Davis returns from a room in the hallway without our bags and catches me taking the place in. He laughs. “Sorry about the mess. As you can see I’m a graphic designer. I just got back last night from a show in New York and haven’t had time to clean the place up.”
“New York, huh?” I turn to Adam and cross my arms. Adam shrugs back at me, oblivious to my interest in his cousin’s trip.
Davis begins to roll up a large mural. “After you two are settled in your room, I’ll cook up whatever Adam can eat. Until then, let me know if there’s anything else I can get you.”
“Thanks,” I say as Adam pulls me to the hallway. “It’s awesome of you to take us in like this, really.”
The first doorway leads to a small room with a mattress on the floor among more artistic supplies. Our bags sit in the corner. “At least you can paint pictures of me when you can’t sleep,” I tease, collapsing to the bed. “By the way, you forgot to mention your brother goes to school in New York. Seems you’re the only one in your family who hasn’t been there.”
Adam shuts the door behind him and slowly lays down at my side, careful not to jar his healing wounds. He hooks me with his arm, pulling me close. “I wasn’t going to waste our time out there trying to meet up with him. We don’t even get along, so it would’ve been pointless. Besides, he would’ve told my parents where I was hiding out.”
I roll my eyes and breathe out an exasperated sigh. “It would’ve saved me the trouble of tricking you into coming home.”
He runs a finger across my cheek, his expression solemn. “I get the feeling it’s going to take me a lifetime to make it up to you.”
“Yeah, pretty much.” I lean in to kiss him deeply, reminding myself not to take it too far. Then I lean away, grinning. “As soon as you’re properly healed, I know of a few ways you can make things right.”
He runs his fingers through a strand of my hair. “If you keep kissing me like that, I’m going to have to sleep on the couch until I’m cleared for physical activity.”
“We could go back to the no touching rule.” I lift my eyebrows.
“No way.” Adam brings me back up against him, planting another long, soulful kiss on my lips. When we part, my toes tingle in anticipation. “I’ll never make that mistake again. I don’t plan on letting another day pass without getting to touch you.”
I snuggle up against him, my hormones lit like a blazing torch. Soon I hear his light snores beneath me.
As Adam works on his continuing recovery, I put in some hours at one of my mom’s stores in Rochester to build on my depleted savings. Although the surgery leaves him incredibly weak, sometimes even requiring the use of a wheelchair when we go places like the mall or the grocery store, Adam’s doctors are upbeat that he won’t reject the new kidney. But there’s no guarantee. And I have to remind myself during our heated make out sessions to be gentle with him.
On August 4th we celebrate my twenty-first birthday with my parents at a swanky hibachi grill in downtown Rochester. They give me a card filled with more than enough money to make it through the rest of the summer. I’m relieved when they keep the conversation fairly light rather than asking questions on what Adam and I expect to do next. I’ve spent hours on the phone with my mom since staying in Rochester, and we agreed to take one day at a time. My dad only met Adam for a brief moment when his parents came to retrieve Adam from our house, but Dad seems impressed, and even shakes Adam’s hand with a genuine smile when it’s time to go.
Adam and I end the night on the backside of a grassy reserve in Davis’s pickup with champagne and chocolates for me, bottled water for Adam. It’s surreal to be in the back of the pickup again, bringing both good and bad memories of our road trip flooding back like the opening of a flood gate. He even breaks out the worn dinosaur blanket again, finally confessing it was something the nurses at the hospital gave him after he was first diagnosed.
I provide the tunes, of course. Nothing could be more perfect as we gaze up at the stars, jamming to Coldplay as they rock what is officially now known as “our” song.
“Just think,” I say, running my fingers over his healed tattoo as the song ends, “if you hadn’t listened to me, I’d probably be picking out tunes for your memorial service instead of getting to do this.”
Before he can yell at me for saying “I told you so” or being so morbid, I spring over him to press my lips to his, sucking on his bottom lip, then his neck, and letting my hands wander down to his shorts. We’ve both been eager to have sex for the first time since his surgeon finally gave the all clear.