Calm Like Home (3 page)

“Only one?” she pouts.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got another in my bag.”

Annabelle, Carly, and I quickly learned one bottle goes way too fast when the three of us get together. I hand her the extra bottle and step into the familiarity of her apartment, essentially my second home. It’s a comfortable, welcoming space. The lighting is muted, emanating from a floor lamp in the corner, and there’s perpetually a candle burning on the coffee table, giving off fragrant hints of sweet roses or warm vanilla. Plus she's got this killer balcony, with white French doors that lead out to it. I notice Carly is already cozied into the neutral microfiber sectional, polishing off a slice of pizza. Her petite frame fits into the tiniest ball in the corner. As she reaches forward for another slice, her chin-length chestnut hair falls loosely around her face.

I settle in beside her and pop the cork off the first bottle, presenting it to Annabelle as if I were serving her at work. She smirks and tosses it over her shoulder towards the garbage can in the kitchen, missing terribly.

“You didn’t want to inhale the rich aroma? The fine hints of pear and honeysuckle?” I ask innocently.

She scoffs at me and takes a large gulp from the glass I poured her.

“So, making any progress on cavorting with Mr. Westbrook?” Her eyes bore into me with curiosity.

I let out an involuntary sigh at the thought of him and snuggle back into the cushions with my wine and a slice of pizza.

“I’ll take that as a no. Poor girl.” She pats my foot sardonically then helps herself to a slice.

“Tick tock my dear,” Carly pipes up between bites. “Before you know it he’ll be back at school.”

“Or even worse, someone else will snag him,” Annabelle taunts. “Have you seen the way Brittney falls all over him at work? She’s practically putting out at the host stand.”

A sharp pang of jealousy hits me at the thought of little, blonde Brittney-the-hostess going on dates with Adam, riding in his car, kissing his lips. I know I have no right to feel this way. I have no claim to him, and yet I can’t push it away. It curls up thick in my chest, pulls at the back of my mind. With everything in me, I wish it were me.

Carly snickers at Annabelle’s dramatic flare. “She’s right! Better step up your game. At least for now Brittney can only picture him naked in her dreams.”

“Alexa could be the founding member of that club!” Annabelle interjects, nodding my way. I glare and launch a couch pillow at her head. She catches it, laughing. “Not that I blame you. I mean, how could you spend any amount of time with that boy and not picture him naked?”

I shake my head at her outlandish comment, knowing I have. Often. In dramatic detail. But it’s not just the way he looks that has me hooked. It’s so much more. It’s who he is beneath all that drawing me back in year after year. It’s the ridiculous stories he tells, the sound of his laughter when we’re joking, the way he brings out all the parts of me I like best just by being who he is. But no matter how easy it is to joke and play around with him, the one thing that’s never been easy is to take things anywhere beyond that.

Annabelle turns to face me, eyeing me steadily. I wonder if she knows what I’m thinking because she leans in to clink her glass with mine.

“Hey,” she murmurs. “Fuck the friend zone.”

Carly and Annabelle’s warning sticks with me long after we’ve finished our wine and girl talk. I know all too well how short his time here is. I also know I don’t have it in me to tell him how I feel. I’m horrible with words. To me, numbers are what make sense. Equations always add up, always fit together neatly. There’s no ambiguity with math, no need to string jumbled characters together in the hopes they accurately convey how I feel. There’s always a right answer, and if I work at a problem long enough, I will find it. No amount of thought or focus is going to make telling Adam I want to be more than friends any easier.

Despite my inhibition, I still eagerly anticipate every shift I share with him. Pulling into the parking lot, my eyes immediately search for his car, my whole body awakening at the sight of it, knowing he’s waiting on the other side of those restaurant walls. The black on black M3 perfectly suits him; it’s sleek and alluring and completely one of a kind.

I find myself double-checking my reflection in my rearview mirror before I go in. I smooth my long, dark brown hair into a high ponytail and make sure I didn’t accidentally smear mascara all over my face. Aside from when Adam’s back, I rarely bother with makeup. He’s the only one I’ve ever really wanted to make an impression on. Luckily clear blue eyes stare back at me from the mirror, sans smudges, and I head inside.

It ends up being a slow lunch shift. Damien decides to keep things lively by initiating a game of dead legs among all the guys on the floor. The game basically involves punching another person in the leg when he least expects it. As a result, all the guys are on edge, constantly checking their surroundings and suspiciously eyeing one another over the dining room tables. They creep around the restaurant like soldiers on a mission, never leaving their backs exposed.

Adam, however, is not playing by the rules. He doesn't even try to beat any of the other guys' legs. But he does sneak around the restaurant, hiding behind booths and standing around corners between our sections so he can lurch out at me without a moment’s notice. When I make it to the kitchen to drop off some plates, he springs from behind a rack of dishes and snags me around the waist. I swear I can feel the warmth of each individual fingertip spreading through my abdomen. He folds me towards him, circling his arms around me and playfully pounding my thighs with gentle fists. I inhale deeply, relishing his scent, wondering how he manages to smell so amazing carrying around steaming bowls of pasta all day.

“Stop it!” I squeal, swatting at his fists and laughing so hard my stomach hurts. Even my laughter sounds completely different when Adam elicits it. It’s loud and full and bubbling.

“Oh shit, you’re in the game?” Damien asks, rounding the corner into the kitchen, eyebrows eagerly raised.

“No, I’m most certainly
not
in the game. He just doesn’t remember how to play by the rules.”

“My bad,” Adam jokes, releasing me and straightening his tie.

Annabelle struts up to me as the boys leave the kitchen, an appraising smirk spread over her face. “What was
that
about?”

I sigh and join her at the to-go station as she boxes up food. “Apparently I’m one of the guys now. So I’ve got that going for me.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Are you kidding me A-Bel? That’s the complete opposite of how I want him to see me,” I pout.

“You don’t see him beating any other girls’ legs. I swear, that boy follows you around trying to get you to laugh like it’s his sole mission in life.”

I roll my eyes, knowing she’s exaggerating, and head to retrieve my table’s food. The chefs are still sautéing away, so I lean back against the chef’s line to wait. As I glance around the dining room, I notice a young host named Gabe pull Adam aside at the host stand. He’s a short, scrawny high school kid who desperately wants to be one of the guys. They’re barely within earshot, but I overhear Gabe asking Adam if he can join the game.

“Listen, man, of course you can play,” Adam says. “But I really don’t think you want to. The guys aren’t going to take it easy on you.”

“Trust me, I can handle it. I want in.”

“This shit hurts. Even for me.” His voice is protective, brotherly even, sounding markedly different from the playful delivery I’m so used to hearing.

“It looks like fun, Adam. I really want to play,” Gabe practically pleads.

Adam shrugs his shoulders, resigned, and calls Damien over. At Gabe’s announcement Damien lets out a deep snicker. “Oh shit, son! You sure?”

Gabe nods then turns to seat the latest table.

Damien watches him go. “I’m going to hit that little dude so freaking hard. He won’t even know what happened. Just boom!” He punches his palm emphatically and pretends to stagger backwards.

“What’s wrong with you? He’s a fucking kid.” The clipped sound of Adam’s voice startles me. It’s completely devoid of any joviality. It doesn’t even sound like Adam. I sneak a glance at his face, feeling like I shouldn’t be listening in, noticing the dark pools his eyes have become as he glares at Damien’s cavalier expression.

Damien reclines against the host stand nonchalantly. “Chill out, man. He said he wants to play.”

“That doesn’t mean you fucking bulldoze him.” Adam’s whole body is perfectly still as he glares at Damien. His stance is cold and stiff and radiating irritation. It’s so unlike anything I’ve ever seen from him before. I wonder what this is to him. Why does he even care?

Damien doesn’t seem at all surprised, isn’t acting like this sinister side of Adam is coming out of nowhere, when to me it’s the furthest thing from normal I’ve seen. He turns from Adam, scanning the dining room, aloof. “It’s not your job to protect him. Besides, if I don’t, someone else will. If he wasn’t ready to play he should’ve kept his damn mouth shut.”

“Clausen!” A voice booms behind me. I snap my head around to face George, the head chef. He’s scowling at me over the line from behind three neatly arranged bowls of pasta. “Take your food already. I’m not making it again because you let it get cold.”

Once my tables have all cleared out for the day, I retreat to a back table for a late lunch. Annabelle pulls out the chair across from me. As she helps herself to a bite of my pasta, she meets my eye.

“I hope you’re ready to dance your pants off! It’s almost concert day. Bring on the boys!”

Annabelle and I have markedly different motives for attending concerts. I go to get lost in the music; she goes to get lost in a sea of hot, sweaty men. Suddenly she frowns over the table at me.

“Oh wait, I forgot. You’re taken.” Her eyes settle on Adam, who takes note of her pointed stare and starts in our direction from the opposite side of the restaurant.

I tear off a piece of bread and lob it across the table at her. “Far from it.”

“Isn’t all the action you got from that game earlier today the equivalent of like second base for you?”

“You’re freaking hilarious.” I mock. “I’d hate to see what you count as second base.”

She winks at me and gives two short pelvic thrusts against the table, then walks off to check on her remaining guests. Adam raises his eyebrows quizzically as he pulls out the chair next to mine and angles his body towards me.

“What was that about?”

“Annabelle and I are going to the Foster show this week. She’s practicing her sweet moves in advance.”

“No way! I’m so jealous!”

“Of her moves?”

He bursts out in deep, throaty laughter. It’s a warm, jubilant sound that seems to reverberate in the space around me. He’s back to being the Adam I know, the serious side I briefly witnessed at the host stand completely eradicated. “Trust me, I have way better moves than that.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” My eyes involuntarily flit over the length of him and I chastise myself for being so obvious.

Adam fiddles with his server book, slapping it against his open palm. “No, seriously, that’s going to be a badass show.”

“You should come,” I venture, knowing it’s a long shot. “Nothing can beat hanging out with me and Annabelle at a sweaty, outdoor concert.”

He leans forward to tap the book against my knee, eyes alight as he says, “I can’t think of anything better.”

For the first time ever I wish we didn’t joke all the time. I wish he were serious. I wish he actually meant it.

Chapter 4

Annabelle bursts through the door of my apartment on concert day, bubbling with excitement. “Let’s go! I’m ready to get this party started.”

As always she looks impeccable, her makeup perfectly set, her long blonde locks curled into loose waves she’s casually swept over one shoulder. She’s wearing a flowy tank top with shorts and ankle boots, looking the epitome of indie-trendy.

“You’re pulling out all the stops for the boys tonight, huh?”

“You know I never miss out on a golden opportunity to find
The One
,” she chuckles.

It’s a warm June evening, calm and clear, perfect for an outdoor concert up against the backdrop of the setting sun. Once inside the gate we split up, me pushing towards the front of the crowded pavilion and Annabelle making a drink run to one of the concession huts dotting the perimeter. When she finally finds me she’s clutching two plastic cups in dripping wet hands. She thrusts one of them towards me.

“Bad news for your sweet tooth. They only have beer.”

I grimace but take a long sip, letting the opening band’s music wash over me. I get lost in the rhythm, swaying with the crowd, bobbing my head to the beat. My mind goes blank and I dissolve into the lead singer’s aura. His lyrics are beautiful, elegant even, and I find myself wishing I could fit words together the way he does. Maybe then I could somehow find it in me to turn all this friendly banter with Adam into something more.

When the set ends and the music is fading away, unfurling me from its grasp, I realize I’m on my own. Annabelle has disappeared. I scan the crowd to get my bearings and finally spot her hanging on the arm of a skinny-jean-wearing hipster near the edge of the stage. That didn’t take long. I swear the girl can find date material anywhere.

As I glance up from Annabelle’s boy toy I catch sight of familiar tousled light brown hair near the edge of the crowd. Damien’s almond-colored eyes rove over the scores of people as he makes his way through the throng. Even here, at an indie concert, he looks every bit the all-American frat boy, sporting salmon-colored shorts, a crisp polo, and boat shoes. My heart thunders in my chest, my body suddenly aware of what this means. If Damien is around, Adam can’t be far.

“Lex!” A voice booms behind me. I can feel the grin spreading over my face before I even catch sight of him.
Act casual Alexa. You see him all the time.
Even so, it’s hard to ignore the pounding in my chest at seeing him unexpectedly outside of work. He’s wearing tan shorts and a navy V-neck: the least amount of clothes I’ve ever seen him in. Forearms and calves have never looked so good. I force my eyes to stay trained on his face to avoid gaping at his exposed clavicle, his sculpted biceps peaking from beneath his shirt, the way the thin material falls over the defined muscles of his chest.