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“Really? Why not?” He continues down Main Street, which gradually changes from its historic aesthetic to more eighties strip mall.
I consider the best way to answer and decide that if I want to know more about his family, I should be open about my own. “When I lived at home, I couldn’t leave my mom for long, and when I was in college and grad school, I didn’t have the time or money.”
“Why couldn’t you leave your mom?” Adam glances at me, then back to the road. “If that’s too personal, you don’t have to tell me.”
He turns off Main Street onto a street canopied by tree branches. We pass old brick houses that look like they could be from the eighteen hundreds, and I’m tempted to change the subject and ask Adam what he knows about them. Talking about design and architecture is so much more interesting than talking about my family.
But he hasn’t tried to hide the problems in his own family, so I guess I can share mine. “She’s bipolar but wouldn’t take medication for a long time. When she got depressed, she needed me to take care of her.”
“How old were you? Wasn’t your dad around?” He makes another turn, and we climb a steep hill.
“He left when I was ten, but even before then, it was my job to keep Mom happy.” I pick at the nail on my index finger, keeping my eyes fixed there.
“No other family?”
“We lived with my grandparents even before Dad left. I don’t know how it got to be my job; it just did.” I shrug. “I guess I was good at it.”
“Is that why you’re happy all the time? Because you had to be?” His question gently prods open the space where I’ve kept those same questions hidden.
“I’m not happy all the time. I yelled at you and Zach when you were fighting, remember? I wasn’t happy then.” The cheerful tone I use undermines my argument. Some habits are hard to break.
“You yelled, but then you went right back to being happy. When was the last time you’d yelled before then? Or really got angry?” He pulls into a gas station and parks.
“Are we getting gas?” I reach for my purse, glad for the break from his questions. “Let me pay for it.”
He shakes his head. “We’re not here for fuel, and you’re not getting out of telling me when the last time was that you got good and mad.”
I shift in my seat and slide my hand out of his. “Why do you care so much?”
“Because the outside doesn’t matter. Because there’s more to you than the sunshiny exterior you put on. I like that part of you, but I want to know all of you. I want to know the inside.” He runs his finger along the outside seam of my jeans before lifting his eyes to mine.
“Why?” My body vibrates from his touch.
“Because you can’t really be happy if you don’t know what it is to be really sad or angry or frustrated,” he says, matter-of-factly, like everyone knows this. Like I wasn’t taught to singIf You’re Happy and You know Itthe minute I felt something besides happy.
“Last night,” I answer. “I made myself cry for hours. I let myself be sad.” I push the words out in a rush of shame that quickly turns to relief.
Adam’s mouth draws into a tender smile, and I let the corner of my mouth creep up.
“Happy now?” I growl.
“For the first time in a long time.” He looks into my eyes, but also past them, like he wants to see all the way to my soul. The intensity of it is too much, and I have to look away.
“Can we eat now? All this talk about emotions has made me hungry.” My stomach growls to prove my point. “You may see me get hangry if we don’t eat soon, then you’ll wish you hadn’t encouraged all this emoting.”
Adam laughs and presses the release button on my seat belt. “We’re here.” He points out the window to the sign on one half of the gas station that readsTandoori Oven.
“This is the restaurant? A Chevron?” I look closer, which only makes me question his taste all over again. Other than the sign, there’s nothing on the outside of the building that indicates we’ll find delicious Indian food inside. Maybe a decent bag of chips, but definitely not naan or korma.
“Don’t let the exterior fool you. Inside, you’re going to find an array of food way beyond simple gas station fare. Sure, you could have the beef jerky you love and that you’ve eaten a million times—”
“—I hate beef jerky. How about a granola bar or—”
He lifts a finger to stop me. “Or you could have granola barsandfood so filled with delicious spices it will make you cry all over again.” Adam slides out of the truck and walks to my side. He opens the door and offers his hand.
“Okay. I get it.” I could easily jump, but I curl my fingers around his. “It’s not what we show on the outside that counts. Emotions are like food. We should experience them all, not just the ones that are safest or most comfortable. Message received.” My feet touch the ground, but I don’t let go of Adam’s hand.
His mouth twitches like he might smile. “I was actually just talking about food, but yeah, that whole analogy works. I’ll take credit for it.” He grasps my hand tighter and tucks it under his arm.
