Page 49 of Dear Adam
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve always had a tiny crush on you, too,” I say on a cough, trying to cover the words.
“You’ve what? Sorry, it sounded like you got choked there for a minute.” The grin that spreads across his face lets me know he heard me loud and clear. I give him a playful shove and try to ignore my fluttering heart and flushing cheeks.
“You know,” he says. “I think Adam knew I had a crush on you and wasn’t crazy about it.”
“What was your first clue?” I ask. “How he always managed to shove himself in between us when we found ourselves alone, or the times he always did something super obnoxious like suggest a burping contest when I was around you two for too long?”
Suddenly, his eyes darken. “Listen. I’ve been meaning to tell you I’m sorry for making fun of your glasses,” he says, tone serious. “I only made fun of them because I was dying to know what kissing you would feel like, and it was the only way to take my mind off it. If it helps at all, Teenie found out I made fun of you and grounded me for a month. Do you want to know what her punishment was?”
“This should be good.” I fold my arms across my chest with a smirk and wait.
“I had to go to knitting class with her every week.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad. I could see where it probably wasn’t your favorite thing, but I could definitely think of way worse punishments.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” His voice is barely above a whisper, and his eyes dart around the porch as if Mr. Barnes could be listening—which wasn’t too far-fetched.
“Please do,” I say, following a bead of sweat that trickles from his forehead into the collar of his shirt.
“I kind of liked it,” he whispers.
I feign mock horror and clutch at my chest. “No! You? Enjoyed something other than making fun of me?”
“Remember that red scarf I always wore during the winter of freshman year? I actually made that.” He puffs his chest with pride, and I can’t help but giggle. “Phew,” he says and wipes a hand across his brow. “You have no idea how much better I feel right now. That was really weighing on me.”
“I forgive you for making fun of my glasses, Levi. And thank you for trusting me with your dirty secrets. However, I do not forgive you for making approximately a thousand flatulence noises in my presence. That was and always will be disgusting.”
“You mean like this?” he asks, tucking his hand into his armpit.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn.
“Or what?” he challenges. In an instant, I’m tackling him in his rocking chair and fighting for the hand under his shirt. His stomach is rock hard, and I explore a bit too long, pretending I can’t find his hand.
“Woah!” he says. “Buy me dinner first!”
Before I can retort the sound of wood splitting pierces the air, and we both stare at each other with wide eyes. In seconds, we’re both in a tangled heap on the floor, pieces of dry rotted wood scattered around us.
“I think I got a splinter in a place I didn’t know you could get splinters,” Levi whines, rubbing his backside.
“I should never have picked these rocking chairs up off the side of the road.” I rub at my knee before Levi helps me up and we move to the porch swing.
As soon as he sits, he turns to me with a concerned expression. “Did you pick this up on the side of the road too?”
“No,” I laugh. “It came with the house.” I tap my chin thoughtfully and add, “Although, the house is roughly a hundred years old. So maybe swing at your own caution?”
“Great,” he mutters. We swing in comfortable silence, watching as the sun sinks lower and lower until finally disappearing into the dark water of the harbor.
“Do you ever miss high school?” he asks, scooting closer to lift my legs onto his lap.
“All the time,” I answer. “Don’t you?”
“I wish I would’ve realized how easy life was then,” he professes. “Back when my biggest concern was what color Abercrombie polo I would be wearing to school that day and not trying to save a failing company.” His tone is playful, but I know he means what he’s saying.
“I’m trying to think of what the hardest part of my day was in high school,” I reply. “Probably fighting off Mrs. Hawthorne every evening. Do you remember her?”
Mrs. Hawthorne had been our very old, very cranky neighbor who never failed to yell at me or Adam at least once a day. We were either being too loud and causing distress to her ancient Poodle, Chancy, or whatever other absurd thing she could think of to scold us for that particular day.
“How could I forget her and her fake British accent? One time I came over to visit Adam and she hit me with her cane because she said I parked too close to her Cadillac…which was across the street.”
