CHAPTER SEVEN
Addison
Want the secret to getting your dream booty?
Captain Du Pont inspires new all-cereal diet craze.
Click for details.
—TheTea.com
Humming along to the Muzak version of “Take a Chance on Me,” I toss a box of ziti into my shopping cart, allowing myself to smile since I’m alone in the aisle. I prefer fusilli over ziti, so Elijah and I switch our noodle every week. Thursdays we do pasta. I buy the ingredients, he does the cooking. It’s my favorite night, because he overeats when we do Italian. While I clear the table, he lies on the couch and bemoans his lack of control, while loosening his belt. It’s all so…domestic.
I’m domestic. Look at me. I’m in the supermarket with a purse full of coupons, excited about adding fresh basil to the mix. I used to get excited about dressing up or adding a pink streak to my hair. Now I have Pasta Thursdays.
Should it terrify me that I wouldn’t trade it for the world?
Yeah. It should.
It has been a little over a month since Elijah became my nightly house guest, ducking in through my front door every evening wearing a low baseball cap and street clothes. Watching the tension leak from his huge shoulders, his sigh mingling with the sounds of Laura Marling…it has become an addiction. I’m his safe place. Or my apartment is, rather. But I’m a part of it, too.
We’re friends. Best friends, even.
A best friend he hides away.
Ignoring the snarky voice in my head, I throw a hunk of Parmesan cheese into my cart and leave the refrigerated aisle—
And I run smack into Elijah with my cart. “Oh.”
The moment is crackling with clarity, the edges of my surroundings sharp. I watch dread pass over Elijah’s features, notice the look he tosses over his shoulder. Girl. He’s with a girl. My stomach turns into a boiling pit of acid, inviting all of my organs to drop down into the brew and get destroyed along with the rest of me. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be sick.
“Addison?” He tugs at the knot of his tie. “You shop here?”
“Not usually. I wanted to…” My hands flop around like caught fish. How am I even saying words? “The other place didn’t h-have fresh basil…”
“Fresh, huh?” Surely I’m imagining the hint of a smile that tugs at his mouth. “That’s new.”
“Yeah.” Oh God, I’ve never felt like more of an idiot in my life. When we’re inside my apartment, talking about mundane things like basil and favorite movies and childhood memories it isn’t strange at all. But under the bright lights of the supermarket, talking about the new recipe I’m trying—for him—makes me feel like a teenager sending a love letter to Theo James. Pathetic. Especially if he’s with a girl. “Maybe we should take a rain check,” I mutter, circling my cart full of food, fully prepared to abandon it. “See you around.”
He takes hold of my arm. “Wait a second, Goose.”
I tug my limb free just in time to see the reporter following him. The man is older, wearing a bright blue windbreaker with a local news station logo over the breast. He’s trying to be inconspicuous, even going so far as to scrutinize the back of a pretzel bag. But he’s watching Elijah and me out of the corner of his eye. There’s no doubt.
So…there’s no girl. Elijah is on edge because there’s a journalist following him.
And he doesn’t want to be seen in the same place as me.
It was so easy to pretend we were keeping our friendship a secret because that’s how we wanted it. Like it was our choice. But it’s not. I’m a liability to this man’s career. Worse, my mother’s past and my lack of blue blood make me a liability to his respectability and standing in the community.
My pulse pounds in my temples. “Oh, right,” I push past numb lips. The reporter lifts his cell phone and I turn away fast, already walking in the opposite direction. “You know what? I’ll just go out the back. Make your own pasta.”
Elijah’s sigh of my name follows me up the aisle, but I don’t look back.
He doesn’t come over tonight, either.
*
Elijah
I’ve known my friend Chris since we went through the Citadel together. Sophomore year, he started dating his now-wife, Lydia, so I’ve known her almost as long. Chris supported me when I returned from overseas and everything seemed unfamiliar, because he’d gone through the same thing after his own two tours of duty.
Because I grew up as the mayor’s son, I had an easy inroad to popularity. When I was very young, I took that road, only to realize quickly there are two types of friends in this world. Those who become your friend thinking you’ll give them an advantage. And friends who expect nothing but your honesty. For you to show up and have their back.
Chris and Lydia are good, solid friends and I don’t have many, besides them and Addison. In my position, it’s better to have acquaintances that don’t expect me to compromise myself in the name of a favor and I’m more than good with that.
Chris, now a Charleston police officer, stood up as my best man at the wedding, their six-year-old daughter, Sonia—my goddaughter—all dressed up to be the flower girl. He’s been suspicious as hell over me turning down dinner invitations, but he’s been letting me slide on the excuse that I’m busy with the campaign. Lydia, not so much.
This afternoon she marched into my office and informed me I was coming over for dinner. All morning, I’d been too distracted to work, the words make your own pasta, ringing in my head like hourly church bells. But that’s when the idea hit me.
I’ll bring them to Addison’s.
“Here we go, Sonia,” I say, taking hold of the little girl’s hand to guide her up the stairs. “I seem to recall your daddy telling me you love Christmas. Is that right?”
“Yes. I’m asking for a phone this year.”
I glance back at Chris where’s he’s guiding his wife up the stairs. He shakes his head.
“Now why would you need a phone? Who are you going to call?”
“My friends’ moms.” She blinks up at me. “To set up play dates.”
“I see. You’re cutting out the middle man.” I bite back a laugh. “Maybe I should give you a job in my office. You’d be able to afford your own phone.”
“Mommy, can I?”
“Someday, maybe.” Lydia catches up and flicks my ear. “Stop encouraging her.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” I say absently, noticing a shadow move beneath the door of the apartment. I’ll be lucky if she didn’t change the locks after last night. Until that moment in the supermarket, I’d managed to keep Addison stashed away in a box only I get to open. Then there she was. Standing right in front of me with her fresh basil, glitter-covered clothes and running sneakers. I’d been more panicked over sharing Addison with the world than I was about exposing a relationship between us, friendship or otherwise. She’s my respite.
Christ. I’ve been a selfish prick to my best friend. A worthy friend would have escorted her to the checkout and paid for the groceries, compromising photos be damned. But I don’t have the freedom to do that. I’m ten points ahead in the polls and my competitor continues to schedule press conferences and campaign door to door, neither of which are my strong suit. I’m focused on plans—big ones. Ones I think can bring change to a broader number of people in Charleston, instead of directing taxpayer money toward programs that have more than enough. I want to win this race. If I don’t, necessary actions won’t be taken to redirect resources where more people stand to benefit.
In addition to keeping the wheels moving on my campaign, my father is breathing down my neck, the press never leaves me alone—and I’m not dragging Addison into the storm.
I’m not losing her, either, though. By bringing my friends to meet her, I’m making her a part of my life. As much as I can without distracting or possibly jeopardizing the upcoming election. Or more importantly, bringing her every move under scrutiny.
“Now where exactly are you taking us, Elijah?”
I stop on the landing, waiting for the three of them to join me. “It’s a little complicated.” I take the keys out of my pocket, singling out the newest, shiniest one. “This is my friend Addison’s place. You might remember her from—”
“The Getaway Girl?” Lydia asks, tucking a bottle of wine she brought underneath her arm. “From the newspaper?”
“Yes, she’s…both of those things and none of them.” I search for the words to explain who Addison is to me. And politician or not, I can’t really find them. “Just meet her.”
“Sure, man.” Chris lays a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “We trust you.”
“Thanks.” Until I slide my key into the lock, I don’t consider that Addison could very well bash me over the head with a skillet for bringing company over without any notice. There’s no time to change my mind, now, though. Frankly, I don’t think I could leave and spend another night in my hotel room, either. This is where I want to be.
I open the door, just enough to make sure she’s decent—and there she is. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, the arch of one foot propped on the opposite knee, drinking a can of Diet Coke and looking bored. Wearing jeans and—thank God—not a sports bra and leggings. “Can I help you?”
“Hi, Goose.” Already the strain of the day is melting off me. “Can this be one of those times you forget to be mean to me?”
“Yea’nope.”
“Are you sure? It would make a little girl’s Christmas.”
Her frown makes me smile. “Are you drunk, Captain?”
“No, but I got that way last night. I had to.”
She looks away, but not before I catch the softening around her eyes. “So whose Christmas am I ruining?”
I urge Sonia to peek through the door. “Hello,” she says.
“Ah!” Addison jumps a good foot in the air. “What—you were serious? Whose kid is this?”
“Ours,” answers Chris with a polite smile, pushing the rest of the door open and stepping past me to get inside. “Sorry for dropping in on you like this, Addison. The captain kidnapped us under the pretense he’d be buying us dinner.”
Lydia steps forward and offers her hand. “Turns out he wanted to introduce you instead. I’m Lydia, this is my husband Chris. And you already met Sonia.”
Appearing dumbfounded, Addison shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you.” I watch in fascination as Addison shoves stray hairs into her ponytail and turns in a circle, bumping her hip off the wall. Oh…wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her nervous. Not once. Something about it makes my throat ache. “I didn’t go shopping. I was just going to eat Honey Bunches of Oats.”
“Well, I’m in the mood for takeout anyway—” Lydia cuts herself off, her attention clearly arrested by the apartment’s décor. “Oh. This is…eerily festive.”
“Mom! Look!” Sonia skids to a halt near a row of freshly painted mailboxes, all of which say Letters to Santa in red and white stripes. “I can ask for my phone!”
“Um. Wait.” Addison retreats into the kitchen and two seconds later, the apartment explodes with Christmas, lights flashing, “Carol of the Bells” playing, statues dancing. Chris and Lydia take a hasty step toward each other, as if under attack. When Addison comes back into view, she’s waving a magnetic notepad I recognize from the fridge. On top, it says, “Dear Santa. Here are my demands…” and each letter looks like it has been clipped from a different magazine or newspaper. One of Addison’s biggest sellers these days—and an idea she came up with herself. “You can use this to write your wish list.” She hands the notebook to Sonia. “I’m basically one of Santa’s elves, so I’ll make sure he gets it.”
Sonia turns to her parents wide-eyed, then launches herself at Addison.
Addison’s arms lift slowly to return the hug.
As quickly as the moment starts, it ends, Sonia running circles around the apartment to take everything in. Addison rubs hands down the sides of her jeans, shifting on the balls of her feet. She looks over at me and I’m caught. There’s a sheen to her eyes and just like seeing her nervous, it throws me off, because it’s so unlike her.
“I’m sorry,” I mouth over the music, relief swamping me when she nods once.
I’m just beginning to wonder if there’s something seriously wrong with my throat when Addison lifts her chin and waltzes past me, rolling me a look down her nose. “Well? You know where the takeout menus are, Captain. Make yourself useful.”
Smiling like an idiot, I head for the living room side table, but I’m brought up short by Chris and Lydia’s identical expressions. They’re looking at me like I’ve just announced I’ll be running for mayor of the moon.
“I’ll go help Addison with plates,” murmurs Lydia.
Chris jolts. “Yeah. I’ll…make sure Sonia doesn’t break anything.
Their sly smiles tell me what they’re thinking. That only one bedroom in this apartment gets occupied at night. I can’t even blame them for making that assumption. But I’ve been in love—and I know what I have with Addison is even better. No one understands this thing between Addison and me. No one but us. And I’m just fine with that.