An hour later, the joy of being together again was no longer enough to fight off the sandman. Glancing back over, Adam's eyelids had gone from heavy to closed, the side of his face nestled into the throw pillow.

"You need some help up?" She asked, lightly nudging his arm.

"I'm good." He muttered, "Night night."

Gathering the candy wrappers and pitcher of sangria to take back to the kitchen, Julie felt torn.

On one hand, he did look awfully comfortable, and it seemed a shame to wake him again.

On the other, she suspected that the floor would seem far less comfortable as the night wore on, and she was pretty sure he was going to have a hard time fixing the situation by himself.

Walking back into the living room, she paused for a moment, finally grabbing a tan and white cashmere throw from their blanket moat. Placing it over him, she knelt down and tucked it around his shoulders, hoping to make him as comfortable as possible.

Hopefully he won't regret this too much in the morning.

"Night night, my sweet prom king." She whispered, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before she got back up. "I love you."

.

Making her way back up the steps, she once again found herself drawn to the upstairs gallery wall, and the old hockey trophies that dotted the built-ins along the hallway. Looking at the photos from national championships gone by, and of a much younger Adam frolicking on a beach with Laura, both arms wrapped around her, it sunk in that he'd never seen that part of the house. That the things that made his lovely mansion a home were a mystery to him, his world one of threadbare Persian rugs and oil paintings mined from his parents' house.

He's missing all the best parts.

March 2, 2000

Ama-zing grace

How sweet the sound

Sitting back in the pew at St. Stephens, Julie scooted around, trying to adjust her black shift dress. Though it had looked fine in the mirror, as she sat down, she realized she was exposing a bit more thigh than she'd intended…a fact only made worse by the fact that she was surrounded by tight lipped mourners three times her age.

That saved

A wretch

Like me

Next to her sat Adam, the dark circles under his eyes all but matching his suit.

Wearing his dad's Rolex and engraved signet ring, Julie couldn't help but notice that the last vestiges of boyhood were gone; his black sport watch now relegated to the same pile of castoffs as the oversized polo shirts and jeans that didn't quite fit. As she took in the handsome man next to her, she couldn't help but miss the awkward seventh grader of her earlier memories. The kid who had stumbled over his words and teared up after Bombay benched him was relatable. This…wasn't.

Instead, he and Scott sat side by side, looking like perfect, manicured shells.

For four days, she'd been waiting for tears. Or anger. Or denial. Or yelling.

Or…something. Anything.

.

She'd only been to two funerals before—one for a great aunt in Kennebunk, and the other for Hans. At both, there had been a scattering of people, but those people were crying and holding one another. There had been tearful eulogies from family and friends that reminisced on old recipes, and funny quirks, and stories that had occurred long before she was born. Though she had barely known either person, she'd left the funerals mourning the loss of their presence, and celebrating a life well-lived.

Now forty-five minutes into the service, there were still no tears. No stories of high school pranks, or failed attempts at barbequing. A priest, an old colleague, and Adam had all given their eulogies, yet each speech covered the same bases: That Phillip had worked hard. That he had been good at his job. That he had provided well.

The entire time that she listened to Adam's measured words, she thought of her own dad, and his predilection for Harley-Davidson shirts even though he didn't own a motorcycle. She thought of the way he'd sing along to Jimmy Buffet as he fixed omelets on Saturday mornings, and the rusted 1982 Honda Accord that sat idle in their backyard, even though her mom always griped that it was making them look like a couple of hillbillies. She thought of the way he'd play hockey in the driveway with her and her brothers, and come home every Friday with a grocery bag full of candy and Ding Dongs, and his insistence every summer that the Red Sox would finally win a world series.

He wasn't perfect, but he was a person. A person who was loved and cared for, and who made their sprawling 70's ranch with the worn carpet and sponge painted walls feel like a home.

All of that felt like such a contrast to the packed pews of St. Stephens, and the bland platitudes about perseverance.

.

An hour into the service, Bunny finally got up to speak, her black stilettos click-clacking against the wood floor as walked to the front.

"Phillip and I married 26 years ago…" she began, looking down at the piece of white printer paper in front of her. "We met when I was interning at his firm. For 27 years, he-"

Her voice cracking further with each word, Bunny looked out across the sea of black wool and tight chignons and shook her head. Tearing up the piece of paper in her hand, she could be heard muttering 'screw this'.

"You know what?" She began again, louder this time. "Phillip was a real asshole. It-it was a mistake. It was all a mistake. I…don't really know why I didn't get the abortion. I should have. They were legal by then. I should have gone back to Yale.

"I'm…I'm sorry, Scott. But you know it's the truth."

Too captivated by the disaster unfolding at the altar, Julie didn't notice the commotion going on beside her until she felt the vibration of the pew and saw Scott shoving Adam back into his seat.

"Let her talk."

Adam struggled against the elbow pinning him, but even after four years, Scott had the size advantage.

"I just. This wasn't the life I wanted. Not…not with him. Damn bastard…"

As anger started to trail off into a quieter despair, an older gentleman started making his way towards the front of the church.

"Sylvia, I think you've had a rough week. How about you—"

"Shut the fuck up, Jack!"

No longer restraining Adam, Scott was now the one charging towards the front the church, Adam trailing behind, trying to hold back his brother.

"Scott. You sit back dow—"

Before long, the older man was on the ground, Scott sending his fist into the guy's jaw.

"You fucking kid diddling piece of shit."

Every punch and every obscenity echoed through the church as a silence overtook the sanctuary. Suddenly the focus was not on Bunny or Scott, but on Scott's words. Concerned women looked over at the husbands and sons, their eyebrows asking the things they couldn't bear to say.

Before Julie could process what was happening, Adam had stormed out the back doors and into the frigid March air, nary a word spoken.

The next morning, Julie got up at eight. The sun shining in through the chintz curtains, she lay in bed for a moment, basking in the suburban grandeur of it all.

No honking traffic fourteen stories below. No garbage trucks or jackhammers or buildings going up next door. No "minimalist" West Elm furniture that seemed to start sagging the minute it left the showroom. Just an endless expanse of pristine lawns, long, winding driveways, and high thread count chintz.

With one last yawn, she pried herself from bed and made her way downstairs, the smell of bacon wafting through the air as NPR played on the radio.

Down in the kitchen, Laura was preparing breakfast, the blanket fort long put away as Adam slumbered on the living room floor.

"Ah, why good morning, Julie!" She greeted, looking up from the pan of gravy she was stirring. "Anything in particular you'd like for breakfast?"

Her shoulder length bob already coiffed and her seersucker robe neatly pressed, Julie could feel the sense of inadequacy rising in her throat as she looked down at her own ratty Dartmouth shirt and mismatched socks.

"I'm fine with anything."

"Well, I have biscuits and gravy going for the boys and Adam, but if you'd like something else, I don't mind. I can always fix French toast or waffles…"

"I can always fix French toast or waffles." Julie mocked in her head, "Or I can harvest some oranges from our indoor solarium for fresh squeezed orange juice, or I can go borrow the neighbor's cow, or I can hunt down a unicorn and slaughter it for sparkly, rainbow bacon…"

"Don't worry. Biscuits and gravy are fine."

"Then biscuits and gravy it shall be. Feel free to make yourself at home. We have coffee, orange juice, apple juice, sparkling water, champagne. Or, there's a full liquor cabinet over in the dining room, if you'd like."

Did these people rob a Wegmans?

Just as she was walking over to the refrigerator, a cell phone alarm started chiming in the living room, the crescendo of beeps accompanied by a sleepy "fuuuuck".

As Julie reached into the refrigerator for a bottle of Perrier, the sleepy obscenities continued, growing louder and more frustrated by the second. Laura, meanwhile, simply stirred the gravy, stifling a chuckle at the morning theatrics.

"Aren't you sad you never got married?" She remarked, never looking up from the stove. "Men are just so lovely."

Unscrewing the lid on her water, Julie could hear glass shattering over in the living room, the clatter accompanied by a yelp of pain.

"Fucking shit!"

Startled, she set down drink down on the counter to investigate, unprepared for what she was about to face.

...

Walking into the living room, it took every ounce of self-control she had to keep her jaw from dropping as she surveyed the disaster in front of her.

There, lying sprawled across the floor was her first love, just as she'd left him the night before. The difference was, now his front teeth were laying out beside him, and his shirt had ridden up in the night, leaving his surprisingly large gut hanging out in full view.

Beside him lie a broken wineglass, and with every sleepy movement, he was painting himself in blood.

What in the fuck?

"You uh, you need some help there?"

"Fucking floor." He muttered, his eyes still matted with sleep. "Damn towelhead fucking rug."

"It's good to see somebody's still the morning person I remember." Julie laughed, recalling the grouchy morning practices of yesteryear as she averted her eyes.

Pretty sure it's going to take more than two cups of coffee to fix THIS.

"Meh, you're just jealous you don't wake up as sexy as I do."

"The envy's been eating away at me since high school."

"It's okay." He smiled, exposing the black abyss where his teeth were supposed to be. "I love you even if you can't be as sexy as I am."

"Yeah, you're setting the bar pretty high there, cakeeater…

Taking hold of his hand to help him up, she brought the bloodied appendage in closer, her brow furrowed with concern as the examined the deep cut along his palm and the shard of glass still lodged near his index finger.

"Are you alright?"

"Heh, of course I am." Glancing himself up and down, he took note of the streaks of blood he'd left down his shirt and pajama pants, letting out a chuckle as he thought about it all. "You don't get to be this good looking by being the kind of guy who falls apart over a little cut."

Reaching down to pick up his teeth and cane for him, she put an arm around him for support as they made their way to the master bedroom and en suite bathroom.

"What am I ever going to do with you?" She sighed, re-examining the glass shard in his finger.

"Nag me about switching to plastic?"

"That probably would be a good idea in your case."

Digging through the cabinets for tweezers and gauze, she did her best to ignore the contents of his drawers, dozens of pill bottles, a marijuana pipe, and cigarette lighters all clattering about as she rummaged through a drawer by the sink.

Tsk tsk, oh preppy one.

Catching her glance, he gave an innocent shrug.

"What?"

Shaking her head, she gently took hold of his hand again, this time dabbing his cuts with peroxide as he tried not to flinch.

"I think you might be a mess."

"You just think that?"

March 2, 2000

"Adam!" Julie shouted, chasing after him in her shift dress and heels. "Adam, wait for me."

Desperate to catch up with him as he bolted from the church, Julie abandoned what little decorum she had left, kicking off her black pumps as she ran down the aisle and into the frigid March air.

"Adam!"

Her voice trailed off into thin air as he climbed into his Porsche and sped away. Crumpling to the curb, she buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

.

She wasn't sure of exactly what she'd lost, but she was all too aware that something was gone.

"Come back, Adam." She muttered to herself. "Please come back."

…..

For what felt like hours, she sat out there alone, the icy wind beating against her skin.

.

"Julie?"

Feeling a jacket drape over her shoulders, she looked up, and was greeted by a familiar set of blue eyes.

Lowering himself down beside her, Scott ran a hand through his thinning hair and sighed, every second of his twenty-six years showing as he contemplated the right words.

"Want my mom to adopt you? Because between my dad and Susan, we should have a couple of openings…

Ten minutes later, Adam's hand was neatly bandaged, and the morning's crisis had been averted. As she left him alone to shower and get ready, she couldn't help but spend a moment snooping around his bedroom, her cat-like curiosity hidden by the sound of the shower.

"Yup. The preppy I remember is definitely still in there somewhere." She thought as she looked around the room, smiling.

.

For all of his issues, his adult bedroom really was as charming as his teenage dorm had been so many years before. The white, Georgian paneled walls overflowed with interesting, colorful art, and Mr. Fluffy could still be found sitting on a Queen Ann chair by the bed. Suge Knight stood guard in the corner, dressed for summer in a grass skirt and bikini top. On the dresser were a scattering of pewter frames, featuring he and Laura on their wedding night, cutting into a cake that towered over them both, and of he and the boys at their old house, standing beside a 6 ft. tall snowman dressed in a tie and sunglasses, Adam beaming with pride.

Glancing over at his nightstand, Julie shook her head as she noticed that next to the copies of The Wall Street Journal and The Economist sat a crystal ashtray, nearly overflowing with cigarette butts and partially finished joints.

…

An hour later, when Adam returned from the bathroom, he was a man transformed, his bandaged hand the only bit of continuity from earlier that morning. Now bright eyed and looking like a young Harrison Ford, he seemed to have washed away about thirty pounds in the shower; a phenomenon that left Julie staring at his chambray shirt and white chinos, trying to figure out where exactly everything went.

It's like that Volkswagen at the circus, where 100 clowns climb out…

.

"Why good morning." He greeted, still rubbing the stiffness out of his neck from the night before. Pausing, he glanced over at the plate on the counter, his eyes lighting up. "Biscuits and gravy? Have I mentioned lately that I love you?"

Leaning over, he gave Laura a quick kiss before reaching for his coffee.

"You don't love me. You're just using me for my gravy making abilities."

"Well, it was between you or the Waffle House cook…" He deadpanned, reaching over for a piece of bacon from the serving platter.

"I'm certainly glad you made the choice you did!"

"Heh, well, Brandi turned me down, so it wasn't really much of a choice."

Laura chuckled, sitting down beside him at the kitchen island. Massaging the back of his still-stiff neck, he seemed to melt into her, letting out a sigh of contentment as she brought him some much needed relief.

"And whoever said you were my first choice?" She pointed out, leaning over to give him a kiss on the cheek.

"I mean, I'd certainly hope I wasn't. That would be aiming pretty low.

.

"So Jules." He added a moment later, between bites of bacon, "What are your plans for the morning? Because I've got a busy day of meeting with my psychiatrist and sobbing alone in my car afterwards, so that leaves you with your pick of going to the mall with Laura and the kids, or Netlfix and chilling in the way that involves clothes.

"Or not. I mean, you'll have the house to yourself. But the couch has survived three disgusting kids, so I recommend clothes."

March 2, 2000

"Adam?"

"What?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah"

There, in an empty parking lot overlooking the Mississippi River, the two sat side by side in his warm Porsche, freezing sleet falling all around them as Adam stared out the windshield.

Leaning against the heated seat, Julie just looked at the man next to her.

Begging him, begging the universe for answers.

And yet, no matter how hard she looked, she got nothing. He was an island unto himself.

"Is there anything you want to talk about?"

"No."

"Do you want to talk about what happened in there with Scott?"

"Nope."

"Do you realize that I love you?"

"Yeah."

Finally, at a loss for anything else to say, she simply took hold of his hand and held it, rubbing the rough callouses with her fingers. Looking down, she smiled—the watch and signet ring were different, but his fingernails were still gnawed down to non-existent nubs.

That was one tiny piece of him that had never changed. That silly little piece of her first crush was still there.