CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Addison
As we live and breathe.
Was that Getaway Girl getting cozy in the mayor’s house…without the mayor?
Looks like someone dug for gold and struck pay dirt.
—TheTea.com
I snag the canvas rope looped around the front of the kayak and tug it down the beach, toward the water of the Cooper River. With the oar in my other hand, I definitely look like a bowlegged penguin, but so does everyone else launching into the river today. So at least I’m in good company.
“You sure you know what you’re doing, now, ma’am?” calls the fortyish rental guy behind me. “I can take you out the first time, if you’re not sure.”
“That’s not necessary,” I say over my shoulder. “I’ve done this before.”
Okay, so I watched a YouTube tutorial, but it was really detailed.
I stop at the edge of the river and take a deep breath, trying to remember when kayaking went from potential future activity to my current situation. Probably around the four-day mark of not seeing Elijah. Sounds about right.
Upon calling the phone number written on the kayaking brochure I discovered in my grandmother’s copy of the The Remains of the Day, I found out it belonged to a rental hut at Remley’s Point. It took a little convincing to make them go through their records, but it had been worth it. I found out my grandmother had indeed rented from them frequently.
Check you out, woman. A secret kayaker.
The Christmas apartment makes me feel close to her. But it’s enclosed by walls and crammed so full of distractions and noise, I wondered if thinking of her would feel different in a wide open space, seeing the same sights she passed, listening to the water ripple.
It was the perfect chance to remember my grandmother and do something different, at the same time. Something that doesn’t involve my job, my old apartment or my new—temporary—mansion. All those things remind me of Elijah, though. And if I’m going to reclaim at least some of my heart from the man, I need new. I need exciting.
I need to risk injury or death.
Today, I’m marking a full week since I left Elijah standing on the staircase of his home, furniture that another woman picked out being positioned around him. There have been traces of him, of course. Such as my favorite foods showing up in the pantry. And my shoe shelf, which I hadn’t had a chance to detach and lug to the mansion yet, appearing beside the entry door.
Do I miss him?
No. No, I just feel like a field that hasn’t soaked in any rain or sunshine in a month. That’s all. I thought some time and distance might dull the effect of him, but it’s not helping. My mind keeps inventing excuses to show up with groceries at the apartment, cook dinner and pretend like nothing ever happened. Like I can’t still feel his mouth moving on mine, his hands all over my body. Or hear his warm voice, his wry jokes, the way he sometimes calls me sugar when he’s feeling sweet. Goose when he’s teasing me.
I place my backpack in the kayak, careful not to jostle the contents. I remove my shoes and socks, stowing them in the hull, as well. Then I push it out into knee-deep water and step inside, muttering a thank you when the rental guy appears beside me to study the vessel while I climb in. He gives me a push and…I’m off. I’m actually moving, cutting through the faint chop of blue. There’s hardly any wind today, but here and there, a breath will lift the hair off my neck. I’m just grateful it’s not enough to knock me off balance, because my body is already straining under the effort of not tilting the kayak too far in one direction. The sun beats down, occasionally blocked by puffy white clouds. And when I start to lose myself in the stroking rhythm of the paddle, I remind myself why I’m here.
Up ahead, Drum Island draws closer. None of the other people who launched at Remley’s Point are stopping there, continuing down the river in the direction of downtown Charleston. Which makes it perfect for me, because my plans definitely don’t need an audience. In fact, they’re probably illegal and that’s the main reason I refused the guide’s help. With the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge traffic rumbling in the distance, I paddle up onto the shore and climb out, grumbling when my bare feet sink down into mud. Tugging the kayak behind me, I continue to walk until I find more solid, grassy ground. I take my backpack with me and sit down, legs outstretched, the river spreading out in front of me.
“Shit, that’s pretty,” I breathe, unzipping my backpack. A second later, the “urn” holding my grandmother’s ashes is in my hand. A nifty little zap tickles up my arm and I huff a disbelieving laugh, setting the statue of Mrs. Claus down between my legs. “So…” I swallow the lump that builds in my throat. “Come here often?”
If possible, the empty island grows even more silent around me.
“You don’t have to answer me. Actually, I’d prefer if you didn’t. I’m not a huge fan of ghosts.” I bury my heels in the earth. “Not that I don’t want to see you or anything. Although would you recognize me now? Not so sure. It’s been a pretty long time. I’m sorry it’s been such a long time.”
A gentle wind passes me, ruffling the grass, so I run my fingers through the fine green threads. “I just…I don’t know. I came to tell you something. Or maybe I just needed to tell someone out loud, so I don’t back out.” I search for the right words to say to my grandmother, who may or may not be listening. “So I fell into the same trap as…Mama.” God, I haven’t called her that—haven’t called her anything in so long—the word tastes acidic on my lips. “I fell for a man who I can’t have. But I want you to know something. I’m going to make things right. Instead of just running away, I’m going to weave everything back together, the way it’s supposed to be. At least, I’m going to try. When he’s around me, I don’t seem capable of anything but praying he can’t hear my heartbeat.
“I understand Mama now. I’m not mad at her anymore, but I’m…I want to be better than her. I don’t want to be someone’s regret.”
I’m not sure how long I sit there, laying my path out in front of me, brick by brick, but when it’s solid and I can see the finish line out in the distance, I just kind of slump back into the grass and stare up at the sky. Oh God. This is going to hurt.
“You know, I was going to scatter your ashes here today, but I don’t feel ready yet. Is it okay with you if I wait for another day? Don’t answer.”
Using the ground as leverage, I stand and shake life back into my legs, surprised when I check my cell phone to find out two hours has passed. I only have one bar of reception, but today has given me a buzzing sense of adventure. So I don’t think. I just use my measly cell coverage to pull up my contact for Lydia and dial her number.
“Hey,” she answers on the second ring. “I thought you joined the circus.”
Her voice is warm and familiar against my ear. It also makes me think of Elijah, but I shake off his image. “Um. I tried, but they’ve already filled their freak quota.”
Lydia’s laugh tumbles down the line, static intercepting some of it. “What’s up?”
I square my shoulders. “I was wondering if you wanted to go grab a drink tonight?”
*
Elijah
I stand outside the apartment, turning the key over and over in my hand. The tip sticks in my palm and I let it bite deep, trying to get rid of the queasiness in my stomach. It has been there all week, simmering, reminding me of the week before Basic. Being stuck in limbo while anticipating the unknown. I’ve never been the guy who collected friends—I’m more of a few and fierce kind of man—but hell if I haven’t been…lonely, even while surrounded by reporters, staffers, a transition team, constituents and interns.
I’ve been living in the Dewberry for a week and haven’t set foot inside Addison’s place, except that time I used my lunch break to steal her shoe shelf. There was that. But no significant amount of time has been spent here. Not like usual, when my whole day is working toward the moment I can walk through her door.
There have been droves of interviews and meetings and appearances since election day and I’ve needed the comfort of this apartment more than ever. Just a place where I can check out and not be prodded every ten seconds for solutions. My kind of solutions don’t happen over night. They’re not quick fixes and they’re built to last, but that’s not what the press wants to hear. So I smile at their impatience and work twice as hard. Plowing through paperwork until I’m exhausted has suited me just fine this week, because getting stuck in a quiet moment like this is when I think too much of other things.
Every time I climb into my truck to come here, I get back out and say I’ll make the drive tomorrow, instead. When I’m not so busy. When I’m free to shut down my phone and zone out.
So here I am. Standing here, my whole body experiencing a weird lethargy, trying to stare a hole in the door.
“What is wrong with you?” I mutter, sliding the key into the lock and jiggling. “Standing out here like a goon…”
I know the second I step inside the apartment and don’t feel the usual crackle of rightness. I know why I haven’t come here. Or why it just feels like four overly decorated walls and nothing like it used to.
Addison isn’t here.
Feeling like I’m in a daze, I close the door behind me and leave my briefcase sitting on the dining table. I go into the kitchen and flip on the master switch for all the decorations, hoping to revive that sense of calm I used to get. But everything sounds tinny and kind of terrifying, like a haunted carnival.
“Dammit.” I turn off the cacophony of sounds and the place goes silent. So silent, I can hear the television next door, a cat meowing behind the building. “I’m a jackass.”
Deep down, I know I’ve been coming to this place only because of my best friend, haven’t I? It’s why I let a week pass without making the short journey. She’s the only reason this goddamn two-bedroom in Eastside ever felt like home. Now it’s got that same cold, expectant air as the mansion. Before Addison moved in, anyway. Last week, nothing about it struck me the same way it did when Naomi and I met the realtor.
No, it was better. Brighter. I could see possibilities that weren’t there before.
Because of her.
I lean back against the kitchen cabinets and drag my hands down my face. When did I grow a beard? I have a vague recollection of my father telling me to shave, but it went in one ear and out the other, like everything else this week.
What the hell am I going to do? I miss my best friend. I can admit that much to myself. Now that I’ve stopped drowning myself in work, it’s finally becoming apparent how much. A slice was cut in my stomach when she walked out of the mansion last week and it yawns wider every time I breathe. Her mean remarks and grudging smile are what make me happy. Sitting beside her on the couch, making ornaments, cooking—activities we never did in my home growing up. Addison gave those to me and I don’t want to give them up. I don’t want to give them up with her, because I’d be fooling myself if I said cooking with Chris and Lydia would be just as satisfying.
Even best friends don’t see each other every single day.
Addison was right about that. Yet I can’t deny having somewhat of a…preoccupation with her. Questions that travel through my head on an hourly basis include: Which bedroom is she sleeping in? What if she twists her ankle while jogging? Is she still sitting on the third-floor balcony at night?
The answer to that last question is yes. She is. I gave in on the second night and drove past the house. Twice. That’s what a man does when he misses his friend, right?
Wrong.
I can’t keep pretending that there isn’t more to my relationship with Addison. There’s attraction. Jesus Christ, is there attraction. Ignoring it stopped being possible at some point before the election and now it’s what keeps me awake at night. The way her body arched on my desk, her eyes teasing me. Her frown. And goddamn. Her wet little pussy keeps me tossing and turning more than anything. How her body could welcome me so sweetly while barely fitting what I’ve got…I can’t stop thinking of how incredible every thrust felt. How she encouraged me to be rough, in a way I’ve never been with a woman.
The way I miss her is so much more than sex, though. It’s everything that came before we went there, right down to that thing she does with the glue gun, drawing it like a Wild West outlaw and quoting Dirty Harry.
Before I can think better of it, I’m on my feet and moving toward her bedroom. My hand pauses on the knob, though. “This is an invasion of privacy. You should not be doing this.” My hand drops, but immediately returns. “I’ll confess and apologize someday when she’s in a good mood.”
That’s if I get to see her again.
The abrasive thought is what pushes me into the room, the scent of her lighting me up like a thousand-watt bulb. There are no sheets on the bed, which I’m surprised to find disappoints me. What was I going to do? Sniff them? I wonder what the people of Charleston would think to know they elected a secret sheet fetishist.
I move to the pile of books on her nightstand, taking note of the titles. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest, some smaller, paperback romance novels. A few classics. Noticing there’s a gap in the middle of The Remains of the Day, I pick it up and flip to the center page. There in the crease, still somewhat fresh and fragrant, is a flattened yellow rose. One of the yellow roses I brought her when she was sick? It has to be. It can’t have been inside the book longer than two or three weeks, matching the timing.
Something shifts in my chest and I sit down on the edge of the bed, holding up the yellow rose to the window light. Preserving a flower doesn’t seem like an Addison move. At all. She’s not the whimsical type. At least that I know of. I wasn’t aware she could dirty talk me into another dimension, either, was I? Didn’t know she liked to look out over the water for hours on end. Or that she could gasp over things like master bedrooms and gourmet kitchens, while looking kind of sad at the same time.
Do I know the whole Addison or just pieces?
Not liking that second possibility at all, I carefully place the yellow rose back inside the book. After staring at it for a moment, I enclose it within the pages once more and place the book back on the nightstand.
My cell phone vibrates in my pocket and I groan, already resolved not to answer. But when I tug the object out of my pocket and see Chris’s name, I hit talk. “Hey, man.”
“Hey.” A short pause. “You don’t sound like the guy I just watched charm Charleston on the evening news.”
Did I charm people? In every one of those interviews, I’m positive they’re getting sick of my voice laying down the same facts again and again. “Listen.” I mash my index finger and thumb into my eyes. “You feel like a beer?”
“That’s why I was calling,” Chris says. “Bring your ass over with a six-pack. I’m on babysitting duty tonight.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I take one last look around Addison’s room and get up from the bed. “Where’s Lydia?”
“Out.”
Something about the way he says it so fast piques my interest. “Out where?” My pulse starts to kick in my wrist. “With who?”
No answer.
“Is she with Addison?”
I’m ready to jump down the phone by the time he gets around to answering. “Come to think of it, that rings a bell.”
Jesus. Is there a pickaxe stuck in my belly? I glance down to double-check, but nothing is there. Addison is out on a Saturday night? Just…looking the way she does around a bunch of hounds? When we stayed inside the apartment together every night, her attractiveness was safe. This is not safe. An image of her laughing with another man tightens my hand around the phone. No. Nope. This isn’t going to work. Addison is my best friend. And she’s now the woman I crave on an hourly basis. Ignoring how badly I want her is insane. Especially when someone could take her from me. I don’t even like the idea of her in the company of someone else. “I’m going to need to know where they went.”
Chris sighs. “Are you going to pass this off as a protective big brother act?”
“No. I’m not.”
“About time.” He says something muffled to his daughter, before coming back on the line. “Listen, she’s out with my wife. They’re not prowling for a hookup.”
“You don’t know that. Lydia could be playing Addison’s wingman.”
“Wingwoman. And I can see no amount of reason is going to convince you they’re just having tapas and going dancing.”
My head almost explodes off my shoulders. “Dancing?”
“Girls dance with each other, Elijah. This isn’t the army ball.” He laughs and I can visualize him shaking his head. “How old are you?”
Done waiting, I collect my briefcase and stride toward the door. “Text me the name of the place.”
“You’re not going to do yourself any favors storming in like Kool-Aid Man. You’re the future mayor. Or did you forget?”
I pause in that act of locking the door, because he’s right. I’m not thinking clearly. My past relationships didn’t have all this…what is this? Angst? How undignified for a thirty-four year old. “I owe you a six pack,” I grumble, disconnecting before Chris can respond. Knowing I’m acting out of jealousy doesn’t stem the tide. It seems to churn hotter in my gut on the drive to Off the Wagon, where Addison and Lydia have gone dancing in downtown Charleston, a place I’ve never been, but know is only a fifteen-minute walk from my house. Or…our house. I’m not sure whom it belongs to at present.
One thing I do know?
I miss Addison. Like hell.
I also want to fuck her until she’s speaking in tongues.
Romantic relationships have begun with far less, haven’t they? We started as friends and now we can graduate to more. That’s all. There’s no pressure. It can be something of our own making. Not quite friends with benefits, because that title cheapens how much I care about her. But I’ve already been down the “promised couple in love” road and it doesn’t work out. Naomi and I loved each other, but once expectations and duty weigh a relationship down, someone gets left behind while the other plows ahead. I can’t let that happen to Addison and me.
What we have is friendship. And heat.
It’s perfect and it’s all we need.