Page 21 of Come in with the Rain
Adam must misread the look on my face because he says, “I swear, you can trust me. I would never do anything to—”
“It’s not that,” I cut him off because I don’t even want him to suggest anything like that. I’m not afraid of Adam. I feel safe with him, which I thought was obvious in the way I let him stay alone with me well after dark every night.
He’s waiting for me to explain, but how am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to tell him that once I’ve been in his home, once I know what it’s like, its smells and feels, I’ll never be able to come back from it? I’ll know a part of him that I’ll never be able to unknow, and I’m afraid of what that might do to me. But of course, I can’t say any of that.
So, I just say, “Okay.”
And that’s how I end up at Adam’s house, a little three-bedroom place on the other side of the 395 from me. The outside is a burgundy wood, and the inside is warm and cozy. While Adam makes us some tea, I scan the picture frames on his fireplace, pictures of him with Ford and a small redheaded woman, pictures of him when he was younger, maybe a teenager, with his arms around a couple that must be his parents. And at the end, a photo of Adam, Ford, the redhead, and one more guy I don’t recognize, all of them in battle fatigues.
I reach for the silver frame as a kettle whistles in the kitchen, jerking me out of my distraction. I set the frame back down and wander down the hallway. His kitchen is in the back of the house, the dark walls separating it from everything else in a closed floor plan. The kitchen is cluttered, papers all over the table and dishes piled in the sink, and when Adam turns to face me, it’s with an apologetic look on his face.
I ignore it. I won’t let him apologize for his own existence. “You were in the army?” I remember now, Abby mentioning it in an offhanded way, but I don’t remember the details. Maybe she didn’t have them.
He pauses, trying to catch up to my out-of-the-blue question. “The marines, actually. Right out of high school. That’s where I met Ford.”
I’m fascinated by this, by someone who has lived a life so completely different from mine. “And you both just happened to live here in Baltimore?”
He gives this weird little laugh, one half of his mouth tilting up. I’m caught by it while he talks, his full lips and his arched nose and his hair, blond and wild now that he’s taken off the cap he always wears while he works. “Nah. I was here already. I grew up here, in this house, actually. Ford was out at his parents’ farm in Pennsylvania. And Danika—she was in with us, and she runs a gym with Ford now—she was in New York. We all just kind of ended up here, once I set down roots. Ford moved out to open the gym, and Dani got jealous that we were both here, so she moved out, too.”
I love the idea of Adam growing up here. Eating breakfast at this table every morning, posing with his prom date at the end of the hallway, mowing the lawn on the weekend. “Did your parents buy a retirement home in Florida or something?”
Whatever joy was marking his face vanishes. “No. They died while I was in Afghanistan.”
His words slice through me, quick and sharp. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”
He nods a thank you and turns to pour our boiling water into two mugs, teabag strings sticking out of them. “They left me this place, and I can’t bring myself to sell it.”
I’m not sure what it is about the quiet of his house or the way it feels like we’re tucked into a private corner of the world, but it makes it easier to open my mouth, to lay a piece of myself in front of him. “My parents are gone, too. They died when my brother and I were ten.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. That would be a tough thing for a kid to go through.” He hands me one of the mugs, and we let the silence linger for a moment before he says, “My room is up by the front door. You can take my bed.”
I choke on my tea. “What? No. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
He waves me off. “It’s okay. I’ve got a pull-out in the couch in my office. I’ll be perfectly comfortable.”
“Then let me sleep on the pull-out.”
“Stella.” His tone makes it very clear that the subject is no longer up for debate. “My mother raised a gentleman.”
“Did she also raise a misogynist?”
He breaths a quiet laugh. “This has nothing to with you being a woman. You’re a guest. Ford sleeps in the bed when he gets too drunk to drive home.”
For some reason, the image makes me smile. Ford, big and burly and towering over everyone, stumbling into Adam’s room and collapsing on the bed.
I consider for another moment, knowing full well that it’s a terrible idea. This whole thing is. Because I was right. Now that I’ve seen his pictures and his messy kitchen and his sadness over his parents, I am emotionally compromised.
“I’ll find you something to sleep in,” he says, stepping out of the kitchen, and I don’t know whether or not I’m supposed to follow him, so I just do.
His bedroom is far less messy than the rest of the house, the bed unmade but clear of detritus. His nightstand holds a lamp, a half-empty glass of water, and a book on Maryland business licenses that has a receipt sticking out of it. No piles of laundry or questionable garbage. Nothing but the smell of him, heavy in the air, like a fog.
He hands me a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants and places an unopened toothbrush on top of them. Is this what real adults do, have spare toothbrushes for guests?
“Bathroom’s through there.” He points to an open door in the corner. “The office is right by the kitchen, if you need anything. I’ll let you turn in.”
I watch his back as he retreats, the strong press of his muscles, before he closes the door behind him, leaving me alone in his bedroom. I smile down at the toothbrush he gave me. So economical in its generic packaging. I consider going through his stuff, looking for old love letters, trophies from serial murders, kinky porn. But I don’t think I’m willing to betray his trust.
I wonder, suddenly, if he’s gone through any of my things while he was alone in my apartment. He doesn’t seem like the type. I settle for sliding open the drawer of his nightstand, expecting tissues or lube or a sock or something, but there’s not so much as a box of condoms. Interesting.
