Chapter Thirteen
On her third day entrenched in the clay, Addison heard a knock on the door and jumped a good ten feet in the air before opening it. It was sunny again. Her eyes adjusted to the light outside the studio and then to the two women, who looked to be in their mid-twenties, standing in front of her.
The first paying weekend guests, Jessie something and Katie something else, and she’d forgotten to pick them up at the ferry. She wiped her hands on her cutoffs and apologized.
“I’m sorry. So sorry. How did you ever find the place?”
“People pointed us in the right direction, and, you know.” The blonder of the two reached into her bag and pulled out a well-worn copy of a book called On Fire Island. Addison recognized it from her aunt’s bookshelves. She had planned on reading it, but hadn’t picked it up yet.
“We kind of took your place for its location,” the woman said.
She winked, leaving Addison to wonder if the blonde had something in her eye, aside from their obvious twentysomething hopefulness. She fought the urge to grab both by the shoulders and shake it out of them.
“Let me show you to your room,” she said instead.
She was eager to impress them after the faux pas of not meeting them at the boat.
She pointed out the fresh towels and travel-size toiletries she had stocked the bathroom with after Paresh left. She had chosen the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash bottles lifted from the Capella Shanghai from a small trunk full of tiny toiletries. It seemed that her aunt had documented her lifetime of travel by swiping the contents of maids’ carts and hotel bathrooms the world over. Every day Addison spent among her things fueled more resentment toward her parents for keeping this electric, eclectic relative away from her.
She returned a few minutes later with a vase of cut flowers and a pitcher of water. A bunch more books sat on the bed—all by the same author. Her eyes darted from one to the other, not wanting to appear nosy but too curious not to look.
“We’re hoping to get them autographed. I’m sure you’ve read them all,” Katie said, running her finger across the chain of the gold necklace that said her name in the same font as Carrie Bradshaw’s. It made Addison laugh that twentysomethings were still moving to New York City, hoping to emulate a decades-old television show.
“I haven’t,” she answered, surprised that her guests were so literary.
“I’m new around here. I recently inherited this place from my aunt. Just finding my way, really.”
Why am I telling her all of this?
“We are so sorry about your aunt; they told us at the market.”
Of course they did. Smallest town ever.
“Here.” Katie handed her a book. “This one’s my favorite, and the shortest of the bunch—if you want to borrow it. I’m dying that he’s given up writing novels—I’m hoping to find him—you know, for his autograph.”
The other woman, Jessie, came out of the bathroom in a bikini.
“Do I look fat?” she asked her friend.
“You never look fat,” Katie replied.
“Well, I feel fat.”
“Well, you don’t look fat.”
“You know, I think I’d rather look fat than feel fat.”
“Same.”
Addison laughed, and they both turned to look at her, as if they’d forgotten she was there.
She suddenly felt uncomfortable, picturing their review on Airbnb: Nice space except the creepy owner didn’t stay out of it.
She accepted the book and the beach-going inspiration and soon headed there as well, positioning herself far enough away from her weekend guests not to encroach on their privacy or bump into the dreaded neighbor, whom she spotted down the way. She was thankful her friends were visiting the following weekend. Loneliness had been setting in, and she was tired of feeling like an outsider. As if sensing that, her only friendly neighbor, Sally the dog, walked from her owner’s blanket to her own and presented her paw. She took it. Her duplicitous neighbor soon followed, holding two bottles of Amstel Light between his fingers like a barback.
“Peace offering?” he asked, passing her one of the bottles. “I’m really sorry about the other day,” he continued. “I overreacted.”
“I’ll say.” She took the beer, more out of politeness than interest. She didn’t really like beer, and it was hardly cocktail hour. It seemed to go well with her book though, which was a lot sexier than she had expected.
“Enjoying the book?” he asked.
She held it up like a prop.
“My renters lent it to me. They are looking for the author to sign it.”
“I’m sure they are. You liking it?” he asked, again, more forcefully this time.
“It’s all right, so far.”
“Are you always so brutally honest?”
“I’m leading by example.”
“I swear, I didn’t know you were Gicky’s niece.”
Addison raised her eyebrows.
“The book gets better,” he said, changing the subject.
She was surprised he had read it, and she hated how he was standing and she was sitting. She had to block her eyes from the sun and squint up at him. She wanted him to leave.
“Well, beginning with cunnilingus was a bold move,” she offered, hoping to scare him off.
The word cunnilingus uncharacteristically rolled off her tongue like, well, cunnilingus. She quickly took a sip of the Amstel to hide how truly uncomfortable this encounter was making her. It was cold and refreshing. Did she like beer now?
“It always is,” he retorted.
Now she was blushing.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he said as Sally put her face in Addison’s lap. She clearly had no intention of leaving. Addison scratched the first dog that didn’t scare her behind the ears to seal the deal. She didn’t like dogs now, just this dog.
“Return her on your way home,” he laughed. “She’s obviously smitten, missing female companionship, I guess.”
His comment was primed for a comeback, and after the way he’d spoken to her the other morning, she couldn’t resist.
“Really? I’m surprised the women aren’t flocking to you—with all those earnest flirting moves of yours, I would think you would have landed a keeper by now,” she snarked.
He looked taken back, and now that the joke had landed, she felt bad for insulting him.
What was it about this guy that brought out the worst in her?
“Enjoy the book”—he winked—“especially page one thirty-seven.”
Jeez, does he have it memorized?
“Thanks for the beer,” she said instead.
He briefly flashed his dimple and walked off.
Her Spidey sense told her that the entire interaction was BS. She could hear the old guy, Shep, warning him about making an enemy of the woman with her trigger finger on the landscape of their block. Total BS for sure.
She skipped to page 137, read a few lines, and quickly put the book down.
This Benjamin Morse must be very good in bed, she thought.
She picked up her phone and opened her group chat to distract herself from what had awoken between her legs.
LET’S DISCUSS NEXT WEEKEND!
She attached the link to the ferry schedule.
WHO’S ARRIVING WHEN?
The answers—filled with excitement and emojis—excited her as well. She couldn’t wait to show her friends everything—to laugh with them, hopefully not cry again, and mostly to not be alone.