Page 5 of Dear Adam
“Aly?” Adam’s familiar voice comes through the speakers, concern weaved through every word. “Aly, are you okay?”
“One second,” I grumble as I hang up and stick the key into the lock to open the door. Pretzel goes zooming in, and I scoop my laptop off the ground and follow. Immediately, I run to the bathroom and take a look in the mirror. The lack of air conditioning on the way over has done no favors to my hair so I quickly redo my pony tail and pinch my cheeks for some color, a trick Nana taught me back in the day but never actually used until now. I take one last final glance, and oh my gosh, is that a booger? Did Levi see this little flapper hanging out in my left nostril during all that commotion? I blow my nose, and stare at myself in the mirror.Get it together, Bloomington.
Finally, everything looks decent enough that if Levi happens to answer again, I won’t be too upset about it…until I notice the boob sweat forming.
Not a problem,I think.I’ll just have to keep my face and nothing else on the screen. That won’t be weird at all.
Except it will be super weird because who FaceTimes with nothing but a close up of your face unless you are seventy two and should be using a Jitterbug flip phone and have no business FaceTiming to begin with? With no other options, I sigh and hit Adam’s name on my phone. When he answers instead of Levi, I try not to sound too disappointed.
“Aly, what happened?” he asks, his brow furrowed.
“I dropped my laptop and it landed on my feet,” I answer sheepishly, leaving out the reasonwhyI dropped my laptop in the first place. I change the subject and ask the question I’ve been dying to ask since Adam arrived in California. “Have you met with Harry yet?”
“Yes and before you ask, no. I did not have him sign your ratty old t-shirt.”
“That wasn’t any old ratty t-shirt, Adam. That was my 2011 One Direction concert t-shirt. It’s a collector’s item.”
Or, probably would be if the pits didn’t have sweat stains and there wasn’t a hole around the collar. I don’t know how that got there because I rarely ever wear it….during the day.
Only at night….on the days that end in Y.
Adam rolls his eyes. Behind him, palms tower and a pier extends far out into the ocean.
“Are you on the beach?” I ask. A seagull caws loudly in answer. He flips the camera around and shows me the beach. It’s a jagged cliff that drops off to a huge expanse of sand that meets towering waves and I spot a group of surfers in the distance sitting on boards past the breaking waves. Right before he flips the camera back to himself, I catch a glimpse of Levi exiting the water. He does a little shake of his head and water droplets fly from his dark brown waves and roll down his hard, tight, chest. There’s a tattoo on his right peck I can’t quite make out. I’m momentarily mesmerized, mouth agape, when I realize Adam has already flipped the camera back around to face him.
“Aly?” Adam asks. “I asked what you thought of the place?”
“Hot,” I answer, snapping my mouth shut. “I mean the place looks really hot. But really fun. Are you having fun?” I pull the phone from my face to pinch the bridge of my nose, realizing I’m rambling.
“Yeah, we’re having a blast. Hey, how’s Pretzel? Are you two getting along?” It’s my turn to flip the camera around. Pretzel, sensing her human on the phone, has been the most polite and well-mannered puppy you could ask for. Thinking maybe we’ve finally rounded a corner, I decide not to tell Adam about Pretzel’s recent antics. “Where’s my sweet girl?” Adam asks in a ridiculously over the top baby voice. Pretzel sniffs the phone and gives it a huge, slobbery lick. My whole body shudders before I wipe it off on my dress.
“Is that the old Hardware Store on King Street?” Levi asks, and I instantly get a little clammy and my mouth goes dry. Why is this happening? I see half naked, perfectly handsome men on the beach all the time. I tell myself to snap out of it, but not before trying to catch a glimpse of that mysteriously delicious tattoo. It’s hidden out of the screen which is so disappointing and reluctantly flip the camera around to begin the tour of Bloomie’s.
“It is,” Adam and I answer at the same time.
My heart swells with the pride in Adam’s voice. He helped me with every single renovation in this old building and together, we did a pretty great job.
Turning a hardware store into a floral studio was no easy feat. Scuffed hardwoods, mismatched paint, and the generically stale scent of a hardware store became refinished flooring, white shiplapped walls, open shelving, and a huge floral showpiece hanging above the register. Two large coolers sit in the back, and in front of that is a workbench Adam and I had made from reclaimed wood from a barn right outside of Charleston. Fresh flowers sit in buckets all around the store, mixed in with trinkets and candles and come together in a way that makes Bloomie’s so unique. We’ve acquired quite the business over the past two years, and our spot on King Street guarantees steady business from locals and tourists alike, which is something we need to keep up with the hefty rent. Last year, we were even featured inSouthern Livingas a top ten destination for Charleston. Since then, business has only grown.
“Wow, that looks great, Aly!” Levi says.
“Thanks,” I answered shyly right when the bell above the front door jingles.
“Wow, it’s hotter than Charlie Hunam outside. I never thought I would say that, because he’s smoking.”
Emma’s loud and boisterous voice fills the studio as she bustles through the front door. Today, she’s wearing a tie dyed Bloomie’s tee, a pair of camouflage cargo pants, and a pair of hot pink Converse. She lays her stuff on the counter and fans herself wildly, tiny giraffes swinging from her ears. Her blonde pixie cut is starting to frizz and I smile to myself, knowing Emma thinks her outfit today is pure gold.
When I say I have eccentric taste, I mean I err on the side of 60s and 70s outfits from the thrift store. If I can find a vintage Lily Pulitzer for under twenty dollars, it’s been a good day. On the other hand, Emma’s style is one hundred percent Emma. Nothing about it makes sense other than she likes it, and I think that’s one of the major reasons we have been best friends since high school. Emma is her own person, and she’s changing for no one.
She rambles about a few online orders we received last night, clearly unaware that I’m FaceTiming with my childhood crush who’s grown into an impossibly hotter version of my wildest dreams, when she notices Pretzel laying behind the counter. Pretzel trots over and gives her a lazy lick on the hand, clearly happy to see her.
I frown, wondering why she only hatesmeand return my attention to my phone. “I’ll let you all go. Send me pics of the good stuff, Adam!”
I hang up, wondering why I’m imagining another shirtless picture of Levi coming through my phone. When I saidthe good stuff,I meant the beaches, the scenery, the food. Definitelynotshirtless Levi.
I shake my head to clear my mind and turn to Emma. She’s already grabbed a vase from the shelf and is making five large arrangements, all with daisies, poppies, and sunflowers spilling out.
“Did you say we had some orders come through the website last night?” I ask.
