There’s a knock on the jamb of the open door, and it’s him standing there. Neck, nice hair. No smile, but still—a softness there when he looks at me.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I lower my brow at him, signaling my confusion over this apology.
“They’re a lot. I know they are. Things will be quieter tomorrow, I’m sure. The kids will be—”
“Adam,” I interrupt, embarrassed by how transparent I’ve obviously been. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not them; it’s me. I’m . . .”
I shrug my shoulders. I don’t know what I am.
Ask me, I think.Ask me what I am.
He doesn’t, and I suppose I only have myself to blame. Or thank. I don’t know which anymore.
“If it was too much to bring you here, we can go.”
I shake my head. “No. No, it’s—they’re really nice. This was nice of you, to bring us here. Tegan’s having a great time already. It’s good for her.”
There’s a long pause, and then Adam takes another step into the room, tucks his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
“I wanted it to be good for you,” he says finally. Quietly.
God. That warm and wonderful feeling. I have to look down at my feet. I let my hair slip over my shoulders, convenient curtains for my flushed cheeks. I think the right thing to say, the polite thing to say, would be something like,Itisgood for me.
But the problem is, I can’t tell if it’s atruething to say. I can’t see past how overwhelmed I am—by being around this family and not knowing how tobe, by seeing, as if from a distance, how locked down I keep myself in even the most harmless, welcoming of circumstances. Away from home . . . no, away from homeandon this break from the Baltimore story . . . it’s as though those locks inside me are rattling themselves in frustration.
When I don’t respond, he comes to stand beside me. Facing the shelves, his hands still in his pockets. It takes a good long while, but I wait until my face has cooled before I look up and over at his profile. His eyes course over all those photos and trophies and certificates.
“You must’ve really loved football,” I say, relieved to ignore the rattling for a little longer.
He shrugs. “You’d think that.”
“You didn’t?”
“I loved parts of it. But really, it was sort of that I was built for it, at least around these parts. When I was a kid, it was a given. I was tall from a young age. I put on muscle easily; I was fast. Of course I’d play football, everyone knew that. So I did, and I was good at it. I committed to it. It brought me a lot of opportunities. Free college, and a job right after. Trips to a lot of places. My best friend.”
Without thinking, I take the smallest step sideways, closer to where he stands. My shoulder barely brushes against the side of his arm. I doubt he even feels it, whereas I feel it everywhere.
“Why’d you stop playing?”
He looks at one of those no-neck photos.
“The parts I hated, I hated. And there were more of those parts, after a while. My body hurt. I was hurting other people’s bodies. I was afraid of the life I’d have in ten, twenty years if I kept playing. I was afraid of the person I’d be.”
I nod, inexplicably emotional. I’m probably overtired, but also . . . he’s such abigperson. He contains multitudes, I think. Why would anyone think a hugeness like his would only be good for football?
“Adam,” I say, and same as when we were in the van, his eyes go right to mine. But this time I’m not going toNever mindhim or not answer him. For once, I’m going to be honest with him.
“It’s not that it’s not good for me here.” I fight the urge to look away, to put my eyes on something else as I finish. I fight to hold his gaze, and I win. “It’s that I’m not sure I know what’s good for me anymore.”
As soon as I say it, I realize that in spite of my earnest effort, it’s still not quite the truth.
Because I’m pretty sure that being near him is good for me.
He’s quiet again, and there’s a clutch of embarrassment in my stomach as I come to another uncomfortable realization: Other than various versions ofAre you okay?andWhy in God’s name would you pick sour gummy worms?Adam hasn’t asked me a single personal question since I told him not to, that day in my father’s front room.
I gave him instructions, and he’s followed them to the letter.
