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Chapter Five
Relentless Questions
My jaw drops the moment we step inside his apartment. The living room looks like the cover of a beach home magazine. One day after moving in and he already has everything in its place, save for a few empty broken down cardboard boxes in the corner next to a sleek drafting table. His apartment makes our apartment downstairs look like it was designed by six-year-olds.
“Holy shit,” I whisper as he makes his way toward the kitchen. “This is amazing.”
He smiles as he glances over his shoulder and the dimple on his right cheek quirks up. “I plan on staying here a while.”
I follow him into the kitchen and I’m surprised at what he’s been able to do with the limited space. He has a fancy stainless steel refrigerator and his countertops are completely free of clutter. The only items on his counter are a coffee machine and a cordless phone. He pulls something out of a cupboard over the sink and I laugh when I see the box of macaroni and cheese in his hand.
“Is that what you’re planning to make?”
“Hey, I never said I could cook. I just said I’d make you lunch. You can’t expect me to be good at everything or this will never work.”
I take a seat on a barstool at the breakfast bar as he begins to prepare our gourmet lunch. “So what else are you good at?”
This is probably a bad question to ask while trapped inside his apartment, but it’s safer than asking him what he does for a living.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure that out soon enough.”
“You know, you don’t have to answer every question with a sexual innuendo. I get it.”
He fills a pot with some water and places it on the stove. “Let’s see…. Some would say I’m a good surfer.” He’s having trouble lighting the burner under the pot.
“Do you need some help?”
I guess he didn’t bring his own fancy oven, though I suppose that makes sense if his specialty is mac n’ cheese. It looks like the same model in our apartment downstairs. I slide off the barstool and join him in the kitchen.
“You probably haven’t lit the pilot yet,” I say, scooting in next to him.
He smiles down at me. “I can assure you, my pilot is lit.”
I roll my eyes as I open the oven door and lift the bottom out. “Do you have a match or a lighter?” He reaches into his pocket and hands me a Zippo. “Do you smoke?” I ask as I reach into the bottom of the oven and light the pilot.
“Sometimes,” he admits. “Okay, every night, but only at night.”
Probably after sex, I think.
“There you go. Now you can proceed with your culinary masterpiece.”
I shut the oven door and hand him back his lighter. His fingers graze my palm as he takes the lighter from me and a chill travels up my arm.
“Thanks. I guess it was your turn to save me.”
An image flashes in my mind of a letter tucked away in the top drawer of my nightstand; a letter I’ve only read once because once was enough. In a single flash I can remember the entire contents of that letter.
Dear Claire-bear:
I’m sorry. I will love you forever.
Always,
Your Chris
I shake my head, attempting to shake off the guilt, as I scoot around Adam to get back to the barstool.
“I have something I need to tell you,” I say, climbing back onto the stool. “I meditate.”
“Cool. So do I.”
“You do?”
He dumps the dry pasta into the pot before he answers. “Well, sort of. Whenever I’m stressed or if I can’t make it to the beach to surf, I’ll chill out and do nothing for an hour or so, to clear my head.”
“You’re not supposed to put the pasta in until the water’s boiling.”
“Fuck the rules. How often do you meditate?”
I take a deep breath as I prepare to reveal my secret to this almost-stranger. “A lot. Like, a few times a day.”
“A few times a day? Do the customers at the café stress you out that much?”
This conversation is not going in a safe direction, might as well push it all the way over the edge.
“Meditation is the way I cope… with the memories.”
He looks up from the steaming pot of water and turns to face me. “Go on.”
“I’m not going to spill my guts to you,” I insist. “I just think you should know about the meditation thing so you don’t come banging on my door unannounced.”
“Why would I come banging on your door?”
“In the event you should run out of processed cheese, call before you knock.”
He finally drains the water from the pot and tosses the powdered cheese and other ingredients in. The pasta makes a gross squishing sound as he stirs it up and I can’t believe I’m about to eat mac n’ cheese on a first date.
I can’t believe I’m on a first date.
He grabs two spoons out of a drawer and stabs them into the pot. He sits next to me and places the pot on the breakfast bar between us.
“Bon appétit.”
“You really know how to impress a girl, Adam.”
He scoops some macaroni onto his spoon and holds it out for me. “I like the way you say my name.” I open my mouth and he slowly slides the spoon in. I close my lips around the warm steel and he slowly slides it out. “Look at you. You have that down.”
I scoop up some macaroni onto my spoon and he opens his mouth. I bring the spoon a few inches away from his lips before I swoop it away and jam it into my mouth.
“Aw…. Claire is greedy,” he groans. “That was my mac n’ cheese.”
He reaches for my spoon and I pull my hand back. “Nuh-uh.”
He doesn’t heed my warning and he grabs my wrist with one hand as I attempt to lean back to keep him from reaching the spoon with his other hand.
“I’m hungry,” he growls, and I laugh uncontrollably until the stool begins to tilt.
“Oh, shit!” I scream as my stool tips over and we both tumble toward the living room floor.
He lands on top of me, but he quickly scrambles to his feet and holds out his hand. “Are you okay?” he asks, and there’s a definite tinge of worry in his voice.
The carpet burns my elbows as I sit up and grab his hand. He pulls me up until we’re standing face to face, our noses inches apart.
“I’m fine,” I say, suppressing a chuckle.
He gazes into my eyes, unflinchingly, and I have to look away. “Claire, I find you very, very attractive.” I take a step back and hold out my spoon. “I’m not trying to get you into bed. I just wanted to make that known. Since I saw you last week, dancing next to your friend’s car, I knew I wanted to get to know you.”
I cringe as I realize Adam saw me dancing next to Senia’s car when I was imitating what Senia’s four-year-old sister does whenever a Justin Bieber song comes on. Then he saw me space out in the café yesterday and, somehow, he still finds me very, very attractive.
But I can’t shake the nagging voice in my head that tells me Chris would think this was way too soon. Why the fuck should I care what Chris would think? He’s the one who left me to go pursue his solo career—even if I did encourage him to leave. I knew it would happen, he was the best rock-blues guitarist I’d ever known, but I guess I never really expected to be left behind. So why the hell should I care what he thinks? He’s gone, probably fucking a new groupie every other night, or that Disney celebrity he was seen with three weeks ago.
Ugh! I hate that I even care enough to keep track of this stuff.
“Claire? Where did you go?”
Adam’s voice breaks through my troubled thoughts and I push aside that voice in my head that wishes it were Chris calling my name.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “This is why I meditate. To keep this shit out.”
He uprights my barstool and takes a seat on his stool again. He pats the seat the cushioned seat and I pretend not to notice that our knees are touching as I sit down.
“I won’t make you eat my gourmet mac if you tell me why you dropped out.”
The question shouldn’t stun me, but it does. It’s like a punch in the chest and I’m suddenly breathless as I try to imagine why Cora would tell him I dropped out.
“Did Cora tell you that?”
He shakes his head adamantly. “I took a guess and you just confirmed it. A smart girl like you doesn’t end up working in a small town café unless she’s running away from something. So what is it?”
I rest my arms on the breakfast bar and practically lean my face into the pot of pasta. “I wish I could tell you.”
“It’s easy. Just move your jaw and your tongue a little and—voila!—out come the words. It’s like magic.”
I push the pot away and bury my face in my arms. “I wish that were true.”
