Chapter Seventeen
Addison was quite excited for her friends to come. She missed them and was eager to take part in a group analysis of the contrarian next door. Even though they were not due to arrive until Friday, Addison had everything set. She would put Kizzy and Pru in the guesthouse and let Lisa bunk alone on the pullout couch in the studio. Even then, Addison imagined, they would still hear her snoring.
Until then, she would busy herself with the clay. Busy herself was actually an understatement. She would relish in it.
Addison had remembered from college how to work the kiln in Gicky’s studio, but before doing so, she watched a refresher video, just to be safe. She didn’t want to set the entire island on fire—though that would certainly make it easier to decide about the house. The next day, when she’d pulled the fired pieces from the kiln, she marveled at the explosive patterns of yellow and green. She knew exactly what she would use them for: she would place flowers in the vases and arrange them beside her guests’ beds. The day before, she had combed the beach for oyster shells and decoupaged them with a floral paper she found in the kitchen. She painted their edges in gold leaf and wrote each of her friends’ names on them to set on their pillows. It was a nice touch that, if she weren’t selling the place, would make a great guest tradition—deflecting any scone disappointment. Addison loved making art again and vowed not to let it slip from her life a second time.
She fell asleep reading on the couch that night and was startled at around ten by her phone buzzing incessantly. She had unknowingly missed a bunch of texts from Kizzy. The last one being:
Pick me up at the 10:30 ferry.
It was ten thirty-five. She was late, but Kizzy was two days early.
She read back on the chain of texts.
Can I come to where you are?
I left Rome.
He’s with that woman again.
I’m on my way to you.
PLEASE ANSWER
Addison threw on sweats and biked to the boat. When she got there, Kizzy was sitting on a bench curled up into as small a ball as possible, holding nothing but a purse and a cake box. Addison walked Kizzy and the bike home in silence, set her up in the guesthouse, and rubbed her back until she fell asleep. And while Addison checked on her often, delivering and collecting barely touched cups of tea and toast with butter or jam, Kizzy slept for two days, during which Rome texted Addison a dozen times looking for her.
On the third day, the one on which all three friends had been scheduled to arrive, Addison woke to find Kizzy standing in the kitchen in a hot-pink bikini (Addison’s) fixing herself a cup of coffee. Sally, the dog, sat at her feet. Her hips were swinging from side to side to her new anthem, blasting from her phone.
“You traded in a Ferrari for a Twingo.”
And just like that, she went from post-breakup Carrie Bradshaw to post-breakup Shakira. Kizzy lowered the song and turned to Addison.
“What’s with the dog?”
“She’s my tramp widower neighbor’s, but I somehow have joint custody.”
Kizzy laughed.
“You hate dogs.”
“I don’t hate dogs, I’m just sorta terrified of them—but this one feels human—she has people eyes.”
“I noticed that.”
“My suit looks good on you.” Addison smiled.
“Thanks. I found it drying in the outdoor shower. Is there a place I could pick up a few things to wear? I kind of ran away after confronting Rome and his lover in their suite at the Mark.” She handed Addison a cup of coffee with honey and almond milk, just the way she liked it. It was hard for Addison to believe that anyone would give up this person who was so beautiful, inside and out. She began to say it—
“Kizzy, I’m so, so—”
“Don’t,” Kizzy interrupted her. “Seventeen years of my life. I can’t. I just can’t waste one more minute on him.”
After breakfast, Addison broke into Gicky’s collection of caftans, each more fabulous than the last. The two women sashayed to the beach, Sally happily in tow. They both watched as Kizzy swam in the ocean.
“I hope you can save her, Sally,” Addison told her new furry friend. “?’Cause I’m useless.”
Though it was quite obvious that Kizzy would save herself.
Soon, hunger kicked in for Kizzy, and the two rode into town for lobster rolls, fries, and Bloody Marys, followed by some shopping. The retail therapy definitely put a smile on Kizzy’s face. She walked out of the last shop wearing one of those sweatshirts that read Fire Island, Blissfully Unaware.
“I wish I could stay here forever,” she said, motioning to the catchphrase on the sweatshirt.
“You don’t scare me. I would love it if you stayed forever.”
“I have to get back to work.”
“Do you though? You said it’s dead in the summer.”
“I’ll at least stay the week. That’s the deadline I gave Rome. What time do the shrink and the lawyer arrive? I can use them both, unfortunately.”
“They’ll be on the six o’clock boat. Should we go out tonight or stay in?”
“Let’s cook tonight, so we can fill them in, in peace, and hit one of these places”—she motioned to the left and the right like a flight attendant pointing out the exit rows—“tomorrow night. Good?”
“Perfect.”
They stopped at the market and bought fresh clams, linguini, a big loaf of Italian bread, and the ingredients for a salad, which they made before picking up their friends at the boat.
“Brace yourself for a scene,” Addison warned as they descended on the Friday night ferry. Kizzy got lost in the middle of a very conventional family—a mom, two kids, and even a dog waiting for, she presumed, the dad. Pain washed over her face, and her eyes welled up, which, while sad, let Addison know she wasn’t just burying the whole thing. That was what Addison would have done.
“I’m never going to have that, Addison.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m starting over at thirty-two.”
“So? I’m older.”
“But you don’t want that.” She motioned to the family. The kids were now jumping up and down, yelling, “Daddy’s home!” It tugged at Addison’s heart too. She didn’t not want it—she had just wanted to be a success in her career first. It was too upsetting to talk about, so she didn’t.
“You’ll have whatever you want, Kezia. I’m sure of it,” she said instead.
Addison used Kezia’s given name only when she was very serious. Derived from the Hebrew Cassius, meaning “cinnamon,” it had been chosen by her parents upon looking at their newborn beautiful baby girl with her cinnamon-colored skin. Kizzy loved both her Hebrew proper name and the nickname she shared with a famous character from Roots. It felt like the perfect blend of her ancestors.
“How can you be so sure?” Kizzy asked, leaning in for a much-needed hug.
“Because you’re a Ferrari, not a Twingo. You’ll come in first. You’ll win.”
And while Kizzy did not know what it was she would be winning, both the hug and Addison’s words seemed to make her feel better.
“They’re here,” Addison announced. “Shake it off—or don’t. Whatever you want.”
Kizzy waved her hands in the air and shook out her whole being, greeting their friends with laughter instead of tears.
On the walk back to the house, Prudence and Lisa put into words everything Addison had felt when first arriving on the island but had been too embarrassed to share with the off-putting agent. The people pulling wagons, the catchy names on the houses, like Washing Towels and Glory Days, and the deer walking around like they owned the place. It all blew them away.
The same enthusiasm bubbled over when it came to her house. Their eyes darted from the knickknacks to the travel posters of the Montreux Jazz Festival and the New York World’s Fair to the vintage appliances in the kitchen.
“This whole place is like a life-size time capsule,” Lisa commented. “I love it!”
And they hadn’t even seen the studio yet. Addison was saving that for after dinner. She had a surprise for them.
Addison made the clam sauce while the others sat around the kitchen table listening to Kizzy’s lament. Yes, she was troubled by the state of her life and the end of her marriage, but she wasn’t all gloom and doom about it.
“The truth is,” she explained, “I’m a little relieved.”
Six eyes stared at her, anticipating an explanation. She obliged.
“I went to a funeral with my mom a few months ago, a distant cousin of hers. The husband was bereft, crying at the grave, the whole thing. They were married for over fifty years, but apparently, when they were younger, the wife had had an affair with their butcher.”
“It’s always the butcher,” Addison interrupted. Kizzy agreed, and in her best Jewish accent added, “Give a woman the right cut of brisket…”
“It’s the baker for me,” Lisa said, tapping on her “sweet tooth.”
Pru smirked. “You know I love a good candle.”
They all laughed, hard, like you do with your best friends, when laughter begets laughter.
“So, we get in the car to go home, and my mother says she couldn’t believe how destroyed the husband had been after she had cheated on him. And I’m thinking it must have been last week, but it was thirty years before.”
“People cheat all the time. What’s your point?” Pru asked.
“I feel like I have a second chance not to be that man, standing at his lifelong love’s grave with people pitying him—not because his wife died, but because she was unfaithful. Fifty years of sickness and health, children, grandchildren, weddings, funerals, vacations—none of that’s what is remembered. It really depressed me when I thought about the fact that my marriage would be remembered like that too, and that so much space would be given to Rome’s bad behavior.”
“I can’t believe your mother pointed that out. A little tone-deaf, no?”
“I never told my parents what happened with Rome the first time. I knew they would never forgive him, and you know how close we are to them both.”
“Have you told them now?”
“No, but I’ll have to. I came straight here. The only person I told was the train conductor. Apparently, they only accept cash on the Long Island Rail Road. All I had was a credit card and a sob story.”
“There’s an app for that, you know.”
“Well, pity worked fine.”
They all paused to think of their friend Kizzy breaking the poor conductor.
“Enough about me!” She smiled while topping off everyone’s glasses. “This is meant to be a fun weekend. Let’s talk about Addison’s neighbor and how soon till they hook up.”
Addison shouted, “No way,” in protest.
Lisa countered, “Of course not, ’cause anyone who challenges you is automatically off-limits.”
“That is not true.”
“You are the only person I know who is searching for meh.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m not searching for meh.”
“Really? Do you want us to scroll back on the group chat to present evidence?” Pru said, stepping into lawyer mode. “Mitch from HR, that bartender you dated from the Pony Bar, Mike Stemple. You always go for the wet noodles.”
“What about that other guy from the gym—Pete?” Addison asked defiantly.
“Why do you think we called him Pasta Pete? Wet noodle!”
“Not Philip, Philip wasn’t a wet noodle,” Addison proclaimed, defending herself.
“That’s correct. Ergo, the broken engagement followed by the mad escape to the East Coast.”
Oh my God. Had she left Philip because she was too scared that he would break her heart? No. She remembered it perfectly. She was too young—she felt trapped.
“It’s time to shuffle the playlist, man,” Pru insisted.
Addison laughed and conceded, “You may have a point—but this is a different scenario. I actually think I may hate this guy. He took advantage of my houseguest.”
“Let me get this straight. You liked the guy that you met on the ferry, but at the same time you hated the guy whose dog keeps showing up in your living room.”
“Not hated, disliked.”
“OK. Then you liked the guy who lost his wife in the book, but disliked your neighbor who you think tricked you and then berated you over the bungee cord fiasco?”
“Hated.”
“And now?”
Pru cut in. “Let’s see a picture of this guy.”
Addison pulled a few of his books from the shelves and passed them out. They all turned to various iterations of his author photo, followed by a deep dive into their phones. There was no shortage of images and reading material about Benjamin Morse. Pru was the first to pick her head up from the scroll.
“At least he’s not boring.”
“Stop!” said Addison.
“Remember that last guy who came for dinner with us. He said nothing for like five hours,” Pru said, supplying evidence.
Lisa stood up for Addison.
“OK, enough, you two. Addison. Do not go for this guy. He clearly has a host of issues.”
“I wasn’t planning on it. I can’t stand him.”
“You couldn’t stand that guy from the gym who never wiped off the treadmill, but you dated him for two months,” Pru observed slyly.
“God. I really thought Kizzy’s issues would take the spotlight off of me. Can we change the subject from my questionable sexual escapades?”
“You could probably use some questionable sexual escapades,” Kizzy added under her breath. Addison wasn’t having it.
“What I could use is a job. Let’s figure that out, please.”
Lucky for Addison, the last clam in the pan popped open, and they all sat down to break bread. Dinner was delicious, and after they had cleaned up, Addison brought them to the studio for the big surprise. She had set up four canvases in a circle and filled a table with some of the most eclectic objects she could find in the house. It was right out of Painting and Drawing 101. They all dove in, painting and laughing and drinking wine and eating Rome’s birthday cake from the box until three in the morning, when they finally crashed.
Addison and Lisa (and Sally) awoke in the morning to a note on the fridge from Pru and Kizzy.
Gone for a bike ride. If you want to meet us, call.
They headed for the beach instead, where Lisa took the time to quietly slip in some friendly analysis.
“Why do you think you pick the wrong men?” she asked Addison.
“I’m not sure—but I have a feeling you have a theory.”
“I do. I think it’s a form of self-preservation.”
Lisa really was a brilliant analyst—but Addison was in no mood for it. She thought back to her own developing theory—how, at the tender age of twelve, when kids are beginning to think about boys or girls in that coupling way, Addison had her heart broken by the finest man she thought she knew. Naturally, she pivoted.
“I am in a work crisis, not a relationship crisis.”
Addison wasn’t being entirely truthful. She didn’t really understand how she had become anchorless, but ever since she’d heard that was how Gicky imagined her, she hadn’t stopped thinking about it.
She shifted gears again, explaining, “Remember playing Chutes and Ladders as a kid? I feel like I made it three-quarters of the way up the board, then landed on that one shitty slide that takes you all the way back to the beginning.”
“You will get another job. You’re exceptional at what you do,” Lisa consoled her, before going right back to her own theory.
“Have you ever been cheated on?”
Addison thought back through her relationships, way back, and landed on the very first.
“Does it count if it was in the eighth grade?”
“It may count more. Wasn’t that around the time your grandfather died?”
“A year later. I’m surprised you remember that story. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. You may be the only person I ever shared it with.”
“Well, that could be a part of the problem. Nothing stays bottled up forever. Tell me about the boy who cheated.”
“Come on. Are we really doing this?”
“We may as well. Summer of Addison, remember?”
“I never agreed to that.”
“Just tell me.”
“Fine. It was eighth grade, and everybody was constantly asking each other, ‘Who do you like?’?”
“God, I remember that,” Lisa said. “Suzy Carmichael texted me that question in biology, and I said Chris Tevlin—who I didn’t even like, but I had to answer something. Then she told him.”
“Bitch,” they both said at the same time, before laughing.
Her response made Addison wonder whether Lisa was the type of therapist who sat silently nodding, admitting zero personal information, or the type who shared with her patients like they were a couple of chatting friends. Addison had never been to therapy. Thinking back, aside from the broken engagement, things had always gone as planned, and she never felt she had to. Now she wondered if that was really the case.
“Eighth grade was hell,” she said, with a wince.
“Complete hell. So, what happened to you?” Dr.Lisa asked, again.
“Let me set the scene. I’m fourteen, haven’t got my period yet, flat as a board. I had been dating Jeffrey Pearlman, the cutest boy in school, for six whole months.”
“That’s a long time for middle school.”
“Right? I thought so too. Hell, it still is! So, we are all at Jonathon Strauss’s house playing spin the bottle, and it’s my turn. I carefully spin it—more like place it—toward Jeffrey. We kiss, and everyone yells eighth-grade things like ‘Whoa, baby,’ and ‘Get a room.’ We were good at kissing, probably much better than the other kids, you know, ’cause we had been practicing for six months, and there was literally nothing else to do. I mean, maybe I was at the point in development where it felt like there were marbles under each nipple. Remember that?”
“Not till you reminded me—but yes. Now I do. They really hurt, remember that?”
Addison nodded and grimaced.
“So, as per the rules of spin the bottle, it was his turn next. He spun without manipulation, which was the first stab in my heart, and it landed right in between me and Sofie Bonelli. Let me give you a visual. Sofie Bonelli was already five foot six and at least a 34C. She was adopted, and people were convinced she was really sixteen. Forget looking like her little sister. I looked like I could have been her kid.
“So Jeffrey leaned in, and I closed my eyes and puckered up for a repeat performance. When I opened them, he and Sofie were all out making out, as if we were playing seven minutes in heaven—not spin the bottle—and the entire circle of kids just sat there with their chins on the floor. The next day he broke up with me and the two of them became a couple.”
“That is really messed-up,” Lisa acknowledged. Addison greatly appreciated the magnitude of her empathy.
“Though you must know now that it was all about the boobs.”
“I knew it then too, but from that day on, I was convinced that the dreamier the guy, the more likely he was to break my heart.”
“And you resigned yourself to dating beneath you ever since?”
“Not consciously, but maybe.”
“Realizing why you do something is the first step to changing a pattern.”
Lisa rarely used modern therapy–speak. She was old school, reluctant to throw around emotional buzzwords like gaslighting and trauma bonding or labeling every Todd, Drake, and Hunter a narcissist. Lisa spoke plain English, and Addison appreciated it. She bet her patients did too.
Addison pulled out her copy of On Fire Island and handed it to her.
“Read this. I wouldn’t mind your professional opinion.”
“I thought we weren’t obsessing over this guy.”
“I’m not. I stand firmly on dislike in real life. But the guy in the book—he’s a good one.”
“So’s Huckleberry Finn.” She shook the volume like a maraca. “It’s fiction.”
“Read it first. Then comment.”