Always the Last Word (Always the Bridesmaid #4)(10)

There's already a light dusting of snow and ice on the ground and it's still coming down as I slowly creep my car down the street and in the direction of the bar, all the while plotting on how I'm going to make Rachel's hangover feel even worse tomorrow. Maybe I'll call into work and listen to polka while cooking something so pungent it manages to work its way to her apartment upstairs. Of course, I'm such a pathetic cook, it wouldn't be difficult for me to prepare something with a stench.

"Thank you thank you thank you," Rachel says, diving into the back seat of my car. Carter is right on her heels. I turn to make sure they both buckle their seatbelts and can't help but smile to see that Rachel is wearing Carter's beanie. I don't know that I've ever seen Carter without a beanie or hat on his head. His hair is shaved close to his scalp, and I'm happy to discover that there is no evil sorcerer living on the back of his head, which may or may not have been a theory I had as to why he always insisted on wearing a beanie. You know, because I'm a rational adult. 

"Where am I taking you drunk idiots?" I ask, idling the car at the edge of the parking lot.

"Wait a second, Evie. Just hold that thought," Carter says before answering his ringing phone. "Iberico, now you answer, you asshole.  …  No, we're good. Evie picked us up because she's a good fucking friend that doesn't ignore phone calls.  …  Really? Fine. My loyalty is yours, sir." Carter shoves his phone into his pocket. "We're going to my place. Adam is making food."

"Thank God. I'm so hungry. I've never been this hungry in my life. Hey, Evie. You should come eat food with us," Rachel says, throwing her hand onto my headrest.

"Are you stoned?"

"What? No, of course not. I'm just drunk and hungry." She taps the back of my seat. "You should definitely eat some food with us."

"I think I'll pass. I need to get home and get some sleep. Think Adam will take a rain check?"

Carter snorts. "Yeah, I'm sure he won't take offense to you not wanting to eat something he made. It's not like he has the most fragile ego known to mankind when it comes to his cooking ability or anything."

"And it seems as if Rachel has informed you that I can't handle guilt. Fine. I'll go in, just for a minute, but only because I don't think you two can make it up a flight of stairs without supervision."

Rachel claps her hands together excitedly.

The next twenty minutes include driving to Carter and Adam's apartment at a snail's pace because I am overly cautious of driving in the snow, a painfully slow but mostly successful parallel parking job, and recording Rachel and Carter's slow ascent up a flight of apartment stairs on my phone for future blackmail.

"Here, drunkards," Adam says, handing a plate of French fries to Carter.

"I love you," Carter tells him, handing the plate of fries to Rachel so that he can hug his roommate.

"Literally just took them out of the freezer and put them on a cookie sheet, dude," Adam says, clapping Carter on the back.

"The way he talked, I was expecting a five-course meal," I say to Adam as the drunken couple disappears into Carter's room, fries in hand.

"It doesn't take much to please a drunk Carter," he says. "Um, thanks for picking them up. "

"It was no problem."

Adam scratches the back of his head. "Do you want a cup of coffee or something? You know, for the road?"

"Sure."

He smiles a little and heads into the kitchen. I follow behind him.

"I don't know why I said coffee. It's almost one o'clock. How about a Coke? Or, I have some wine that Rachel brought over for her and Carter's anniversary."

"They didn't drink it?"

Adam shakes his head. "No. Rachel said it was a crap gift someone gave her."

"I gave her that," I growl. "Open that bitch up. We're drinking it."

He grins before spinning around and retrieving two glasses out of the cabinet to drink from.

"Sorry. We don't have any actual wine glasses," he says as he sits two X-Men glasses on the kitchen island.

I match his grin. "It's okay. I hear that's what they drink wine out of in France. Wolverine scares out the flavor profile or something."

"Hey, you know who Wolverine is," he says, impressed.

"I know who Hugh Jackman is," I say, and immediately lose any cool points I had gained with Adam.



       
         
       
        

"So, what are we toasting to?" Adam asks as he hands a cup over to me. I raise an eyebrow at him. "You have to toast to something whenever you drink wine. It's a rule."

"Okay, then. How about we toast to new friendships?"

"Lame," Adam says as he fakes a yawn. "And I don't think that's what this alliance is. Go big or go home, Evie."

I raise my glass up above my head. "To making sure those two drunk assholes in the other room actually make it down the aisle."

"That's more like it," Adam congratulates me as he clinks his glass to mine. "Just one question. How in the hell do you plan to make that happen?"

"I don't know," I admit, "but I'm going on the hope that true love always prevails."

He doesn't say anything, he just looks at me over his glass of wine like there's a math problem scrawled across my forehead that he's determined to solve. I only take a moment of his scrutiny before turning my attention away from his eyes.

"So, I have to ask," I say, taking in all the cooking gadgets surrounding us. "How'd you get into baking and stuff?"

"My abuela. When I was a kid, my parents worked crazy hours so I would stay with my grandmother. She loved to cook and I was a captivated audience. She taught me everything she knew, and I loved learning all of it. I started college majoring in business management because it was a smart choice. It came easy to me but I hated it. Abuela passed away my sophomore year of college and, I swear to God, I cooked and baked for a week straight. I didn't realize how much I missed it. I dropped out of college and enrolled in culinary school."

He spins out of his chair and retrieves a dish out of the refrigerator and a spoon from a drawer. He hands the spoon over to me, loaded with dessert. I oblige and take a bite. It's full of chocolate and has this amazing sweet and salty crunch. I hate myself but I moan with delight.

"This is so good, Adam. Holy shit," I say, my eyes closed. "Your grandma taught you well."

"Thanks," he says with a laugh. "Now it's your turn."

I open my eyes and look at him. Behind his glasses, his dark eyes are kind and sparkling.

"My turn for what?" I ask as he sets the dessert between us on the counter. He takes his own spoon and dips it into the dessert. I follow suit.

"How'd you get into fashion and stuff?"

"Oh, that." I feel my face grow hot. "It's silly. And embarrassing."

"Did I not just tell you about how I was an eight-year-old boy in a flowery apron?"

"You left the apron out of the story," I say and he narrows his eyes. "Fine. Okay. I had a hard time finding clothes as a kid. I've always been a little chunky and my mom always had to buy clothes for me that came from the next age group up. Everything was too mature or too short or too snug. I got teased relentlessly- kids are merciless little monsters. It got to the point that I would fake being sick to get out of going to school or, when I did go, I spent recess behind a tree reading or drawing. All my drawings were of dresses and outfits that I would never be able to fit into or afford. 

"When I was in fifth grade, our neighbors had this big yard sale. I remember the moment I saw it. This beautiful Singer sewing machine. It was that seventies' urine yellow color but I fell in love immediately. I was practically salivating over the damn thing. Our neighbor, Ms. Nelson, wanted ten dollars for it. When she saw me counting up my quarters, she gave me the machine and a whole bag full of thread and notions and bits of fabric. There were even a few old patterns in the bag.

"Mom taught me how to thread a bobbin and sew two pieces of fabric together. I spent the whole summer sewing anything I could get my grubby little hands on. I took in Hank's shirts because that bastard has always been a beanpole. I turned some old curtains into a skirt for myself, causing my dad to nickname me Scarlett."

I stop my rambling. Dad was the only person that called me Scarlett.

I clear my throat.

"Um, but yeah. It took a few years but I was making full outfits or fixing up eighties' rejects from Goodwill to the point that they looked like they came straight out of a boutique." I laugh and take another bite of the chocolate concoction. "I wish I had had the courage back then to let all those little bastards that teased me know that I had made the dress they were all looking for at the mall."

"Do you own anything from an actual store?"

"Yeah, mostly basics like socks and unmentionables. A handful of t-shirts and jeans. I tailor almost all of it, though." At Adam's raised eyebrow, I laugh. "I'm high-maintenance, I know."

"I wasn't thinking that at all," Adam says as he picks up the dessert plate and moves over to the couch. I follow the dessert, not him. "I was thinking that I have never seen you in jeans."