Page 15 of Love in the Stacks
Around four that afternoon, Adam appears in my office doorway. “You about ready?” he asks.
“Perfect timing.” I smile at him from my desk chair. My laptop has just finished shutting down, so I snap the lid closed and slideit into my tote bag. I sling the tote over my shoulder as I stand and then retrieve my rolling suitcase from the corner, scanning my desk for anything I might have forgotten.
Adam steps into my office and reaches out his hand, taking hold of the suitcase handle. “I can take that,” he says.
“Such a gentleman,” I tease.
His car is a practical four-door sedan, white and wide, and I notice as I slide into the front seat, immaculately clean. Pretty on brand.
As soon as we hit the highway, traffic is slow. I check the maps app on my phone and it’s still saying I’ll get to the airport about an hour and half before the flight leaves, so that’s good. Sure enough, the traffic thins, and our pace picks up.
Adam and I chat about our Christmas plans, the graphic novel project, and other odds and ends. It’s comfortable, which is strange seeing how we’ve only been working closely with each other for a few weeks. Before I know it, we’re pulling into the departures section of the airport and I’m directing Adam to my airline. He pulls up alongside the walkway and puts the car in park.
I hesitate before opening the car door. “You know,” I say, “I won’t be checking my work messages during the break, but I’d hate to miss any memes…”
Adam’s ears turn pink. “Oh?” he says, keeping his eyes steady on mine.
“What if I give you my phone number and if you find any good ones, you can text me?”
He shrugs, picking up his phone. “I could do that.”
I grin, rattling off my number as I fling the door open. “Thanks again, Adam. See you in a few weeks.”
“Have a safe trip, Nicole.”
The way he says my name, a little growly, makes me turn around and look at him again, but his face is impassive, so I push it out of my mind. The trunk pops open when I reach the back of the car, and I pull out my suitcase. I slam the lid down and step onto the sidewalk. With one last wave to Adam, I turn to walk through the automatic doors. I glance back over my shoulder; Adam doesn’t pull away until I’m fully inside the airport. It’s not until the plane is halfway to Austin that I realize I never gave him gas money.
Chapter nine
Nicole
Dad meets me at the baggage claim and I throw my arms around him. When he squeezes me, my whole body stills, and my chest expands more fully than it has in months. My parents have always been a sanctuary. Peaceful and secure, I always feel centered in the midst of their love. Not that they’ve never lost their cool, but when they did, I always knew they loved me unconditionally.
“You should have waited in the cell phone lot,” I chide. “You didn’t have to pay for parking.”
“Eh, I didn’t know how much you brought, and I wanted to help with your luggage.” He squeezes me again. “I’m glad you’re home, baby girl.”
As we wait by the luggage carousel for my roller bag to come through, I study my father. He’s just under six feet tall with long legs and a round middle. His head of hair is full, but graying, combedback in the same hairstyle he’s maintained all his adult life. I notice a few more lines across his forehead and around his gray-blue eyes since the last time I saw him. He doesn’t look weathered by any means, but he looks his age, fifty-five years of life and laughter and experiences written across his features. He’s wearing jeans and a bright red and green sweater.
I grin and nod at his chest. “Still a week until Christmas,” I tell him.
“Your mother made me wear it,” he grumbles. “Molly got in yesterday, so everyone’s staying up late to decorate the tree tonight.”
I hold up my hand. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. It’s very festive.”
He shakes his head. “Uh huh,” he says.
“Oh, there’s my bag,” I exclaim.
Dad insists on pulling it from the conveyer belt for me and rolls it out the airport doors toward the parking garage. When I step outside, I’m glad for my sweatshirt. St. Anastasia hasn’t cooled off much yet, but here in Austin, it feels ten degrees colder.
My childhood home is in the southwest suburbs of Austin. The two-story brown and gray brick house was a beautiful refuge growing up. I had my own bedroom, which is still furnished how it was in my teens, and a large backyard that backs up against a protected green space—twenty acres of woods to explore. My sisters and I had secret hideouts throughout the wilds of that space, and I had a few hideouts for just myself, where I would go to read or think, especially during my tumultuous high school years.
My mom and sisters greet me when we get to the house, and then we dive right into decorating. Though my parents have alreadyhung decorations in the grand entryway of the house and around the exterior, the Christmas tree is traditionally tucked in the back, in our family room overlooking the backyard, just for us. Dad has already set up the artificial tree next to the gas-powered fireplace. Stacked on the couch and the floor are plastic bins holding our family’s hodgepodge collection of Christmas ornaments.
As predicted, Mom puts out plates of Christmas cookies and hands us each a mug of hot chocolate. We dim the family room lights so we’re awash in only the glow of the twinkle lights on the tree. Olivia sets up her Bluetooth speaker and blasts Christmas music as Dad unpacks ornaments wrapped in old newspaper and tissue paper. Many are homemade—disfigured foam reindeer or Santas with cotton ball beards that me or my sisters crafted when we were children, name and age written on the back with permanent marker in my mom’s handwriting. When Dad unwraps one of these treasures, he hands it to its artist, who hangs it on the tree.
Mom is in her element. Her hazel eyes dance with merriment as she tugs a hair tie off her wrist and loops it around her long, straight hair—gray for years now since she stopped coloring it in protest of unrealistic beauty standards for aging women. She’s petite—several inches shorter than me—and plump in the way giving birth to three babies will do to a woman who has always liked sweets too much. Her red and green Christmas sweater matches my dad’s, and her jingle bell earrings jangle with her every step.
