I doubt there’s ahowfor those. There probablyshouldn’tbe a how.
He blows out another breath, this one gusty and frustrated. When his body shifts with that frustration, the trampoline surface beneath us wobbles, and I list slightly to the side, catching myself on an outstretched hand. Adam and I both make the exact same Midwestern exclamation of surprise, quietopes as we steady ourselves, and it’s impossible not to meet each other’s eyes and smile, some of the tension scattering in the warm night wind.
“It’s really hard to be serious on a trampoline,” he says.
“Maybe that’s okay. Maybe we need the break.”
The whole reason we came here, after all, and neither of us has had much of one yet. At least my day included baking brownies and playing with some pretty good-natured kids while hanging out with my not-currently-mad-at-me sister. I’m pretty sure Adam hasn’t been so lucky.
His smile fades, his face turning solemn again.
“Salem says if things with her daughter aren’t settled in the next two days, we should go on to Tulsa. Without her.”
I’m strangely unaffected by the prospect of it. The Tulsa postcard was an odd one, the cheerfulness from Mom’s first two missives pretty muted. She mentioned the horses she saw in one line; in the next, she wrote of a tough few days, without any detail. She signed off by reminding me to go to my dad for help if I needed it, as though it was the first time it’d occurred to her to imagine I might be having some extremely tough days of my own.
A week ago, thinking of it would’ve made me feel that storm brewing in my chest. Right now, though, I can’t summon it. Maybe it’s because I’ve already been on two stops of this strange, searching road trip and survived them. Or maybe it’s what Adam said: It’s hard to be serious—stormy—on a trampoline.
“Okay.”
He almost looks more surprised than when I told him I wanted to try trusting him again.
“Okay?”
I nod. “Two more days here. Tulsa after.”
“Last night, I meant what I said, about wanting this break to be good for you. I still want that. I want you to have whatever you want, while you’re here.”
More inconvenient images, layering over the first set. Adam as I saw him after his late-night run, but this time, he peels off his sweat-soaked shirt and stands so close to me. He backs me into the hallway bathroom and puts a finger over his lips, reminding me to be quiet, as if I’d ever need to be told not to talk. His shoulders barely fit in the narrow shower, but they’re perfect for me to hold on to, anyway.
“Jess?”
I startle enough to ripple the trampoline again.
“Sorry, I was—” No good ending to that sentence, so I redirect entirely with a boring, blameless lie. “Actually, I think right now I want a brownie.”
I don’t even like brownies.
He stares at me for a beat, obviously not buying it. But then he nods. “All right.”
Neither of us moves.
He clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Need help?”
I smile, remembering his awkward clamber up here. “Doyou?”
He laughs—a quiet, embarrassed chuckle. “Probably.”
I stand easily, no wobble, but honestly, not laughing as Adam gets to his feet—a sort of crouching, crooked affair, with at least one full-on tip to the side—a Herculean effort. I give in when he cuts his eyes to mine and laughs at himself again.
“This thing wasn’t made for a man of my size,” he grumbles, when he’s finally up, and I cannot help myself. I do a little hop.
Adam raises his arms to the side, doing his best to balance through my teasing trampoline-wake.
“Hey now,” he scolds, but he’s on the verge of laughter, too.
“I thought athletes were supposed to be graceful.”
“I’m retired.” He narrows his eyes at me, suspicious of me doing it again, but it’s good-natured. It’s practically an invitation.
