Page 29 of For the Record
Adam blocked the doorway before I could move past him. His big shoulders and tall frame took up the entire exit as the straps of my wings pulled tight against his T-shirt, giving me a very clear view of his chest. I’d seen it before, of course, but sometimes it was nice to be reminded of how perfect it was.
“What is that?” He dipped a chin to my jar and set of bowls.
I looked to my full hands and back up to him, realization settling in. “Oh. Did I not introduce you two?”
“Introduce…Rachel, that is a mason jar.”
“No. This is Myrtle, my sourdough starter. She and I have been in a committed relationship for four years now.” I dipped my head to the almost full jar in question. “Myrtle, this is Adam. My husband for as long as he can manage to not kick us out.”
Adam clicked his tongue and shook his head before turning around to walk out the door.
I widened my eyes and gasped. “Are you not going to say anything? She thrives when given words of affirmation.”
“She is essentially a jar of water and flour.”
“Who has feelings the same as everyone else, Adam. If you’re going to be married to me for the foreseeable future, I should hope you would accept my child as well.”
“Your chi—you know what? Fine.” He turned his head over his shoulder and eyed Myrtle, in all of her healthy, bubbly glory. “Hello,” he grumbled, clearly unsatisfied.
“Was that so hard?” I mused.
Adam didn’t answer. He simply opened the door to the hallway and stepped out, propping it open with his foot for me.
He flexed in his stuck position. He was an absolute sight. All muscled legs he worked incredibly hard for and a ripped back that was still sporting the most delicate wings on as he held my bright yellow luggage. He was something deserving of a magazine spread. Or maybe a column in a BuzzFeed article.
“Myrtle, your daddy is looking mighty fine,” I whispered to her.
“What?” Adam asked loudly from the hall.
“Nothing.”
Currently Playing: I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For by U2
***
Listening to my dad and Crew fight over who should have won the trophy in Master Chef season six was not how I planned to spend my Saturday night.
But I never really made plans most nights anyway. I spent the majority of my time working, and when I was home, I found my hands itching to get busy.
It was what jump-started my collection of “impossible puzzles.” It began as a joke. Liam got me a fully white puzzle a couple of years ago for Christmas. I liked a challenge. I liked to push myself to my wits’ end and see how far I could stretch. It took me almost a week, but I did it. Then I found more: clear puzzles; all-black puzzles; and rainbow, but the colors faded and bled into each other. Each one was more difficult than the last, yet somehow addictive.
But instead of sitting at my table, listening to that ridiculous playlist Rachel had made for me while I considered each piece and sipped on a black coffee, I was here. Here wasn’t bad, necessarily. I loved my family. They got on my nerves a lot, but I did like to see them. Just in moderation. It was the same way I liked everything else. Other than Rachel.
But the loud nights with multiple conversations going on—Calla boasting about almost being done with school, my mom talking about baking, and Liam nonstop messing with Marigold—added up. My ears would start to burn, and my feet would be desperate to push me to the door so I could breathe again.
It was the same every time. I would convince myself it was all in my head and force myself as long as I could. I’d try to make it to dessert, to enjoy time with the few people who cared about me. But without fail, by the end of dinner, I’d be over the conversation, overstimulated, and desperate to get back to my quiet apartment.
The back door opened with a creak, then Layla and Luke walked in hand in hand. My hands wrapped around my glass when I heard a soft but confident voice. “Hey guys.”
My chin jerked up and my eyes widened at the sight of Rachel, who was dressed in a bright yellow sundress, standing in my mom’s kitchen. The water lodged in my throat. My face went hot and my chest got tight. I coughed up a choke, beating on my chest. I dipped my head down so no one would see how red my face was turning.
It wasn’t like we hadn’t been around my family together before. She had been at the book signing, and we’d been at Romfuzzled on the same night. But I’d always been able to plan for it, work around it, mentally prepare myself for whatever she was going to come out with or the possibility that she’d show up in one of those tiny denim skirts again.
I cleared my throat, glancing up and discovering that everyone else’s casual pre-dinner conversations hadn’t stopped. Because why would it? It wasn’t like they knew anything about Rachel and me or what had happened between us.
My mom’s arms wrapped around Rachel’s back and pulled her into a tight hug. I could make out the words “it smells amazing in here” coming from Rachel as she embraced by mom, but my mind was stuck somewhere else. Stuck on that short yellow dress with white polka dots on it and the tall wedges she’d paired with it.
Funny how I had never been attracted to women like her before. I always wanted to be the quietest in the room, the one who pulled in the least attention. Women like Rachel—beautiful, bright, always done up—were always going to attract all the eyes around them. Being with someone like that would deprive me of my solitude.