, and I grimace. "Shoot, sorry, darlin'. I got a little ahead of myself there. You probably wanted to talk about something. What's up?"

"Oh, uh, it was just something that happened at work today, but you know what? It's nothing," he says, although by the distressed tone in his voice, I can tell it is absolutely not nothing.

"It doesn't sound like it was nothing," I say, suddenly serious. "What happened?"

"Really, it's not a big deal. You've been really busy lately and deserve a night off, and I don't want to bring your mood down. I'll be fine."

That makes my heart clench. "Darlin', don't worry about me. I'm here if you need to talk."

"I'll be fine," he repeats. "Enjoy your lasagna and your night off." Then, the line goes dead.

I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at it for a moment with a frown. I'm tempted to call him back and pry whatever it is out of him, but I've gotten to know him well enough over the past five or so months to know that's not the right move. Actually, what I want to do most is give him a hug and sit with him until he's ready to talk.

Fuck it, why don't I? I've never shown up at his place unannounced before, but I can give it a shot, right? Worst case scenario, he tells me to leave. Best case scenario, I get to spend my evening with him, eating dinner and snuggling with his cats and (hopefully) him. Before I can overthink it, I push myself off the counter and press the button to cancel the preheat on my oven.

Thirty-five minutes later, I'm knocking on Adrian's apartment door, with a foil covered metal tray in one hand and a reusable shopping bag with the frozen garlic bread and a bottle of wine I picked up slung over my shoulder. I wait for a moment, then hear the sound of locks clicking.

The door swings open, and Adrian stands there looking adorable, if not a little seasonally inappropriate, in his plaid pajama pants and fuzzy cardigan. He also has a confused furrow in his brow. "Jamie?"

"I come bearing lasagna," I say, holding up the tray. "Can I come in?"

He stares at me for a few seconds, still looking a little confused, and I'm worried I'm about to encounter the worst case scenario. But then he nods and steps aside.

The tension quickly leaves my shoulders as I step inside. Now that I'm inside his apartment, the sweater in July makes a lot more sense. He keeps it almost like a tundra in here. But I'm mostly used to it since my parents kept the house the same way growing up. I toe off my shoes before heading straight for the kitchen.

Adrian follows me, but stops in the doorway. He watches me for a moment, his arms crossed over his chest, as I set the lasagna down on the stove and start unloading the bag.

"I hope you don't mind that I still have to cook it. Although, it's thawed a bit now since I took it out when I got home around five, so hopefully it won't take as long." Since he still hasn't said anything, I set his oven to preheat. "I also have garlic bread, so if you can point me in the direction of a baking sheet—"

"Jamie, what are you doing here?" he blurts.

"Making lasagna," I say, although it comes out a little more like a question.

"Jamie."

At that, I turn to face him. "You sounded upset on the phone, but you wouldn't talk to me. So, here I am."

He frowns a little. "But why?"

"I care about you," I murmur.

"But your plans—"

"Being here for you trumps my plans to rewatch The West Wing for the millionth time."

"You said you had reading you needed to get done."

"I can do it tomorrow."

In the time it takes me to blink, he closes the distance and wraps his arms around my shoulders. I let out a quiet hum of surprise, but then I circle my arms around his waist and hold him close. The small part of me that was worried showing up unannounced would be a bad idea is effectively quieted. Based on the way he holds me a little tighter when my hand comes up to cradle his head, it seems like it was exactly what he needed. Although, now that I'm here, I can't help but wonder why he called me instead of Casey or even Sophie. He said whatever he wanted to talk about was work related, and since she works with him, she'd probably be much better at understanding what has him so bothered.

I'm not going to complain, though. Even if it's because he's upset, I'll take any excuse to see Adrian at this point.

After about a minute, he pulls back a little, but his arms stay locked around my back.

"So do you want to tell me what's wrong?" I ask gently.

"I essentially lost a patient today," he says.

My heart sinks. "Oh, no. I'm so sorry. What happened?"

"Well, technically, the patient isn't gone yet, but they're a nineteen-year-old cat with renal failure. Their owner has been doing whatever they can to keep them comfortable, but they're starting to go downhill faster. At their latest visit, their owner asked me…" He pauses for a moment, so I stroke his back to encourage him to continue. "Well, they basically asked me if it was time to let go. And it's not like I could say yes because that's not really my decision ultimately, but…"

"You basically told them it was," I finish for him.

"In so many words, yeah."

"That must have been hard."

"It's unfortunately part of my job to have these difficult conversations with pet parents from time to time, and yes, they're difficult, but usually I'm okay. But this girl is barely out of college. She's had this cat for as long as she can remember. Also according to Sophie, she was a military kid—" He lets out a frustrated sigh and stares at a spot past my head. "I feel like maybe if I were better at my job, I wouldn't be as affected by this."

"You identified with her a little. It's understandable, and that doesn't mean you're bad at your job. It means you're human." I lift a hand to cup his cheek to bring his attention to me and barely stop myself from breaking into an inappropriate smile when he leans into the touch. "You're a compassionate and empathetic person. It's what makes you good at your job. If anything, I'd be worried about the day when something like this doesn't affect you at all."

He takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out slowly. "You're right."

"I know," I say lightly, earning a huffed laugh. I brush my thumb along his cheekbone, then pull him into another hug.

Within seconds, he's melting against me with a small exhale of relief. "Thank you," he mumbles.

"You're welcome," I mumble back. Then, without really thinking, I turn my head and press a kiss to the side of his head.

He lets out a soft, little sound and buries his face in my neck. "Sorry if I ruined your plans."

"You didn't. Like I said, I was just going to be eating lasagna by myself and continue watching West Wing for the millionth time. Being here for you is much more important and a better way to spend my time."

"We could still do that, if you wanted," he suggests before pulling back enough to look at me.

"I'd love that. Although, we could watch something else, if you'd prefer," I say.

He shakes his head. "I like West Wing. What episode are you on?"

"The turkey pardoning."

"I love that episode. My mom used to put it on every Thanksgiving while she was cooking."

I chuckle. "I'll get the lasagna started if you want to go queue it up?"

He nods, then slowly untangles himself from our embrace. "Baking sheets are in the bottom cabinet next to the stove."

"Thanks, darlin'."

I get out two baking sheets, one for the lasagna tray and one for the garlic bread, and set them up so they're ready to go when it's time. Then, I pull the wine bottle—one with a screw top—out of the bag and open it. Also, thankfully, I remember where Adrian keeps his wine glasses from the last time I was here, so I pull out two glasses with a Boordy Winery logo etched on the side. At his birthday, I'd asked about the winery, which apparently he and Casey spent at least a few weekends at during their time at Towson—because of course they went to wineries while the rest of their peers went to frat parties and tailgated at football games. That, of course, led to half a dozen stories about college Adrian, which I think were supposed to be embarrassing but only endeared him more to me.

I grab the two glasses in one hand, and the bottle in the other, and head out to the living room to find the episode already pulled up on the screen.

"You brought wine?" he asks as I set the bottle and glasses down.

I sit and start to pour us each a glass. "I wasn't sure what kind of bad day at work you were having. It's a riesling, which doesn't really go with lasagna, but I know you like it."

He smiles softly and takes the wine from my outstretched hand. "Thank you, I do. But doesn't wine set off your reflux?"

"So does tomato sauce, so I'm just playing fast and loose with my ability to sleep tonight," I joke.

As I take a sip, I see him leveling me with an unamused and concerned look.

I soften and set the glass on the coffee table. "I'm just joking, darlin'. I already took a preventative antacid, don't worry."

My assurance only seems to smooth out the worried crease between his eyebrows a little, though.

The oven beeps, and I go to stand. "I'll be right back."

"I'll get it," he says, resting a hand on my leg to prevent me from moving. "How long does it need to go in for?"

"About forty minutes, but set the timer for thirty-five minutes so we can put the garlic bread in at the end," I instruct.

With a nod, he stands, and I settle into the couch. I sit on the end so I can lean on the arm, then stretch my arm along the back of the couch. Because the AC is a little chilly, I pull a woven throw blanket off the back of the couch and drape it on my lap. Almost instantly, Joseph lifts his head from where he was asleep on the cat tree, then jumps down and scampers over. The cat jumps into my lap just as Adrian comes back from the kitchen.

He laughs and sits next to me, his neck brushing my forearm. "That's his favorite blanket," he says, which explains the pulled threads. "Are you cold? I can turn the AC down. I usually like to keep it cold so I can still wear sweaters, but—"

"No, I'm fine with a blanket. It's cozy," I say, smiling as Joseph settles on my lap.

Adrian smiles back and scoots a little closer, which gives me the courage to drape my arm around his shoulder and pull him in.