by Clark, Kaisa
Suddenly my heart is thundering in my chest. His words hang thickly in the air around me, making it hard to breathe. I’m all too aware of how close he is. If I turned my head even slightly, my lips would brush his. I wonder how they’d taste and how they’d feel pressed up against my own.
His voice is low and husky when he finally goes on, his mouth lightly grazing my ear as he says, “I really think it was the Marsala.”
My head rolls back with another swell of laughter at his unexpected comment. My eyes are tearing up from laughing so hard. I move my hand to wipe them away and that’s when I catch sight of Damien. He’s standing a couple feet away watching our exchange with arms crossed and a look that could kill.
“You better lock it up, Clausen. I'm not doing double the cleaning duty on account of your dumb ass.”
I burst out laughing again. “This doesn't count! I really think it was the Marsala!”
“You better hope so.” Adam smiles broadly and taps the key for me on the computer screen.
Even after he’s gone, I have to fight to regain my composure. I swear I can still feel him pressed against me, can feel his breath whisper soft on my skin, hear his voice low in my ear. Try as I might, a cheesy grin is practically etched onto my face. Annabelle passes me on my way back to my section and eyes me suggestively, clearly seeing Adam-euphoria written in my gaze and in my smile. Her attention makes me feel all the more ridiculous, and yet the grin refuses to dissipate.
When it’s time for the party’s food to come out, Damien and Adam help me carry it out to the table so they can watch the exchange. Eyeing the woman with the questionable order sweetly, I set the plate in front of her.
“Here’s your Chicken Marsala ma'am.”
She looks surprised for an instant and Adam's face lights up, thinking things are going in his favor. Long, silent seconds tick by before the woman finally meets my eye and replies, “Oh, thank you! This looks delicious.”
Damien bursts out with a booming “Yessss!” and high fives me. Adam retreats from the table with his hands held up in defeat.
“There's still time,” he says brightly as we walk towards the kitchen. “I just need to up my distraction game.”
“No way, dude!” Damien cuts him off. “You can't influence the bets. Face it, you're stuck cleaning the chef’s line tonight and doing the beverage station for me. Alexa, what do you have? He should have to do your side duty too for betting against you.”
I grin widely. “Great idea, Damien! It’s just the soda machine. It won’t be that hard.”
“That’s what she said,” Damien intones, not missing a beat. He can always be counted on to turn even the dullest of statements into a dirty joke.
Adam chooses to ignore him, letting out a slight groan at the added workload, but doesn’t protest further.
At the end of the shift I stick around to help Adam with all the cleaning assignments. In all actuality, staying to clean with him sounds more appealing than doing just about anything else. Damien, on the other hand, has no problem whatsoever taking off as soon as his tables are empty. He pulls off his tie and claps Adam on the back, calling out, “See yah, sucker!” before heading out the door.
I grab a washrag and follow Adam out to the open chef’s line that spans the length of one side of the dining room, not listening when he tells me I don’t need to help, and we begin wiping the surface down. Adam intentionally wipes in my way and his hand collides with mine. He grins at me mischievously and says, “Watch where you’re wiping, Clausen,” but continues to get in my way. By the time we start on the soda machine the restaurant is completely empty except for the two of us and Jim, who’s sequestered in the back office doing paperwork. I’m soaking the nozzles in hot water when Adam begins pelting me with ice cubes from the ice chest. A fat cube lands in my apron pocket, melting around my chocolates and loose change. My hand darts instinctively into my pocket to rescue the candies.
“Oh no, not the chocolates!” he cries with exaggerated distress.
“You think that’s so funny?” I smirk, tossing one at him. He sidesteps smoothly out of the way, avoiding the impact. When he leans forward to scoop more ice from the bin I try again. This time the chocolate lands in the breast pocket of his shirt. His mouth drops open and his eyes flash to mine.
“Oh, now it’s on!” he chuckles.
He scoops a cup into the ice bin and chases me down the long, narrow kitchen, lobbing cubes at my backside.
“Wait!” I squeal with laughter when I reach the end, panting on the opposite side of a steel prep table from him.
He acts like he’s retreating, turning away with slow steps, but swiftly pelts me again, three cubes at once.
Jim must hear my shrieks because he comes out of the office to investigate, hands on his hips, brow furrowed. Even on good days, Jim has more attitude than a room full of middle schoolers, his temper noticeably flaring anytime he catches people fooling around on the clock.
“What’re you still doing here, Alexa? I cut you hours ago.”
“Adam and I are doing side duty.” I try to make my voice sound nonchalant, like I wasn’t just having the time of my life cleaning on a Friday night.
“Doesn't sound like side duty. Sounds like playing. Go home.” He stomps back towards the office, grumbling under his breath.
Adam sets his cup of ice down. “We’re almost done, Lex. You should go. You've given up enough of your night to help me.”
“I really don't mind,” I assure him.
“Well that’s a relief,” he exhales, smiling and tossing me a washrag. “It’s nice having you here.”
It’s nice having me here. Everything inside me flutters to life at the possibility in that statement.
When we finally finish up, Adam walks with me to my car. The parking lot is mostly dark, faintly illuminated by the pale glow from the street lamps scattered intermittently between the stalls. It’s eerily quiet; the only sound is the crunch of our shoes against the pavement. When we reach my car he turns to face me, silently scanning over my features, his eyes bright yet unreadable. I wish he’d look at me like that forever.
His gaze drops and he clears his throat. “Thanks for your help tonight. You really didn't have to stay. You won the bet.”
”Next time you lose I’m sticking you with all of it for sure.” I gently push his arm in jest, wanting desperately to recapture that look in his eyes, even if only for a second.
He nudges me back, a slight smile edging out. “Losing tonight was a fluke.” He toes the ground by my car, his smile fading as he adds, ”I should’ve known better than to bet against you.”
He looks up again, a soft expression on his face, his dark eyes piercing mine. I feel his gaze ricochet through my insides, lighting me up from within. We stand frozen, eyes locked, neither of us moving, until he finally turns to climb into his car, saying brightly, “Thanks again for the help, Lex. You’re a great friend.”
There it is. That word again. It cuts like a knife, searing hotly into my chest, bringing me back down to earth. All the bliss and euphoria from our night together drains away, leaving in its wake nothing but questioning and self-doubt as I watch his taillights disappear.
If I’m being honest, I don’t know why Adam would go for me. I’m plain where he’s bold. I’m muted where his whole personality is loud. I've spent my whole life in the middle, floating along midway between passion and despondency, never experiencing those extremes. Never ignited. Never magic. Never fire. That's Annabelle. I'm the simple one, the one who chose a math major because it's what's easy not because it's inspired. My whole life has been that way, always middle ground. My parents are happily married. My dad kisses my mom goodbye every day as he leaves for work. We have happy family dinners whenever my brother is back in town from P.A. school. It's always very cookie cutter. I've never broken the mold.
And sure guys have asked me out, I've dated, I've “gone for the gold” as Annabelle would say, but it's always been flat. It’s alway
s been comfortable. There’ve been no dramatic breakups, no falling in love, just two people getting together then slowly coming apart. I've never fallen. I've never soared. I’ve never let my guard down. Sometimes it feels like my whole life I've never experienced one thing that’s truly woken me up. It’s all been so bland.
And Adam… Adam is fire. Adam is magnetic. Adam is gravity, that undeniable pull no one can avoid. He is bold and intoxicating and luminescent. Why would he go for me? Plain, simple me. I don't know who Annabelle thinks she's kidding.
Chapter 3
I take my time driving to Annabelle’s apartment, still needing time to decompress after the rollercoaster evening I spent with Adam. When I arrive, she has a massive pizza spread across her coffee table.
I dangle a bottle of Moscato in front of her. “Always keeping it classy. Pizza and wine.”
“Only one?” she pouts.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got another in my bag.”
Annabelle, Carly, and I quickly learned one bottle goes way too fast when the three of us get together. I hand her the extra bottle and step into the familiarity of her apartment, essentially my second home. It’s a comfortable, welcoming space. The lighting is muted, emanating from a floor lamp in the corner, and there’s perpetually a candle burning on the coffee table, giving off fragrant hints of sweet roses or warm vanilla. Plus she's got this killer balcony, with white French doors that lead out to it. I notice Carly is already cozied into the neutral microfiber sectional, polishing off a slice of pizza. Her petite frame fits into the tiniest ball in the corner. As she reaches forward for another slice, her chin-length chestnut hair falls loosely around her face.
I settle in beside her and pop the cork off the first bottle, presenting it to Annabelle as if I were serving her at work. She smirks and tosses it over her shoulder towards the garbage can in the kitchen, missing terribly.
“You didn’t want to inhale the rich aroma? The fine hints of pear and honeysuckle?” I ask innocently.
She scoffs at me and takes a large gulp from the glass I poured her.
“So, making any progress on cavorting with Mr. Westbrook?” Her eyes bore into me with curiosity.
I let out an involuntary sigh at the thought of him and snuggle back into the cushions with my wine and a slice of pizza.
“I’ll take that as a no. Poor girl.” She pats my foot sardonically then helps herself to a slice.
“Tick tock my dear,” Carly pipes up between bites. “Before you know it he’ll be back at school.”
“Or even worse, someone else will snag him,” Annabelle taunts. “Have you seen the way Brittney falls all over him at work? She’s practically putting out at the host stand.”
A sharp pang of jealousy hits me at the thought of little, blonde Brittney-the-hostess going on dates with Adam, riding in his car, kissing his lips. I know I have no right to feel this way. I have no claim to him, and yet I can’t push it away. It curls up thick in my chest, pulls at the back of my mind. With everything in me, I wish it were me.
Carly snickers at Annabelle’s dramatic flare. “She’s right! Better step up your game. At least for now Brittney can only picture him naked in her dreams.”
“Alexa could be the founding member of that club!” Annabelle interjects, nodding my way. I glare and launch a couch pillow at her head. She catches it, laughing. “Not that I blame you. I mean, how could you spend any amount of time with that boy and not picture him naked?”
I shake my head at her outlandish comment, knowing I have. Often. In dramatic detail. But it’s not just the way he looks that has me hooked. It’s so much more. It’s who he is beneath all that drawing me back in year after year. It’s the ridiculous stories he tells, the sound of his laughter when we’re joking, the way he brings out all the parts of me I like best just by being who he is. But no matter how easy it is to joke and play around with him, the one thing that’s never been easy is to take things anywhere beyond that.
Annabelle turns to face me, eyeing me steadily. I wonder if she knows what I’m thinking because she leans in to clink her glass with mine.
“Hey,” she murmurs. “Fuck the friend zone.”
Carly and Annabelle’s warning sticks with me long after we’ve finished our wine and girl talk. I know all too well how short his time here is. I also know I don’t have it in me to tell him how I feel. I’m horrible with words. To me, numbers are what make sense. Equations always add up, always fit together neatly. There’s no ambiguity with math, no need to string jumbled characters together in the hopes they accurately convey how I feel. There’s always a right answer, and if I work at a problem long enough, I will find it. No amount of thought or focus is going to make telling Adam I want to be more than friends any easier.
Despite my inhibition, I still eagerly anticipate every shift I share with him. Pulling into the parking lot, my eyes immediately search for his car, my whole body awakening at the sight of it, knowing he’s waiting on the other side of those restaurant walls. The black on black M3 perfectly suits him; it’s sleek and alluring and completely one of a kind.
I find myself double-checking my reflection in my rearview mirror before I go in. I smooth my long, dark brown hair into a high ponytail and make sure I didn’t accidentally smear mascara all over my face. Aside from when Adam’s back, I rarely bother with makeup. He’s the only one I’ve ever really wanted to make an impression on. Luckily clear blue eyes stare back at me from the mirror, sans smudges, and I head inside.
It ends up being a slow lunch shift. Damien decides to keep things lively by initiating a game of dead legs among all the guys on the floor. The game basically involves punching another person in the leg when he least expects it. As a result, all the guys are on edge, constantly checking their surroundings and suspiciously eyeing one another over the dining room tables. They creep around the restaurant like soldiers on a mission, never leaving their backs exposed.
Adam, however, is not playing by the rules. He doesn't even try to beat any of the other guys' legs. But he does sneak around the restaurant, hiding behind booths and standing around corners between our sections so he can lurch out at me without a moment’s notice. When I make it to the kitchen to drop off some plates, he springs from behind a rack of dishes and snags me around the waist. I swear I can feel the warmth of each individual fingertip spreading through my abdomen. He folds me towards him, circling his arms around me and playfully pounding my thighs with gentle fists. I inhale deeply, relishing his scent, wondering how he manages to smell so amazing carrying around steaming bowls of pasta all day.
“Stop it!” I squeal, swatting at his fists and laughing so hard my stomach hurts. Even my laughter sounds completely different when Adam elicits it. It’s loud and full and bubbling.
“Oh shit, you’re in the game?” Damien asks, rounding the corner into the kitchen, eyebrows eagerly raised.
“No, I’m most certainly not in the game. He just doesn’t remember how to play by the rules.”
“My bad,” Adam jokes, releasing me and straightening his tie.
Annabelle struts up to me as the boys leave the kitchen, an appraising smirk spread over her face. “What was that about?”
I sigh and join her at the to-go station as she boxes up food. “Apparently I’m one of the guys now. So I’ve got that going for me.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“Are you kidding me A-Bel? That’s the complete opposite of how I want him to see me,” I pout.
“You don’t see him beating any other girls’ legs. I swear, that boy follows you around trying to get you to laugh like it’s his sole mission in life.”
I roll my eyes, knowing she’s exaggerating, and head to retrieve my table’s food. The chefs are still sautéing away, so I lean back against the chef’s line to wait. As I glance around the dining room, I notice a young host named Gabe pull Adam aside at the host stand. He’s a short, scrawny high school kid who desperately wants to be one of the guys. They’r
e barely within earshot, but I overhear Gabe asking Adam if he can join the game.
“Listen, man, of course you can play,” Adam says. “But I really don’t think you want to. The guys aren’t going to take it easy on you.”
“Trust me, I can handle it. I want in.”
“This shit hurts. Even for me.” His voice is protective, brotherly even, sounding markedly different from the playful delivery I’m so used to hearing.
“It looks like fun, Adam. I really want to play,” Gabe practically pleads.
Adam shrugs his shoulders, resigned, and calls Damien over. At Gabe’s announcement Damien lets out a deep snicker. “Oh shit, son! You sure?”
Gabe nods then turns to seat the latest table.
Damien watches him go. “I’m going to hit that little dude so freaking hard. He won’t even know what happened. Just boom!” He punches his palm emphatically and pretends to stagger backwards.
“What’s wrong with you? He’s a fucking kid.” The clipped sound of Adam’s voice startles me. It’s completely devoid of any joviality. It doesn’t even sound like Adam. I sneak a glance at his face, feeling like I shouldn’t be listening in, noticing the dark pools his eyes have become as he glares at Damien’s cavalier expression.
Damien reclines against the host stand nonchalantly. “Chill out, man. He said he wants to play.”
“That doesn’t mean you fucking bulldoze him.” Adam’s whole body is perfectly still as he glares at Damien. His stance is cold and stiff and radiating irritation. It’s so unlike anything I’ve ever seen from him before. I wonder what this is to him. Why does he even care?
Damien doesn’t seem at all surprised, isn’t acting like this sinister side of Adam is coming out of nowhere, when to me it’s the furthest thing from normal I’ve seen. He turns from Adam, scanning the dining room, aloof. “It’s not your job to protect him. Besides, if I don’t, someone else will. If he wasn’t ready to play he should’ve kept his damn mouth shut.”
