37. Addison
Addison
The weeks after the trip settled into something new.
At the beginning of our relationship, everything had felt careful. One night during the week. One night on the weekend. Like we were both pretending we had better boundaries than we actually did.
But after I showed up at her apartment with my bags still in hand and told her I couldn’t go home, something shifted.
One weeknight turned into two, sometimes three. Some nights at my place. Others at hers. We didn’t plan it. We just did whatever made sense after the day we’d each had.
Her apartment was smaller than mine. Darker. The furniture didn’t match, and there was usually a coffee mug somewhere it didn’t belong or a sweatshirt draped over the couch.
It was messier than my place.
And I absolutely loved it there.
Most weekdays, I texted her around six.
Are you home? Busy?
She always told me to come over. By the time I arrived, she usually had music playing while she finished whatever she had been working on. I’d kick off my shoes, drop my purse somewhere, and settle in. Then somehow, I’d end up staying the night.
Weekends changed too. Friday nights stopped feeling separate from Saturdays. I’d show up after work, and suddenly it would be Sunday afternoon, neither of us quite sure where the time had gone.
Saturday mornings stretched longer than they used to. Coffee runs, errands, farmers markets. Me answering emails at her kitchen table while she disappeared into the workshop and came back smelling faintly like metal and sawdust.
One night, she looked around her apartment and laughed.
“You know you have the bigger, nicer place.”
I smiled over the rim of my wineglass. “I do.”
“So why are we always here?”
“Because your place is cozy.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Addison.”
“And you have the workshop.”
“Addison.”
“And it smells like you.”
That shut her up.
Sundays became negotiable. Sometimes I left in the afternoon because I had work to do, only to call her an hour later from my couch and ask her to come over.
We weren’t living together.
But we were starting to orbit each other.
My charger appeared beside her bed. One of her hoodies permanently migrated into my closet. My shampoo showed up in her shower.
Neither of us commented on any of it. It just happened. Like we were making room for each other without needing to talk about it first. We learned each other in the overlap. I knew when she needed a distraction. She knew when I needed quiet.
Some nights, we barely talked. We sat on opposite ends of the couch doing separate things while our legs touched between us. Other nights, we stayed up far too late talking about nothing.
Even when we weren’t together, we were still threaded through each other’s days. Texts and calls. FaceTimes that started with one quick question and somehow lasted an hour.
Sometimes we fell asleep on the phone. Sometimes I woke up alone and already knew when I would see her again.
That was the biggest difference.
Not urgency.
Certainty.
I wasn’t counting the hours anymore. I wasn’t wondering where I stood or trying to convince myself to want less. Sawyer had become part of my life in a way that felt steady instead of fragile.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped apologizing for wanting more time with her. I stopped pretending I didn’t miss her. Stopped acting like caring this much was something I needed to manage.
It wasn’t dramatic or rushed.
It just felt real.
By the end of those two weeks, planning my days around Sawyer didn’t feel strange anymore. It felt natural.
Things were good.
Really good.
I had no idea how quickly that would start to matter.
* * *
The weather was the first thing that gave it away.
Summer never ended all at once. It never does.
But one morning I stepped outside and the air felt thinner, cooler, the kind of chill that made me pause before leaving without a jacket.
Leaves along the sidewalks had started to turn at the edges, green bleeding slowly into yellow as the city eased itself into fall whether anyone was ready or not.
The wedding was a week away.
Suddenly everything sped up. Group chats reignited.
Vendor confirmations came through in bursts.
Seating charts shifted three different times.
Final dress fittings filled the middle of my afternoons, and last-minute details appeared out of nowhere— the kind of details that only mattered because they mattered to Lilly, and because I had promised years ago that I would make sure her day was perfect.
And I wanted to. I wanted it to be perfect for her.
And I was good at this part. Logistics. Coordination. Smiling through stress and answering questions before they fully formed. I handled it the same way I handled everything else in my life, with competence, composure, and very little visible strain.
But there was one question that kept surfacing no matter how often I redirected the conversation.
So who are you bringing to the wedding? Someone asked.
You can’t show up alone to something that fancy. Another had said.
Even distant relatives had opinions, and friends I hadn’t seen in ages when I ran into them at the grocery store. You must have a date lined up.
I always gave the same answer. Oh, no one. Or, I’m in the wedding. I’ll be busy.
Both were true. Just not the whole truth.
The truth was that I wanted to bring Sawyer.
I could see it clearly in my mind, her in a suit that fit just a little too well, carrying that quiet confidence she slipped into whenever she cleaned up.
I imagined the way she would keep a hand at the small of my back like an anchor, the way she would pull me onto the dance floor without asking, the way we would slip outside for air when the room got too loud.
I could see us laughing in the corners of the reception hall when things inevitably became overwhelming.
But I still couldn’t say it out loud.
* * *
Sunday dinner at my parents’ house arrived with its usual weight, obligation disguised as routine. I arrived on time with a bottle of expensive wine in my hand and my smile already practiced into place.
The house smelled like roast chicken and rosemary. Candles were lit along the table, the place settings perfectly arranged. Everything looked warm and inviting in a way that felt carefully constructed rather than spontaneous.
My mother greeted me at the door, her eyes scanning me automatically like she was taking inventory.
“You look tired,” she said as she stepped back to let me inside.
“Busy,” I corrected while setting the wine on the counter.
She smiled in that polite way she had when she didn’t quite believe me.
Dinner unfolded predictably. My father talked about work between bites of chicken. Benji wasn’t there, a last-minute job at the shop, Sawyer was there with him. They’d be working late—and I felt his absence immediately, I’d lost the one buffer that usually made these evenings easier.
Halfway through the meal, my mother leaned back slightly in her chair with her wineglass balanced lightly between her fingers.
“So,” she said casually, “have you given any more thought to who you’re bringing to the wedding?”
I set my fork down before answering. “I’m not bringing anyone,” I said evenly.
“Well,” she continued as she tilted her head, “I just thought it might be nice not to go alone.”
“I won’t be alone,” I replied while meeting her gaze. “I’m the maid of honor.”
“Yes, but after the ceremony—”
“Mom,” I interrupted quietly.
She waved a hand as if brushing the topic aside. “You can still bring someone.”
I looked up at her then. “I don’t want to.”
She smiled again, unfazed by the answer. “I met someone you might like,” she said.
Of course.
“He’s a Doctor,” she continued. “Successful. Very nice family.”
The familiar fatigue settled into my chest, heavy and dull. We’d had this exact conversation umpteen times. It felt like the worst version of groundhogs day I could be in.
“I’m not interested, Mother.” I tried to sound firm without giving her anything else to argue with.
“You haven’t even met him.”
“I don’t need to.”
“You’re being difficult.”
“I’m being clear.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I just don’t want you to regret it,” she said carefully. “Appearances matter.”
There it is.
“I’m fine with how this will appear to people.”
“A little help here, Alex,” she said, turning to my father.
He sighed. “I think you should let her make her own choices, Merrian.”
He sounded exhausted, and I had a feeling she had already talked his ear off about this long before I arrived.
Probably for weeks.
She studied me for another moment before turning her attention back to her plate. The conversation shifted after that, but the air in the room never fully recovered.
Later that evening, as I drove home through streets lined with early autumn leaves, my phone buzzed in the cup holder.
Sawyer: How was dinner?
I answered at a red light.
Me: Predictable, How was the shop, you home yet?
A moment later another message appeared.
Sawyer: Good, it was a long day. I miss you. Come here?
I smiled because I was already on my way there without her even asking.
* * *