Page 26 of For the Record
We figured our best bet was for me to go home and grab some essentials before heading to Adam’s house. Once we got to my apartment, I reached for my keys in my bag on his shoulder before coming to a halt. My fingers tapped against my key chain—a little orange bird that said come back again. Adam had shipped it to me when he was deployed to Florida.
A blush crept up my cheeks. Adam was going to see my apartment in the very, very disturbing state it was in. It wasn’t exactly anything new. He understood I was kind of a hot mess when it came to keeping things organized. But we were technically married now, and he was Mr. No Shoe Should Be Out of its Straightened Place by the Door. I knew for a fact the man ironed his bedsheets. I also once saw him using a miniature vacuum to clean his normal vacuum. The so-called debt he did have was probably a stock investment in Lysol or Mr. Clean.
Besides, who even knew what lay behind this door? I was having what some might call a mental breakdown before our flight to Vegas, so I couldn’t be 100 percent certain that there wasn’t some pretty gross stuff waiting for us in my apartment. My mind immediately went to the memory of my preflight self rifling through my closet in search of the perfect shoes for my bridesmaid dress. There were at least three bras lying on my living room floor, and I honestly couldn’t say whether there were dishes in the sink. We’d only been gone for two days, but still.
Up until this point, Adam had seen almost every raw piece of me. He knew me inside and out. However, the few times he’d come to my apartment—since we mostly hung out at his house or with his family—I would run around at the last minute to get the place looking somewhat tidy. Despite our years of friendship, and now thirty-two hours of marriage, I had managed to hold some form of mystique. So he had no idea that I was his worst nightmare when it came to roommates.
I cleared my throat and fumbled with my keys. “I, uh, think you should stay here.”
He eyed the door behind me as if something was going to pop out of it and looked back at me. “Why?”
“I think it’s best” was all I could manage. It was a whole lot better than Well, I don’t know how to say this, but your wife is a pig and you live your life like you get paid to clean.
Between my wide-eyed stare full of silent pleading and the way my arms were now spread across the doorway like a caution: do not enter sign, he gave me mercy. Adam raised his hands in defense, and in a low baritone, said, “I’ll just be here.”
He backed up to the hallway wall and leaned against it with his arms crossed. I stared for a moment too long—mostly at those biceps straining against the seams of his short-sleeve tee—before he dipped his chin at me as if to say go on.
I sighed in relief and turned to unlock my door, opening it just wide enough to squeeze through to keep his gaze away from the zoo inside my apartment.
Once the door closed, I breathed in a deep sigh and looked down at my ring, twisting it back and forth. I was an entirely different person last time I was here. I was a single, very much still frustrated woman who was struggling between strangling her best friend or kissing him on the spot. And now I stood there with a ring on my finger and an agreement to remain married to said best friend.
I shook my shoulders in a shiver. This was going to take some getting used to.
My apartment wasn’t as bad as I thought. Yes, there were clothes all over the place and my eyes did immediately catch on a bright blue bra sitting in the middle of my living room, but there were no dishes in the sink, so that was a plus.
I stepped over the path of clothing to my room and grabbed a duffel bag. Between what I’d taken to Vegas and this, I figured I would have enough to last me a week.
Looking over my room, across the mounds of rifled-through clean clothes and the stacks of makeup and skincare cases on my vanity, I took a deep breath. “All right, Rach. Just the necessities. You got this.”
I did not have it. I didn’t have anything. Except the overwhelming feeling that I had too much stuff in a too tiny apartment and I was being forced to pick my most necessary items when everything felt essential.
Record player, check.
A stack of my most listened-to vinyls, check.
Two bags of skincare products, check.
Three bags of makeup, check.
My fairy wings from last year’s Halloween party, also check.
I stared at the bin of tiny pink bows that I liked to tie onto all my favorite things, considering whether I would need them at some point in the next week. I tilted my head. The rational side of me said no, but the other side—the one that had convinced me fairy wings were a great idea—said what if I got to Adam’s apartment and there was a need for them? I picked one up and twirled it with my fingers, rattling the ideas in my head back and forth. Finally, I groaned and flopped back on my pile of underwear and socks. This was ridiculous.
The sound of my front door should have shocked me into sitting up and trying to hide the mess I’d made in this room, but instead, I accepted my impending doom.
Slow, dragging footsteps led to my room, and I couldn’t help but notice that even the way he entered the room was hot.
Adam pushed lightly on my door with his knuckle. It slowly swayed open, and he leaned against the doorframe. His arms crossed over his chest, his forearm tattoos winking a hello at me.
I stared up at the ceiling, waiting for his comments. Waiting to hear this place is a pigsty. How could you be so unorganized? I would never live like this.
But he didn’t say a word. He simply huffed the smallest bit of amusement and then walked over to me, crouching down and lying next to me. He stared up at the ceiling fan with me, unknowingly using my stack of clean folded socks as a pillow.
“What are we doing?” he asked in a husky voice.
“Feeling overwhelmed. Wallowing in self-pity,” I mumbled.
Adam slowly sat up, looking down at me. “Let’s get up. I’ll help.”