Page 58 of Love in the Stacks
“Deal.”
Adam falls asleep quickly after we start driving. True to my word, I focus on the road but steal a few glances at the passenger seat when I can. Adam’s head rests against the back of the seat, his face turned toward me. His glasses are off, grasped loosely in his right hand. Without them, his face looks younger, almost boyish, despite the stubble that shows he didn’t shave this morning. His eye lashes are long, laying delicately against his cheek. His mouth hangs open just a little. His positioning doesn’t suggest he would feel comfortable, but he hasn’t stirred, so the seat must be relaxing enough.
I pass the time while driving by listening to an audiobook. I have it on my phone, which I connect to Bluetooth in Adam’s car so it plays through the speakers. Rather than subject Adam to any ill-timed spicy scenes if he wakes up, and subject myself to the ensuing embarrassment, the book I turn on is more women’s fiction than romance. I think about the term “women’s fiction” and wonder why there isn’t a genre called “men’s fiction.” Is it because men are presumed to not read fiction? Or because books written about men are considered to apply to everyone, but books about women must only interest other women?
Unfortunately, my thought tangent causes me to miss hearing the details of how the main character’s boyfriend dies while … walking the dog or something? I skip back and let it play again. Ohhhh.
I’ve been driving, and Adam’s been sleeping, for about four hours when I see a Buc-ee’s sign. The gas gauge is getting low and I’mgetting hungry, so I pull off. It’s a different Buc-ee’s than where we stopped on the way to New Orleans, a little further west. I park and, leaving Adam still asleep in the car, I head inside. Picking out my own lunch is easy: sliced brisket sandwich and white cheddar nuggees. But I browse around to find lunch for Adam, too. He liked the sliced brisket sandwich the other day, so that’s a safe bet. I pick up a bag of sour gummy worms, and finally a fresh fruit cup. Then, I grab two bottles of water and cash out.
When I return to the car, my plan is to move it around to the gas pumps and fill the tank, but I see the passenger side door open, with Adam sitting sideways with his feet on the ground. As I approach, he grins at me.
“Hey there, sleepyhead,” I tease.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m not very good company today. And it looks like I missed a Buc-ee’s run?”
“Don’t worry,” I reassure him, handing him the bag with his food. “I’ve got you.”
He peeks into the bag and then looks up at me in awe. “You got me lunch?”
I shrug. “Of course. I think you’ll like what I got, but if I missed anything, I guess you can go in yourself now that you’re awake.”
He opens the bag again. “No, this is perfect. Thank you.” He chuckles. “You even got me sour gummy worms.”
I nod. “And I was about to get gas since we’re running low.”
He stands, stretching his legs as he does. “I can take over driving again now. I’m feeling much better.”
I laugh, handing him the keys. “Well, sure. After your four-hour nap.”
After eating my lunch, I end up falling asleep for a while, too. I thought I would feel too self-conscious to fall asleep in front of Adam, but as the car rolls along, the hum of the tires against the road has my eyelids turning heavy. I don’t try to fight it. I feel cozy and secure in the front seat of his car, so I let sleep take me.
Before I know it, the light outside has faded, and we’re exiting the highway toward St. Anastasia.
Adam pulls up outside my apartment just as the last few rays of the light from the sun are swallowed in the inky night sky.
He puts the car in park and unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’ll help you carry everything in,” he offers.
I nod and wait outside the car while he opens the trunk and shuffles around inside for my bags. I take two of the bags of books, the straps hoisted up on my shoulders, and he manages my suitcase and the rest of the books. I dig through my bag for my house keys as we walk up the stairs. When we reach the top, I have them ready, unlocking the door.
With the memory of my embarrassment after Soapbox lifting to the top of my mind, I ask Adam to set the bags just inside the doorway and I don’t invite him any further inside. He doesn’t seem to notice or mind. Instead, he stands on the landing outside my front door, fiddling with his car keys and looking nervous.
I search for the right words to say and finally blurt, “Thank you for volunteering your car for this trip. And doing most of the driving. I’m sorry again about the tire.”
He lifts his eyes to mine. “Don’t mention it,” he says.
We’re quiet for another awkward minute. He hasn’t brought up last night at all today. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. I should forget it happened, go inside, and Adam and I can return to our work-type friends sort of relationship. To be fair, holding hands is decidedly not a big deal, really just the smallest step toward anything romantic. But it feels like a monumental risk to me, an action I hadn’t considered taking with anyone else since Steven. Even now, my hand twitches, wanting to touch him. He’s so close, right in front of me. I could just lift my hand and place it on his arm or his shoulder. What would he think? I feel my eyebrows pulling together—those worry lines down my forehead are going to be deep in a couple of decades.
Breaking the spiraling train of my thoughts, Adam slowly reaches toward me and runs his index finger across my forehead, nestling into that space between my eyebrows, smoothing it out.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a husky voice.
I swallow. “Yep. Yes. Of course,” I say too brightly.
His hand moves down my face until he’s cupping it, his thumb moving slowly across the skin at the top of my cheek. I close my eyes, reveling in the sensation.
“Can I take you to dinner this week?” Adam asks softly.
“I’d like that,” I answer, covering his hand with my own.
