17. Addison
17
Addison
A ddison sat in her car in the parking lot, phone in hand, trying to work up the courage to send the text she’d just typed into the message box. She had to do it. She had to send it now. If she waited the half an hour it took for her to get home, it would be too late.
She knew it wasn’t fair to either of them to put it off any longer. If she texted him now, he’d still have time to make other plans for the evening.
“I should talk to Claire first,” she said, her misery amplified in the close space of the inside of her car. If her friend confirmed her suspicion that Noel was the mystery man she had her eye on, then Addison would bow out. For one, she couldn’t compete with Claire. She wouldn’t compete with her, either. She’d loved seeing Claire gushing about the possibility of romance the way she’d done the other night, and if Noel made her that happy, then who was Addison to stand in the way?
The only plan she and Noel had was to tour the town on Saturday. It wasn’t really a date, was it? Sure, he’d kissed her after their dinner out, but that was almost expected these days, wasn’t it? Kissing—or even more—on the first date? And really, if she hadn’t called him back up the stairs, he wouldn’t have kissed her. So maybe he’d thought she was the one expecting it, that he’d only done so to oblige her.
“Ugh. An obligatory kiss.” The thought made her stomach turn. Especially since it had been such a lovely, lovely kiss.
Why did dating have to be so confusing? What happened to the days when holding hands made a relationship official, when kissing was something reserved for serious dating? Addison often felt so out of touch, like she’d been born in the wrong era.
Noel, on the other hand, was a man of the world in his sleek navy suits and suede loafers, his soft leather messenger bag and precisely-trimmed hair. He smelled like high-rise conference rooms and business class lounges, and he spoke with the precise, practiced eloquence of a man who wanted to rid himself of his roots.
I get the feeling he’s coming to Autumn Lake to get away from something. Or someone.
The echo of Claire’s words swirled around in her mind.
Addison sent her text message, then she shoved the phone in her purse and put her car in reverse so she wouldn’t be tempted to sit there and stare at her screen for a response. For the first time in years, she was grateful that it was Arnie’s day off and he wouldn’t be working the exit booth. She didn’t want to have to try to explain the tears that she was trying desperately to blink away.
“Just why are you crying?” she berated herself angrily. She felt stupid for allowing herself to be so fully invested in someone she’d just begun to get to know. “You don’t have the right to be hurt about this, you foolish, foolish creature. He doesn’t belong to you.”
But if Noel ended up with Claire? How would she bear it?
Her phone chimed in her purse, and she chastised herself for not turning off the sound. She couldn’t even turn up her music to drown it out because her playlist required her to connect her phone. Her hand tingled with the need to root around for the device, to see his response to her cancellation of their plans. She clenched her jaw and kept her eyes fixed on the road.
At a loss for what else to do, Addison started singing loudly from the chorus of the first Bon Jovi song that came to mind. “I’m going down… in a blaze of glory!” Then she burst into tears.
She gave in and pulled over, partly because she was only torturing herself by not checking her phone, but also because it probably wasn’t very safe to drive at twilight with tears blurring her vision.
I understand. I’m sorry. Maybe tomorrow night if you’re feeling better?
She’d told him she wasn’t feeling well and planned to make it an early night, all of which was true. She felt awful. Her stomach hurt, her head hurt, and she hadn’t slept well the night before. She just wanted to go home, crawl under her covers, and put an end to this endless day.
How was she supposed to respond to that? She couldn’t say she knew that she wasn’t going to feel good tomorrow night, too. But now he'd seen that she’d read his message, not to respond at all would be even ruder than the way she’d just cancelled.
She thought of one of her favorite graphic t-shirts, a gift from Claire. Circling a stack of books and a cup of coffee were the words, Sorry, I can’t. I’m all booked up. How she wished she could be that brassy in real life.
Finally, she texted, Can I let you know tomorrow?
He replied almost immediately. Absolutely. I’m praying for you and the rest of your night.
Addison’s eyes blurred again as she read his response. Had any man, other than her father, ever said he was praying for her? It should have felt strange, awkward, even. She pictured him kneeling at his bedside, talking to God about her. It seemed almost too intimate to be appropriate.
Thank you, she texted back . The words were completely inadequate, but she was both overwhelmed and at a loss for what else to say. Instead, she plugged her phone into her speaker system and thumbed through her collection until she found the specific playlist she was looking for.
Songs to Sing and Cry Along With .
Then she sang—and cried—loudly all the way home.
Three hours later, Claire was practically yelling at her over the phone. She’d called as soon as she closed the bookstore for the night. “I called Juno first,” she explained. “Hoping to get a feel for how she thought things were between you. I figured you wouldn’t be home yet, or that you wouldn’t want to be interrupted, wherever you were. But she said you two never even showed up.”
Addison hadn’t been asleep when she called, even though she’d made herself sleepy-time tea and had ignored the urgent need for chocolate. Instead, after tossing and turning for over an hour, she’d started scrolling through Petfinder and other online resources in search of a cat who might need her as much as she needed it. “I’m not feeling good,” she said into the phone, trying not to sound defensive. Juno had called earlier, too, but Addison had let it go to voice mail. So that Juno wouldn’t be worried, she’d thumbed out a quick message, telling her they’d had to reschedule last minute, but hadn’t given her any more details.
“Really? What’s wrong with you?” Claire’s question came out more accusatory than concerned.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Addison said defensively. “I just didn’t sleep well last night and I’ve had a bad sleep-deprivation headache all day. I didn’t think I’d be good company.”
“So, you’re self-sabotaging,” Claire shot back.
“Actually, no,” Addison retorted. “I’m practicing self-care.”
“By not spending time with a guy you’ve been mooning over for the last several months? A guy who wants to spend time with you, too?”
“And just how do you know he wants to spend time with me?” Addison threw off her covers and pushed to her feet. She couldn’t sit still for this conversation.
“How do I know? Because he keeps asking you out, Addison Wedgewood. And not just for beer and pizza down at Patsy’s, either. I’m talking a legitimate first date at a fancy Italian restaurant—a great first date, from what I gathered. Then a second all-day Saturday date during which he wants you to show him your town, and because the man is so besotted that he can’t even wait that long to see you again, he asked to get together with you at Juno’s for eclairs. Which is really quite bold, if you ask me, since he can’t have missed the fact that your friends all hang out there. And he’s reading the book you gave him, too,” she exclaimed. “That’s how I know.”
Addison didn’t know what to say without admitting what she knew. She turned the light on in the kitchen and filled her teapot with water. She might as well have a cup of something other than chamomile. She wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon, not worked up the way she was now. Maybe a little caffeine would help her headache, at least.
“Addison,” Claire began after a long moment of silence. She was no longer ranting. Now, she just sounded concerned. Worried, even. “Why on earth would you think he wouldn’t want to spend time with you? You’re right; I may not have met the guy, but from what the girls all say, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you the other night. So, what happened? Did he—did he say something stupid?”
“No. That’s not it.” Addison shook her head, even though Claire couldn’t see it. She needed to calm down or she’d start crying again. She needed to just clear the air with her friend, period. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I think he might be interested in someone else.”
“Wait. What?” Claire was clearly offended on her behalf.
“Or someone else might be interested in him.”
“What? Addison, who cares if anyone else is interested in him? He’s interested in you.”
“I care,” Addison retorted. “And you have met him. In your shop.”
Her announcement was met with silence. Finally, Claire said, “I’m so confused right now.”
Addison set a ceramic pour-over cone onto a large red mug, then scooped some of her favorite Sumatran coffee into the filter. “The guy who came in last night while I was there. When we were straightening up the manga section.”
“What?” Claire sighed loudly into the phone. “I feel like a broken record. What is going on? Start from the beginning.”
So, Addison did. She ended with, “I’m not going to try to steal your mystery man, Claire.”
There was no response from the other end of the line. Except… wait. Was her friend laughing?
“Are you laughing at me?”
“No, no,” Claire insisted. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m not laughing at all. I’m… pondering.”
When she didn’t expound, Addison said, “I’ll bite. What are you pondering?” The tea kettle whistled and she poured hot water over the coffee grounds, breathing in the earthy aroma that conjured up childhood memories of tropical rain forests and south pacific beaches.
“I’m pondering about how easily we humans can talk ourselves out of the good things in life.”
“I’m not following you,” Addison grumbled, although she thought she might have at least an idea of the direction Claire was heading.
“That man? Your Mr. Stewart?”
“He’s not my Mr. Stewart,” Addison interjected.
Claire’s voice went soft. “Oh, honey. He’s yours. I mean, I may have flirted with him a teeny tiny bit the first time he came in,” she admitted, and Addison could picture her holding up her thumb and forefinger in an incremental measurement. “But let me set your mind at ease. He was and still is completely unresponsive to my oh, so considerable charm.”
Addison could hardly believe that, but she said nothing, waiting to see where her friend was going.
“Why didn’t you say something to me last night?” Now she sounded hurt. “Or come around and introduce us? Stake your claim on him.”
“Stake my claim, Claire? Really? Because I’m the kind of person who does that.” Sarcasm drenched her words, but the notion really was preposterous. “And I didn’t say anything because I thought… well, I assumed he was your Mystery Man.”
Claire snorted. “Good grief, woman. Don’t you know that whole ‘miscommunication-slash-misunderstanding’ thing is the oldest and—in my humble opinion—the dumbest romance trope in the world? Besides, everyone knows what happens when you assume.”
Addison pressed her lips together, still not ready to let her off the hook. “You could have said something, too, you know. I mean, you're the one who was flirting with him.”
Claire made a dismissive sound, but she didn’t contradict her. “Look. I’m not being facetious when I say this, but I’m sorry you misinterpreted my behavior the way you did. I wasn’t trying to flirt with him. I thought he was being nosy and kinda rude standing there listening in on our conversation like that. It was none of his business, you know? So I tried to divert his attention away from you, get him to focus on something other than what he’d heard. He seemed reluctant to go, which made me even more determined, so I practically dragged him away.” She sighed softly over the phone. “Now that I know who he was, I have a feeling he probably recognized your voice and was trying to decide whether or not to make his presence known to you.”
Addison considered what she’d heard and seen through the lens of that explanation. The way Claire had almost flippantly dismissed Noel’s claim that he hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, how she’d linked arms with him, and yes, practically dragged him away. Her friend had essentially been acting on Addison’s behalf, protecting her privacy.
It all rang loudly of truth. And the whole situation reeked of misguided assumptions due to a lack of communication.
“And just to set the record straight, Noel Stewart is not—nor has he ever been—my mystery man.”
“He’s—he’s not?”
“He’s not,” Claire repeated. “And I forgive you for thinking I’m a shameless flirt, but only because you were willing to give up your man for our friendship.”
“He’s not my—”
“He is,” Claire cut her off with a chuckle. “What’s he’s not is mine. At least we got that cleared up.”
“So, who—”
“And no, I’m not telling you who mine is.”
“I wasn’t going to ask,” Addison lied. She’d been about to do exactly that.
“So,” Claire prodded, not even bothering to acknowledge Addison’s denial. “How are you going to fix this?”
“Fix this?”
“Yes, girlie. You broke it, you fix it.”
“But—how?”
“I’m going to get off the phone now so you can figure that out. We’ll talk tomorrow after work, and I hope to hear good news by then. That gives you twenty-four hours, girlie.”
“But—”
“I believe in you. You got this, Addison,” Claire insisted. “Bye, now.”
“Okay. Bye.” But the call had already been disconnected.
Addison picked up her coffee mug and headed over to her sofa. She settled into the squishy cushions and pulled a chenille throw over her lap as she considered how best to untangle the mess she’d made of things. It was just after nine o’clock; was it too late to text?
She rolled her eyes so hard that she almost spilled her drink. “Are you eighty? No, it’s not too late,” she chided herself.
But she was in her pajamas. That made it feel later than it actually was. She glared at the phone she’d set on the couch arm rest.
“How do I fix this?”