"Hey."
Looking up, Adam saw Laura standing in the doorway, a pair of charcoal dress pants and a crisp white button down draped over her arm.
"You have clothes now."
His eyes glancing up and down, he stopped for a moment to truly take his wife in, for once seeing not the provider of breakfast or tier of ties, but a person. A person independent of himself, with wants and needs all her own.
In the unforgiving florescent light of his office, he could see the wrinkles in her forehead that he'd been too busy to notice; the dullness in her own blue eyes from getting up in the night to tend to potty accidents and dreams about boogeymen, only to come downstairs and deal with tantrums of the 31 year old variety. He could see that she had grown thicker around the hips; that her designer jeans and cashmere sweaters no longer lay quite the way they had a decade earlier.
He could also see the concern in her smile. The way that she'd driven half an hour into the city to make sure that he had a clean shirt. The fact that she was still carrying the same faded Longchamp bag she had in college; still wearing the same loafers that had been re-soled three times.
"Thanks"
"How are you feeling?"
"Like I shouldn't get into fights with people fat enough to have their own TLC shows."
"Well, yeah." She smiled, looking down to examine his crooked nose and bruised jaw. "That's probably a wise rule to live by. I mean, I suspect you could get away with generalizing it a bit further…"
"What on earth did you do, anyway?"
"I told Brian I fucked him mom."
"Mrs. McGill? I'm…not really sure that would be bragging rights." She laughed, running her fingers through his neatly groomed mop of hair.
"She makes good fried chicken."
"Of course she makes good fried chicken. From the looks of things, she has a fair amount of practice."
"Hey now" He smiled, scooting back in his desk chair so that there'd be room on his lap for a certain toucan loving wife. "Don't knock the importance of a good fried chicken recipe. I'm sure Scotty's fucked many a woman to try to score a dinner invite."
Sitting down in his lap, she made herself comfortable; her legs dangling over the side of the armrest as she snuggled into her slightly pillow-y husband.
His days of passing for an Abercrombie model might have been long over, but as far as laps to sit in went, he'd only improved with time.
"Now that's a prize!"
"Indeed. It's probably in every Home-Ec textbook. Might even be part of the curriculum."
"Why do you think I made a C in that class?" She pointed out, peppering a couple of quick kisses along the bottom of his neck near his shirt collar.
Leaning back, Adam wrapped his arm around his wife and pulled her in tightly. Taking a deep breath as her face nuzzled into the side of his neck, he stared out the window, thinking of the 18 year old who stayed by his side at every turn. Thinking of the Deerfield grad who gave up her own dreams to help take care of a paralyzed hockey player with questionable social skills and a slightly too large nose.
She was just a kid.
We both were.
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
December, 2003
"So. Congratulations." Julie smiled, sitting down on a barstool next to the groom.
Fighting back a laugh, she ordered a glass of merlot, casting an amused glance at his tartan pants and velvet tuxedo slippers…an outfit that looked surprisingly good on Adam, but that had been unfortunate on a few of the groomsmen.
Not, she thought, that Merrill and Chip would have looked much better anything else.
You'd think somewhere along the way, one of their ancestors could have at least picked a good looking cousin to marry…
"I know that look, Cat Lady. You're just jealous that this isn't your wedding."
"Yeah, the jealousy's killing me. Now when I have a wedding filled with coke addicts in plaid pants, everyone's just going to think I'm copying you..."
"Come on now, I don't see you having nearly as many drunk sorority girls. That right there will set it apart."
Julie laughed, thinking about the prim bride who was now on the dance floor chugging from a bottle of Veuve as the bass to Juvenile's Back That Azz Up vibrated the room's crystal chandeliers…the largest of which was worse for the wear, thanks to an overzealous bouquet toss.
I never knew tulips could do that…
Looking back down at her glass, she paused thoughtfully, trying to decide what she felt.
.
It had been a gorgeous wedding—a candlelit ceremony at Christ Church Winnetka, followed by a reception at the historic Hilton Ballroom. There, surrounded by ornate paneling and views that overlooked the entire midwest, Adam was in his element: The perfect, WASP-y Prince Charming, ready to save the world through good manners and good taste. Even in tartan Brooks Brothers pants, he was a sight to behold, and the closer the wedding seemed to veer towards the edge of disaster, the more delightful Adam became.
When two groomsmen could be heard fighting in the rectory before the ceremony, he managed to make the coke fueled brawl seem like festive, pre-wedding boisterousness. When a hushed argument between Laura's parents left Mrs. Fontaine sobbing into her lobster bisque, Adam was there to make sure that all was well. After his and Laura's first dance ended in a heap on the floor following Laura tripping over her gown, he was happy to steal a kiss there on the ground…ignoring the bump on his head and the sense of humiliation he felt inside.
Still, Julie had heard the muffled whispers.
The rumors that nothing had changed for the better since his trip to Hazelden six months prior.
.
"So, how does it feel to be a married man, Mr. Banks?" She finally asked, leaning in towards the man of the evening.
Casting a glance towards the packed dance floor, filled with rhythmless preppies each gyrating to a completely different beat, he just gave a tired shrug before taking another drink of his gin.
"Like the Baptists had the right idea with that whole 'no dancing' thing?"
"Well yeah, but they also skip the premarital sex…"
Julie laughed as a tsunami of magenta washed over his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
It's not my fault that he's cute when he's flustered…
"Now that's where they were shortsighted." He pointed out, regaining his composure. "If they wanted to keep kids from having sex, they should let them dance with Larson. I guarantee that nobody's going to be having sex after that."
"He didn't need abstinence-only education."
"Nope. God just…really handled that one for him."
.
A few minutes later, the thumping petered out, replaced by the slow crooning of Louis Armstrong's What a Wonderful World. As the hoardes of sweaty, glassy eyed preppies descended on the mahogany bar for their refills, Adam offered his hand, and the two made their way to the empty dance floor.
"You're not worried I'll do like Laura?" Julie joked, lightly resting her head against his shoulder as they swayed back and forth under the sparkling chandeliers.
I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
Adam wasn't as steady as he once had been, Julie feeling all of the slight wobbles and missteps that he'd become so adept at hiding.
Holding him closely, she knew there would never again be any of the dramatic dips or twirls that had impressed her so back in high school; that the elegant hockey star was now doing well to stand upright. Still, pulling herself in closer to her first love, he was as magical as she remembered, the light scent of his cologne taking her back to simpler days.
And I think to myself what a wonderful world
"Heh, I've been falling for you since seventh grade. I'm pretty used to it by now."
The afternoon giving way to evening, the office got quieter as one by one, the other workers all left, ready to rejoin their families after a tiring day. The sunlight that had streamed in through the window all morning had been replaced by the familiar haze of dusk, and as Adam glanced down at his phone, he saw that it was 6:17.
Seventeen minutes into Tucker's hockey game.
Glancing back up at his inbox, still filled with unanswered messages, he knew that there was more work to be done. Enough emails and spreadsheets to easily fill another three hours…
Any other night, he would have stayed until every item was finished; forever the Hawk who practiced the hardest. Forever the one still working while everyone else was out enjoying their lives.
Looking back down at his phone, however, he remembered the afternoon spent building Tyrannosaurus Pepsi with the boys, and the way that Tucker and Will had crawled into bed beside him the next day when he was in too much pain to get up. He remembered the way that they spent all morning together watching Mr. Roger's Neighborhood reruns on Netflix and eating cookie dough for breakfast. The way that the boys carried on about which superheroes they wanted to be when they grew up; the way that Will decided that his real goal was to be soda machine.
A sensible plan.
He recalled the betrayal that he felt later that afternoon when Laura shepherded the boys away, determined that they not notice how slurred their father's speech had become. The mix of feelings that washed over him the next morning when he woke up next to Kookaburra, Tucker's beloved stuffed elephant that he'd brought down so Daddy wouldn't have to be alone.
.
Shutting off his computer, he gathered his keys and turned out the light, October's harsh chill nipping at his battered face as he walked out to his car.
Tonight, he was going to be a good father.
The kind of father who deserved to wake up next to Kookaburra.
July, 2005
"Adam, we aren't here to talk about those things. We're here to talk about you; about how you feel."
Like I'm going to throw up again.
"I'm fine."
"I don't think you're fine. If you were fine, you wouldn't be here."
Fuuuuuuuuck
Sweat dripping from his brow, all Adam could think about was his extremely pregnant wife back home, trying to get the nursery prepared. About their trip to Pottery Barn Kids two weeks earlier, and the way that they had decided on pale yellow cabana stripes for the walls. He thought about the crisp the blue and white gingham bedding they'd picked out; the white Pima cotton blanket with the four letter light blue monogram.
Tucker Beauchamp Talbott Banks.
He thought back to how they'd picked up copies of Goodnight Moon and I'll Love You Forever at the bookstore on their way home, and about the nice lunch they'd had at The Minnesota Club, talking about the future. Laughing about how they weren't going to be like their own parents as the candlelight flickered.
His body reeling, he also thought about how he was definitely going to be sick if this therapy session didn't end right fucking now.
"Of course I'm fine. It was just a little mix-up with the pharmacy."
"This is your second time here. There seems to be a pattern of mix-ups…"
That would be one way of putting it.
"Well, I mean, I'm not perfect, but this isn't where I belong."
Not right now. Fuck. I'm about to be a father, for Christ sakes. I'm worse than my own dad…
"Then where do you belong, Adam?"
Hell.
"Back at work." The irritability of withdrawals gnawing at every neuron, he fidgeted around in the maroon upholstered wingback, trying to keep his composure as his stomach turned from the lack of opioids and his mind kept drifting back to the four bedroom Eden Prairie home he'd just moved into. To the fact that this was not the time to locked away at Hazelden, dealing with uncomfortable mattresses and listening to perennial losers tell their sob stories. "I'm supposed to be working right now, not sitting around talking about whether my parents loved me enough or whether somebody touched my private parts."
"Did they?"
"Did they what?"
"Well, those are rather specific concerns you brought up. Are these issues we need to explore?"
Oh fuck no.
"Oh. No. I didn't mean it that way. I just meant…I've sat through a lot of group therapy by now. As far as I can tell, those are kind of the greatest hits around here. It's like the Macarena at weddings, but with less dancing and more stories about kid diddling soccer coaches."
Sounding really well-adjusted here, cakeater. Maybe you can throw in a nice joke about locker room rape to drive home the point that you're totally not dealing with any deep seated emotional issues here, no siree.
"Well, trauma often plays a role in these things. We don't have to talk about anything until you're ready, but at some point, I wouldn't mind us revisiting some of these topics…"
And I wouldn't mind jumping off a fucking cliff if it meant feeling better, but you don't see me doing it.
Mostly because there aren't many cliffs in Maple Grove.
Walking into the ice rink, the familiar smell made Adam's stomach tighten and his eyes moisten, a thousand feelings washing over him. In his mind, he could still see Scott chasing him around on the ice, telling him that there was a Zamboni monster who would eat him, and his dad back on the sidelines, laughing at their antics as he sipped his Irish coffee, enjoying a rare good mood. He could hear Brian and Larson arguing about whether Brian's dad was really a super space ninja as Coach Reilly yelled at them to shut up and 'pay attention to the fucking game, you damn retards', and the sound of Brian crying in the locker room afterwards. He could see Julie's smiling face, and hear the crowds cheering. He could feel his dad's arms around him after he led Eden Hall to a national championship his junior year, and he could hear the sickening pop of his neck breaking, and he could feel the tears welling up in his eyes as his old number was hung from the rafters, the packed Mariucci arena in complete silence.
For twenty years, his first loves and first heartbreaks had all played out on the ice, the events shaping the course of his life.
And yet, it had been a decade since he'd seen the inside of an ice rink—once his number was hung and the proper hands had been shook, Laura helped him into the passenger seat of her old 3-Series, and they quietly drove away from the arena, a chapter of his life closed forever as they headed down the narrow snow lined road, back to his new apartment. Back to a world of first floor views and handicap accessible showers; a world for people who wouldn't be leaving Minnesota.
.
In Salt Lake, he hadn't been able to do it. He hadn't made it more than three steps into the lobby before it became too much to bear. His eyes filling with tears, he'd walked back out to the rented Corolla, crying as his brother held him. Telling him that it would be okay when they both knew that nothing was okay.
This time, though, he reminded himself of Kookaburra.