A Lily in the Light(72)

Adam’s door was at the end of the hallway. Esme hesitated before knocking. The door was just like hers: white paint, thick molding, floral carpet. It smelled like cigarettes and sandalwood. She wanted him to open the door sleepy eyed and lost in a dream, unsure if she was really there. She knocked lightly and waited. Blood drained from her face, and her heart beat in her empty chest. It echoed in her ears. He might not be alone. She could always call Madeline or even her mother, who was probably rocking back and forth at the end of the couch, waiting for the phone to ring.

There was a shuffle inside. Fluorescent light spilled over Adam’s face, his gray T-shirt and plaid pajama pants wrinkled from sleep. Esme wanted to cry. She just wanted someone to hold her.

“Esme? Are you OK?” His eyes narrowed with concern.

“Can I come in?”

He moved aside to let her pass, reaching for the light switch.

“I’m OK,” she whispered back, kicking off her shoes. They landed in a heap at the foot of his bed. “I just need a place to sleep.”

Adam didn’t ask why. She lifted the covers and crawled into the space he’d left. The sheets were still warm and smelled like him, his honest smell. She breathed deeply, nestling her face into the pillow as he moved in beside her. He wrapped his arm around her. Her head rested on his chest. Esme blinked in the darkness, thankful she had a place to call home even if she’d have to explain in the morning.

“Good night, Esme,” Adam whispered. He kissed the top of her head as if she were a child, and she was surprised by how familiar it felt.

“Good night,” she whispered back. Safe. Esme rolled the word around in her head. For the first time in days, Esme dropped into a dreamless sleep.



The next morning, she woke to an empty bed. She stretched and yawned while water ran in the bathroom. It broke unevenly, splashing over Adam and the porcelain tub. The door was closed, but Esme could smell Adam’s soap. Dove. Her chest swelled at the simplicity of Adam, but when the door opened, would he be upset that she was there? She hugged the blankets tighter, thankful for the extra warmth. She could always pretend to be asleep.

The other double bed was empty, neatly made. Adam had a stack of books next to his bed. Clean laundry in blues, grays, and whites was piled on the luggage rack. There was a comb on the dresser beside the TV, a four-inch bronze Eiffel Tower from a souvenir bin along the quay. There was nothing of Jennifer’s, and Esme was relieved. She traced the creased spine of a book beside the bed, A Moveable Feast. The cover page rolled back from humidity, an invitation. “Then there was the bad weather,” it said. Bad weather in Paris seemed unimaginable.

The bathroom door opened, and Esme jumped. Adam smiled, and the whole idea of fake sleeping felt stupid.

“Good morning.” He beamed. “I hope you didn’t have anywhere to be today.”

It was 10:30 a.m. on Monday, and the show was over. She didn’t have anywhere to be. The comb left ropy strands in Adam’s hair. He moved the stack of laundry to the dresser and pulled two apples from the minifridge, sliced them, and spooned peanut butter on top. He was comfortable, or was it just pretend? Esme wasn’t sure if the tension between them was gone. It felt more important to explain herself because he wasn’t asking, but she wasn’t sure how.

“One more day,” he said, replacing the cap on the peanut butter. It was too long and not long enough. She didn’t want to think about home. Shower steam lingered by the windows, collecting gold sunlight. It sparkled. Esme wanted to run her hand through it and watch it swirl. At home it would be just before five in the morning. She doubted her family was sleeping.

“Is there anything you want to see?” Adam sat beside her on the bed and put the plate between them. Esme wanted to rest her head in the place between his neck and shoulder again, where his pulse throbbed and sent waves of heat across her face, but she sat up and took an apple slice instead.

“I don’t know,” she said, thinking of Christophe, embarrassment making her mouth taste like pennies. “I think I’ve seen enough.”

The apple was crisp on her tongue, refreshingly cold.

“That’s silly,” he said between bites. “There’s so much here.”

“Aren’t you going to the studio?”

He was wearing jeans even though the sun was warming through the window, sandals, and a crisp white T-shirt. Normal clothes.

“Nope. I want to see stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Like Hemingway’s house.”

“He lived here?” She wished she had something interesting to add.

He pointed to A Moveable Feast. “It’s about his time in Paris. The first few sections are about this area. I wanted to find them. Want to come?”

This was the old Adam. He slid an apple through a smear of peanut butter, carefully not looking at her. Was he nervous? His cheeks were flushed. Esme felt suddenly shy. He was asking her on a date, kind of. He must have decided in the short moments before she was awake, mouthing the idea in the steamed mirror, unsure if she’d still be there when he came out.

“I’d like to.” Esme wavered. She didn’t want to scare away the peace between them, but what if the police had news today, if Madeline called and couldn’t reach her? Disappointment bloomed on Adam’s face. She wanted to go. She’d spent a lifetime waiting for Lily, hoping for the family they used to be. This time could be different, or it might not, and Adam was here only for one more day.