I clear the dryness in my throat, then drown it with wine as silence swirls around us, hoping I haven’t crossed a line.
“And what about you?” Adam finally asks. “Do you like to be in control?”
“I have to be in control. At school, at work, I don’t have the luxury of letting my emotions get the best of me. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, holding it in, and I fail sometimes. Sometimes I fail often, but I’m trying. And at home, I—” I stop myself before I say too much, something I’m not ready to share. “I depend on routine. I should be more flexible, but it stresses me out to even think about changing something in my day to day sometimes. So, yes, I’m in control. But do I like to be?” I nibble my lip as I look to Adam, the way he’s watching me with rapt attention, drinking in every word. “Sometimes I crave someone else to take control, just so I don’t have to. Just so I can let go, even for a moment. Being in control all the time, it’s…exhausting.”
Adam leans back on his hands, staring at the bright blue sky slowly fading to a pretty shade of lilac as the sun dips. When his eyes find mine, something in my chest wants to break wide open, let him see inside, the fears, the insecurities, the little joys and triumphs, all the nuances that shape me. Somehow, it feels like that’s what he wants too.
“What if this is your safe space to do that? What if when you’re with me, you can give it up, let it go, and just…be?”
“It’s a nice idea.” Farfetched, but nice. The anxiety, the obsessive-compulsive tendencies that surround my routines and shape my life, they’re a voice in my head that’s less agreeable, less hopeful. They tell me I can’t let go, because what happens when I do? Chaos, disorder. Things I’ll need to fix.
“It doesn’t have to be just an idea.” He lays his hand on top of mine, a gentle touch that soothes the worries. “You say you’re a worst-case scenario expert, and the idea of giving up any amount of control ever is probably horrifying, but maybe with time and a little trust, we learn to give and take control when we need to. For each other, and for ourselves.”
I turn my palm over, watching as he traces the lines in it. “Does it make sense that the idea is as daunting as it is calming?”
“It makes perfect sense, Rosie. Nothing worth having ever comes easy, does it? We want the calm, but sometimes we have to brave the storm to get there.”
His words settle around me like a cozy blanket, and a shiver runs through me when his fingers leave my palm, traveling up the inside of my forearm, making me wiggle. “So wise. What are you, a therapist?”
He chuckles softly. “Nope.”
“Am I close?”
“Not even a little bit, trouble.”
“Hmm…” I jerk my arm away when he tickles me again, hiding my face when my giggle starts spiraling into pig-snort territory. Taking his hand in mine, I turn it over, trading places with him as I run the tips of my fingers over his palm.
“Are you a…dog trainer?”
His eyes glitter as he shakes his head. “Nuh-uh.”
“Teacher?”
“Nope.”
“Realtor?”
“Cold.”
“Police officer?”
“Colder.”
“Heavy equipment operator? Accountant? Do you work in HVAC? Oh my God.” I spin toward him, nearly crawling into his lap. “Are you a private detective?”
He laughs, snaking his arm around my waist, pulling me between his legs, back against his chest. The thunder of his heart gives way to his nerves as I wait for his answer.
“I’m a, uh…” He clears his throat. “I work with athletes.”
“Athletes? Like, sports teams?”
He swallows. “Professional ones.”
“Oh.” My nose wrinkles. “Uh-oh.”
He stiffens. “What?”
“I don’t know anything about sports. I have no talking points. I’m sorry. I can barely tell a baseball glove from a hockey mitten.”
He snorts a beautiful, glorious laugh. “Glove.”
I lean to the side so I can look at him over my shoulder. “Huh?”
“Hockey glove, not mitten. Unless you’re talking about what the goalie wears, then that’s a catcher and a blocker. And actually, mitt is perfectly acceptable for baseball gloves, especially the catcher’s mitt.” He chuckles, poking the dimple in my chin. “But not hockey gloves.”
“That’s just confusing. They all go on your hands. Why so many different names?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know.”
“What do you do with the athletes at work?”
Blue eyes meet mine, and the worry there, the grief, it steals my breath, digs a hole in my chest and carves a home that aches. I’m not sure what he’s looking for as his gaze roams my face, but if it’ll take away this heaviness, I hope he finds it.
Instead, he drops his gaze. When he looks back at me, it’s with a reservation that dulls the sparkle in his eyes, seems unnatural on such a kind, open man.
“A little bit of everything,” he finally tells me, trailing his finger across the nick on my knee from shaving. “Training, nutrition, traveling.” His mouth quirks, and he winks. “All the boring stuff.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Very much. Wouldn’t trade it for any other job.”
“That’s what matters, isn’t it? Too many people spend their days being miserable at work. Life is far too short to not love what you do.”
Adam smiles at me. “You’re right. What’s life if it isn’t full of what you love?”
“Does it bother you I’m not into sports?”
“Not at all. It’s refreshing. Gives me something else to talk about.”
I cover his hand on my thigh. “Will you tell me more about you? I want to know everything.”
His gentle smile slows the race of my heart, and I relax into his body as he tells me about his life in Vancouver, how he spends his summers with his dog and his friends, how he’s loving being Uncle Adam to his best friend’s five-month-old daughter, and that although he moved here for work and never wants to leave, he grew up in Colorado. I eat everything up, though somehow feeling unsatiated, like I’m missing big pieces of him.
We talk forever, even as he proudly displays the chocolate-covered strawberries and chocolate chip cookies he made for dessert, as he catches the strawberry juice trickling down my chin, bringing his thumb to his mouth and tasting it.
The quiet only starts to settle in when the sky dims, and I become painfully aware of everywhere we’re connected. His chest pressed to my back, rising steadily. The brush of his fingers on my thighs, skimming the climbed hem of my dress. His chin on my shoulder and his lips at my ear, all of it a stark contrast to the cool breeze that starts to nip at my bare arms.
Adam runs his hand over my arms, a sizzling heat that, somehow, only elicits more goose bumps. “Here,” he whispers, reaching behind the pillows, producing a sweater.
I slip the soft fleece over my head, burying myself in his warmth. A dizzying feeling rushes to my head as the smell of Adam surrounds me—an earthy, spicy scent, something clean and crisp like citrus, and the forever comforting scent of fresh laundry.