The girl who collects shells (part 2/?)
Part 2 - my attempt at HTML (thank you for the advice!!). The Addison-goes-back-to-California story.
"Addison, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
He shifts gears and as they pick up speed, Addison lowers her window, attempts a deep breath. Fails.
"Addison? Say something, Addison, please."
"You're sorry?" She raises her hands to her head, lowers them. There's nowhere to go, no room in the small car to contain her.
"You tell me you fucked your ex-wife while I was packing up my dead mother's house and you're...sorry?"
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him wince automatically at the word fuck. He's such a gentleman - well, in some ways. Old fashioned. She used to find it charming.
"It wasn't like that," he says.
"Oh, what, she forced you? You had no say, is that going to be your story, really? Because she's been doing a lot of Pilates lately, I know, but it's still, it's kind of a stretch here, Sam, to convince me that-"
"Addison, would you please just listen, look at me-"
She doesn't.
She stares straight ahead. Counts the cars in front of them, numbering the space between her exhausted body and the hot bath she'll need to remove the lingering odor of jet fuel and industrial carpet that clings to her hair.
He's watching the road too, chancing glances at her when he can, but he can't see her eyes anyway; her sunglasses separate them, filtering the glare of the freeway, turning his chocolate skin amber and hers the color of faded sand.
His hand throbs the steering wheel - once, twice. "Okay. Maybe I shouldn't have told you like this. This was a mistake," he says finally.
"No kidding." She turns her head to look out the side window. Her eyes feet hot, prickly, but she doesn't cry. She won't cry.
"Addison," he says gently. Reaches for her hand. She pulls it back before he can touch her, her skin burning just having him this close.
"Stop. I'm not - I'm not doing this now," she says unsteadily.
A little sunlight still filters around the dark frames. She can't avoid it. Not even with her eyes closed.
"Addison, please. Now is when we're here. We're here now. Talk to me."
She lets out a breath. "Fine. Here's a question. Did you really pick me up from the airport just so you could spring this on me in the car? Where I can't walk away? Seriously, Sam?"
"No, I - I said it was a mistake."
She rolls her eyes even though she knows he can't see them.
"You know, uh, it works in the movies," he mutters, and it's the kind of thing she would have laughed at if he hadn't just broken her heart. Damn him for ruining a perfectly good joke.
Among other things.
"Addison," he says again, and he's stealing sideways looks at her like he thinks she might break, or at least break out of the car. For one wild second she wonders if he locked the doors.
The small space fills with uncomfortable silence, her own rapid breathing loud in her ears.
Then she laughs. First it's one short bark and then she's laughing hard, her head dropping back against the seat.
"Addison? Addison, what's...what are you doing-"
"Don't worry. I'm not hysterical." She shakes her head. "It's just - I have this thing about getting picked up at the airport, have I ever told you this? My parents, you know, they always sent a driver. My whole life. And Derek would call a car service. Well, for a while anyway, then I had to call my own cars. And I'd see these other people getting picked up at the airport. Someone meeting them. And I'd just wonder, when will it be my turn? Because it's something -- you know, it's a serious thing. A real commitment. You have to park, and you have to track the flight; you have to actually drop what you're doing and just be there. To pick someone up."
He's quiet, listening.
"And you came! I didn't even ask you to come pick me up today and you did. I've waited and waited for someone to pick me up, and you came. I just wish," she says bitterly, "that I'd had more than five fucking minutes to enjoy it."
He has half an eye on the traffic now, half on her; his voice is thick.
"Addison, you have to hear me out, please-"
She doesn't. Feeling rather like a petulant teenager, but not much caring, she slips her earbuds into her ears, turns up the sound on her iPod, and tunes him out.
He leaves her alone until they pull into her wide driveway. He turns the car off, regards her for a long moment, and then gently removes the earbud closest to him. She grabs for it and he moves it out of her reach.
"Don't. Don't leave like this, Addison."
She grabs for the door handle, pulls hard, but it doesn't give. She jiggles it frantically.
"Are you kidding me?" She yanks it again. Sam tries to cover her hand with his own and she snatches it away. "Don't touch me. Let me out of this car, Sam."
"Addison, calm down, I've had this car since Maya was ten. They're child locks. Just sit still for a second and let me disengage them."
Oh. She must have been in his car before; she's not sure why she didn't know that.
Or maybe she's just never been this desperate to get out.
She jumps free as soon as the door opens. "Go, Sam," she says, but he just walks to the trunk and calmly unloads the one suitcase she brought with her.
She takes the handle. He's still holding the thickly padded side strap and shows no sign of letting go.
She regards him stonily and he stares right back, scanning slightly; he has to guess exactly where her shaded eyes are.
It's she who drops her hand first.
"Fine," she says. "Be my guest. Watch the fabric, please."
He shakes his head slightly, carries the suitcase to her front door.
"Thanks," she says coldly. "And thank you for the ride. Truly, Sam. It was... memorable."
"I'm so sorry," he says again, urgently. "Addison, the last thing I wanted do to is hurt you and if you'd just give me a minute to explain-"
"No." She fumbles for her keys, standing as far from him as she can. "There are no more minutes here. You've had your minutes. It's done. We're done."
Her voice catches in spite of herself and then he's in front of her, he's everywhere, trying to take her in his arms. She pushes him away, grateful he still can't see her eyes, and he releases her, hands lifted slightly in surrender.
"Okay, baby, I understand that -" but she never finds out what he understands because the front door opens and Amelia says "Addie! Welcome back," in a cheerful burst.
Addison gives her a tired smile.
"How was the flight?" she asks. "I guess you got a ride back, huh?"
Sam looks at the ground.
Amelia's cheeks scrunch with confusion. She glances nervously between Sam and Addison. "Um. Is everything-"
"Everything's fine," Addison says briskly. "Sam was just leaving."
She steps over the threshhold.
"Addison. Wait -" but she shuts the door firmly, cutting off his plea.
"Whoa." Amelia takes her suitcase from her, offering a glass of wine in her extended hand. "I think we're going to need a little more wine for this one."
"Addie, oh my God," Amelia cracks a can of Coke, takes a long swig. She's the only adult Addison knows who still drinks regular soda. Curse that Shepherd metabolism.
"I mean, it's insane," Amelia hoists herself onto the counter. "Freaking insane. I can't believe he did that. That sucks - ugh, and right next door. That's just...it's just gross."
Addison shrugs, smooths out and refolds a linen dish cloth crumpled next to Amelia's knee. Amelia's housekeeping, in her absence, has been predictably minimal. Addison reminds herself to call the maid service first thing in the morning.
"I'm so sorry about this," Amelia says softly, in one of her lightning shifts from post pubescent brat to adult confidant, covering Addison's hand with her smaller one.
Everyone is sorry. Addison is tired of the word.
She doesn't need one more person looking at her like she might do something crazy.
As it happens, she doesn't do anything crazier than remind Amelia to turn the outside lights on at dusk if she disengaged the automatic timer, and then shut herself in the bathroom with a bottle of pinot noir to run the hottest bath she can stand.
Later, she's not sure how much later, she tips the dregs of a bottle into the tub -- antioxidants, good for the skin -- and leans back, closing her eyes. She's always loved the feeling of being surrounded by water. Her whole career, she's never delivered a baby without feeling a flash of empathy for its first shocked squalls at leaving the floating warmth of the womb.
She curls her toes in the tub, sinks further down, enjoys the warm water lapping the sides of her body. Thinks about oceans, close and far.
Summers on the Vineyard, when she was small, she had never wanted to get out of the water. She and Archer would jump the waves for hours, only broaching the shore to refuel, sandy-fingered, with lobster rolls and sun-warmed juice. She can still taste the way the buttery bun would melt on her tongue while stray bits of sand crunched between her teeth. The nanny of the moment would try, over protests, to wrap her wriggling form in a towel before she broke loose and bolted for the water again.
She could swim far, as far as Archer, and just as fast. She never waited half an hour after lunch, either - that was for babies - just trotted back to the water's edge, only stopping to scoop up a pretty shell or two before plunging back in.
Not so far from the buoys, kitten, the Captain called out once, one of the few times he saw her swim, but then he turned away without waiting for her to obey, distracted by her nanny -- had it been Iris? Or maybe it was Brigid, who'd come straight from County Meath, jet-black hair and freckles and a lilting voice. Brigid called Addison "darling" and read to her from chapter books before bed.
Late one sticky August night, she remembered, she'd woken up in damp sheets, and not finding Brigid in the small bedroom off the nursery, she padded downstairs on her own for a glass of milk. Saw Brigid and the Captain wrapped around each other in his darkened office, a sliver of moonbean catching Brigid's pale wrist.
"I'm thirsty," Addison said from the doorway, but neither of them turned around. So she took an ice pop from the freezer drawer instead and brought it upstairs, curling very small under the overly warm tent of her sheets, slowly licking the frozen treat as her eyes grew heavier.
In the morning, no one commented on the purple stain on her pillowcase or the empty stick tangled in her long hair.
Brigid was gone before they packed for Connecticut. Don't ask questions, Bizzy said.
Addison had still been sorry to see her go.
"Addie!"
She pulls her shoulders out of the tub. "I'm in the bath, Amelia."
"Can I come in?" She's already pushing the door open. Sam had said he would fix the lock; really, there's no reason she can't do it herself. Tomorrow.
Amelia perches on the vanity stool and regards Addison casually. She's never been one for privacy, of course. As a teenager she'd once interrupted Addison and Derek stealing a moment alone in a corner of the Shepherd garage, late on a Christmas Eve. Grinned as Addison, blushing furiously, yanked her hand out of her brother's jeans. "Don't stop on my account. This is better than cable!" she'd exclaimed brightly.
"I'm naked under here. Just to be clear," Addison offers now, gesturing at the melting bubbles preserving most of her modesty.
"I'm a doctor," Amelia shrugs lightly. "I've pretty much seen it all." She picks up the empty bottle of wine. "Bathing while intoxicated?"
Addison points a finger at her, hopes her hand is steadier than it feels. "Hey, some of that's in the water."
Amelia wrinkles her nose. "Ugh. I was going to order some food. Are you coming out anytime soon?"
"Probably not." she closes her eyes again. "Shut the door behind you, will you?"
The shadows across her bare legs have moved; the sun must be getting ready to set. "Ad-die," Amelia calls through the door, stretching out the syllables. "What are you doing in there?"
"Thinking," she says, at the same time Amelia asks "Drinking?"
Well. They're not exactly mutually exclusive.
Amelia is close enough to the door that Addison can hear her soft breathing, but she doesn't turn the knob.
"Do you...want to talk?"
"Not at this particular moment, no."
"You want a refill?"
She does, but she's not sure she wants to admit it. "No, I'm okay."
"I ordered Thai," Amelia announces after a moment.
Yay you. It almost escapes her lips, but she swallows it before Amelia bears the brunt of whatever it is she's feeling. Anger. Something.
"Okay, thanks," she calls out instead. "Don't wait for me."
"Addie, have you eaten anything today?"
She thinks. There were warm macadamia nuts on her flight, but she's never liked those. She hears the door shift slightly as Amelia leans against it from the other side.
"Look, Addie, I pretended to have the flu during my psych rotation. My mind still wanders at meetings. I - I'm the last person who wants to talk anyone else through their problems, but ..."
"Just save me a summer roll," Addison says. "It's fine."
The water in the tub has gone as cold and cloudy as a New England beach before she emerges, a towel wrapped around her hair. It's dark, and Amelia has tactfully set up the food on the coffee table, drawn the blinds to the illuminatd back deck.
Good. The last thing she wants is for Sam to see her. He's seen too much of her already.
She manipulates the chopsticks with water-wrinkled fingers. The food is strong and spicy, surprisingly satisfying. Amelia flops on the couch, ripping apart satay with her fingers -- it's better lukewarm, she says, and Addison smiles slightly because she knows Amelia wants her to.
Milo curls up on the cushion beside her, his furry face obscuring half the screen of her blackberry. His ears prick when it buzzes.
She ignores two calls from Sam. How convenient for the twenty-first-century relationship, she thinks, that now there's an actual button to press called "ignore," and just like that, the phone goes silent, instead of having to pretend she can't hear eight, ten, twelve or more increasingly desperate rings.
The next phone to ring is Amelia's, the on-call doctor covering a post-op for her at St. Ambrose, and she ducks out with ponytail and apologies flying behind her.
Addison and Milo regard each other for a moment. "Well," Addison begins, deciding it may be time for her to become the sort of person who talks openly to her cat, and her blackberry buzzes one more time.
Derek.
She's actually not that surprised he's calling, just as she wasn't surprised to see the donation from the Shepherd family to Memorial-St. Cecilia's in her mother's name, as Bizzy requested. Addison's already directed the staff to send a note of acknowledgement his way -- Crane's heaviest stock, of course, pre-ordered by Bizzy herself, with sincere appreciations from the family of Beatrice Forbes Montgomery.
The donation was generous. Derek's always been good at the rote parts of what he is supposed to do, ever-appropriate, just enough to satisfy his obligations. Towards the end of their marriage, it was all either of one of them did.
"How are you doing, Addison?"
She doesn't say: I may have had a nervous breakdown in Connecticut, and my welcome home present was finding out that while I was making lists and sorting jewelry and pretending my repressed shell of a father doesn't blame me for my mother's self-inflicted death, my boyfriend was at home, fucking his ex-wife ten feet from their sleeping granddaughter.
"I'm doing fine," she says. "It's, you know, it's good to be back."
He's silent for a moment, maybe remembering the time he's spent at her parents' estate over the years. Usually awkward, mostly painful, and more often than not ending with Addison in tears or picking a fight with him before they'd even returned to the city.
"Amy said the Captain is selling the house?"
"That's the plan," she says.
They walk through expected niceties: the memorial service (touching), the Captain (holding up well), Archer (sends his regards), Sam and Naomi (the best friends she could ask for in her time of need). With rueful pride she realizes she is still rather good at lying to Derek.
She wanders to the back of the house, draws the blinds just enough that she can see outside. A flick of the lights and she can just make out the expanse of ocean, moving with a gentle roar.
"And you, how are you doing?" she asks finally. "How's Meredith?"
"We're doing well. You know, busy." He pauses. "Actually, uh, we've been dealing with some...fertility issues."
She can't help but roll her eyes. A dozen years of marriage and his timing is no better. But maybe he's learned something in the ensuing few years, because he trails off and sounds, for him, almost embarrassed.
"I shouldn't have brought this up now."
"No, it's fine," she says, somewhat surprised to realize that it is. It's not like they don't talk occasionally, swap email consults. They're civil, maybe even friends.
"She, um, she can call the practice if she wants," Addison says. "Have her call me in the office this week. I'm back tomorrow."
"That would be great. We have someone here, of course, but there was something they caught at the last -"
"I understand," she says, and it stings less than she thought to hear him say "we" and know she's not the missing piece of that familiar syllable.
"- visit that I hoped you could take a look at," he continues. "And I thought maybe Nai..."
She decides this would be the wrong time to tell him she's never going to speak to Naomi again. "If it comes to that, yes, I'm sure she'd be happy to help."
"Thank you," he says sincerely. "Look, if you need anything..."
If I need anything, you'll be in surgery! She'd thrown that at him late one night, along with a delicate goblet, a wedding present from one of her Bradford aunts. The glass shattered on the wall a foot from Derek's head; her words hung unaddressed in the air between them.
You need too goddamned much, he'd shouted back finally, slamming the door behind him. She'd cried herself to sleep then; now, with the benefit of a half-dozen years' perspective, she thinks he may have had a point.
"I'm all set," she says. "Thanks, Derek. Have Meredith call me if she wants."
She hangs up and stands there for a while in her darkened living room, watching the waves break outside. From here, they look close enough to touch.
"Addison, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
He shifts gears and as they pick up speed, Addison lowers her window, attempts a deep breath. Fails.
"Addison? Say something, Addison, please."
"You're sorry?" She raises her hands to her head, lowers them. There's nowhere to go, no room in the small car to contain her.
"You tell me you fucked your ex-wife while I was packing up my dead mother's house and you're...sorry?"
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him wince automatically at the word fuck. He's such a gentleman - well, in some ways. Old fashioned. She used to find it charming.
"It wasn't like that," he says.
"Oh, what, she forced you? You had no say, is that going to be your story, really? Because she's been doing a lot of Pilates lately, I know, but it's still, it's kind of a stretch here, Sam, to convince me that-"
"Addison, would you please just listen, look at me-"
She doesn't.
She stares straight ahead. Counts the cars in front of them, numbering the space between her exhausted body and the hot bath she'll need to remove the lingering odor of jet fuel and industrial carpet that clings to her hair.
He's watching the road too, chancing glances at her when he can, but he can't see her eyes anyway; her sunglasses separate them, filtering the glare of the freeway, turning his chocolate skin amber and hers the color of faded sand.
His hand throbs the steering wheel - once, twice. "Okay. Maybe I shouldn't have told you like this. This was a mistake," he says finally.
"No kidding." She turns her head to look out the side window. Her eyes feet hot, prickly, but she doesn't cry. She won't cry.
"Addison," he says gently. Reaches for her hand. She pulls it back before he can touch her, her skin burning just having him this close.
"Stop. I'm not - I'm not doing this now," she says unsteadily.
A little sunlight still filters around the dark frames. She can't avoid it. Not even with her eyes closed.
"Addison, please. Now is when we're here. We're here now. Talk to me."
She lets out a breath. "Fine. Here's a question. Did you really pick me up from the airport just so you could spring this on me in the car? Where I can't walk away? Seriously, Sam?"
"No, I - I said it was a mistake."
She rolls her eyes even though she knows he can't see them.
"You know, uh, it works in the movies," he mutters, and it's the kind of thing she would have laughed at if he hadn't just broken her heart. Damn him for ruining a perfectly good joke.
Among other things.
"Addison," he says again, and he's stealing sideways looks at her like he thinks she might break, or at least break out of the car. For one wild second she wonders if he locked the doors.
The small space fills with uncomfortable silence, her own rapid breathing loud in her ears.
Then she laughs. First it's one short bark and then she's laughing hard, her head dropping back against the seat.
"Addison? Addison, what's...what are you doing-"
"Don't worry. I'm not hysterical." She shakes her head. "It's just - I have this thing about getting picked up at the airport, have I ever told you this? My parents, you know, they always sent a driver. My whole life. And Derek would call a car service. Well, for a while anyway, then I had to call my own cars. And I'd see these other people getting picked up at the airport. Someone meeting them. And I'd just wonder, when will it be my turn? Because it's something -- you know, it's a serious thing. A real commitment. You have to park, and you have to track the flight; you have to actually drop what you're doing and just be there. To pick someone up."
He's quiet, listening.
"And you came! I didn't even ask you to come pick me up today and you did. I've waited and waited for someone to pick me up, and you came. I just wish," she says bitterly, "that I'd had more than five fucking minutes to enjoy it."
He has half an eye on the traffic now, half on her; his voice is thick.
"Addison, you have to hear me out, please-"
She doesn't. Feeling rather like a petulant teenager, but not much caring, she slips her earbuds into her ears, turns up the sound on her iPod, and tunes him out.
He leaves her alone until they pull into her wide driveway. He turns the car off, regards her for a long moment, and then gently removes the earbud closest to him. She grabs for it and he moves it out of her reach.
"Don't. Don't leave like this, Addison."
She grabs for the door handle, pulls hard, but it doesn't give. She jiggles it frantically.
"Are you kidding me?" She yanks it again. Sam tries to cover her hand with his own and she snatches it away. "Don't touch me. Let me out of this car, Sam."
"Addison, calm down, I've had this car since Maya was ten. They're child locks. Just sit still for a second and let me disengage them."
Oh. She must have been in his car before; she's not sure why she didn't know that.
Or maybe she's just never been this desperate to get out.
She jumps free as soon as the door opens. "Go, Sam," she says, but he just walks to the trunk and calmly unloads the one suitcase she brought with her.
She takes the handle. He's still holding the thickly padded side strap and shows no sign of letting go.
She regards him stonily and he stares right back, scanning slightly; he has to guess exactly where her shaded eyes are.
It's she who drops her hand first.
"Fine," she says. "Be my guest. Watch the fabric, please."
He shakes his head slightly, carries the suitcase to her front door.
"Thanks," she says coldly. "And thank you for the ride. Truly, Sam. It was... memorable."
"I'm so sorry," he says again, urgently. "Addison, the last thing I wanted do to is hurt you and if you'd just give me a minute to explain-"
"No." She fumbles for her keys, standing as far from him as she can. "There are no more minutes here. You've had your minutes. It's done. We're done."
Her voice catches in spite of herself and then he's in front of her, he's everywhere, trying to take her in his arms. She pushes him away, grateful he still can't see her eyes, and he releases her, hands lifted slightly in surrender.
"Okay, baby, I understand that -" but she never finds out what he understands because the front door opens and Amelia says "Addie! Welcome back," in a cheerful burst.
Addison gives her a tired smile.
"How was the flight?" she asks. "I guess you got a ride back, huh?"
Sam looks at the ground.
Amelia's cheeks scrunch with confusion. She glances nervously between Sam and Addison. "Um. Is everything-"
"Everything's fine," Addison says briskly. "Sam was just leaving."
She steps over the threshhold.
"Addison. Wait -" but she shuts the door firmly, cutting off his plea.
"Whoa." Amelia takes her suitcase from her, offering a glass of wine in her extended hand. "I think we're going to need a little more wine for this one."
"Addie, oh my God," Amelia cracks a can of Coke, takes a long swig. She's the only adult Addison knows who still drinks regular soda. Curse that Shepherd metabolism.
"I mean, it's insane," Amelia hoists herself onto the counter. "Freaking insane. I can't believe he did that. That sucks - ugh, and right next door. That's just...it's just gross."
Addison shrugs, smooths out and refolds a linen dish cloth crumpled next to Amelia's knee. Amelia's housekeeping, in her absence, has been predictably minimal. Addison reminds herself to call the maid service first thing in the morning.
"I'm so sorry about this," Amelia says softly, in one of her lightning shifts from post pubescent brat to adult confidant, covering Addison's hand with her smaller one.
Everyone is sorry. Addison is tired of the word.
She doesn't need one more person looking at her like she might do something crazy.
As it happens, she doesn't do anything crazier than remind Amelia to turn the outside lights on at dusk if she disengaged the automatic timer, and then shut herself in the bathroom with a bottle of pinot noir to run the hottest bath she can stand.
Later, she's not sure how much later, she tips the dregs of a bottle into the tub -- antioxidants, good for the skin -- and leans back, closing her eyes. She's always loved the feeling of being surrounded by water. Her whole career, she's never delivered a baby without feeling a flash of empathy for its first shocked squalls at leaving the floating warmth of the womb.
She curls her toes in the tub, sinks further down, enjoys the warm water lapping the sides of her body. Thinks about oceans, close and far.
Summers on the Vineyard, when she was small, she had never wanted to get out of the water. She and Archer would jump the waves for hours, only broaching the shore to refuel, sandy-fingered, with lobster rolls and sun-warmed juice. She can still taste the way the buttery bun would melt on her tongue while stray bits of sand crunched between her teeth. The nanny of the moment would try, over protests, to wrap her wriggling form in a towel before she broke loose and bolted for the water again.
She could swim far, as far as Archer, and just as fast. She never waited half an hour after lunch, either - that was for babies - just trotted back to the water's edge, only stopping to scoop up a pretty shell or two before plunging back in.
Not so far from the buoys, kitten, the Captain called out once, one of the few times he saw her swim, but then he turned away without waiting for her to obey, distracted by her nanny -- had it been Iris? Or maybe it was Brigid, who'd come straight from County Meath, jet-black hair and freckles and a lilting voice. Brigid called Addison "darling" and read to her from chapter books before bed.
Late one sticky August night, she remembered, she'd woken up in damp sheets, and not finding Brigid in the small bedroom off the nursery, she padded downstairs on her own for a glass of milk. Saw Brigid and the Captain wrapped around each other in his darkened office, a sliver of moonbean catching Brigid's pale wrist.
"I'm thirsty," Addison said from the doorway, but neither of them turned around. So she took an ice pop from the freezer drawer instead and brought it upstairs, curling very small under the overly warm tent of her sheets, slowly licking the frozen treat as her eyes grew heavier.
In the morning, no one commented on the purple stain on her pillowcase or the empty stick tangled in her long hair.
Brigid was gone before they packed for Connecticut. Don't ask questions, Bizzy said.
Addison had still been sorry to see her go.
"Addie!"
She pulls her shoulders out of the tub. "I'm in the bath, Amelia."
"Can I come in?" She's already pushing the door open. Sam had said he would fix the lock; really, there's no reason she can't do it herself. Tomorrow.
Amelia perches on the vanity stool and regards Addison casually. She's never been one for privacy, of course. As a teenager she'd once interrupted Addison and Derek stealing a moment alone in a corner of the Shepherd garage, late on a Christmas Eve. Grinned as Addison, blushing furiously, yanked her hand out of her brother's jeans. "Don't stop on my account. This is better than cable!" she'd exclaimed brightly.
"I'm naked under here. Just to be clear," Addison offers now, gesturing at the melting bubbles preserving most of her modesty.
"I'm a doctor," Amelia shrugs lightly. "I've pretty much seen it all." She picks up the empty bottle of wine. "Bathing while intoxicated?"
Addison points a finger at her, hopes her hand is steadier than it feels. "Hey, some of that's in the water."
Amelia wrinkles her nose. "Ugh. I was going to order some food. Are you coming out anytime soon?"
"Probably not." she closes her eyes again. "Shut the door behind you, will you?"
The shadows across her bare legs have moved; the sun must be getting ready to set. "Ad-die," Amelia calls through the door, stretching out the syllables. "What are you doing in there?"
"Thinking," she says, at the same time Amelia asks "Drinking?"
Well. They're not exactly mutually exclusive.
Amelia is close enough to the door that Addison can hear her soft breathing, but she doesn't turn the knob.
"Do you...want to talk?"
"Not at this particular moment, no."
"You want a refill?"
She does, but she's not sure she wants to admit it. "No, I'm okay."
"I ordered Thai," Amelia announces after a moment.
Yay you. It almost escapes her lips, but she swallows it before Amelia bears the brunt of whatever it is she's feeling. Anger. Something.
"Okay, thanks," she calls out instead. "Don't wait for me."
"Addie, have you eaten anything today?"
She thinks. There were warm macadamia nuts on her flight, but she's never liked those. She hears the door shift slightly as Amelia leans against it from the other side.
"Look, Addie, I pretended to have the flu during my psych rotation. My mind still wanders at meetings. I - I'm the last person who wants to talk anyone else through their problems, but ..."
"Just save me a summer roll," Addison says. "It's fine."
The water in the tub has gone as cold and cloudy as a New England beach before she emerges, a towel wrapped around her hair. It's dark, and Amelia has tactfully set up the food on the coffee table, drawn the blinds to the illuminatd back deck.
Good. The last thing she wants is for Sam to see her. He's seen too much of her already.
She manipulates the chopsticks with water-wrinkled fingers. The food is strong and spicy, surprisingly satisfying. Amelia flops on the couch, ripping apart satay with her fingers -- it's better lukewarm, she says, and Addison smiles slightly because she knows Amelia wants her to.
Milo curls up on the cushion beside her, his furry face obscuring half the screen of her blackberry. His ears prick when it buzzes.
She ignores two calls from Sam. How convenient for the twenty-first-century relationship, she thinks, that now there's an actual button to press called "ignore," and just like that, the phone goes silent, instead of having to pretend she can't hear eight, ten, twelve or more increasingly desperate rings.
The next phone to ring is Amelia's, the on-call doctor covering a post-op for her at St. Ambrose, and she ducks out with ponytail and apologies flying behind her.
Addison and Milo regard each other for a moment. "Well," Addison begins, deciding it may be time for her to become the sort of person who talks openly to her cat, and her blackberry buzzes one more time.
Derek.
She's actually not that surprised he's calling, just as she wasn't surprised to see the donation from the Shepherd family to Memorial-St. Cecilia's in her mother's name, as Bizzy requested. Addison's already directed the staff to send a note of acknowledgement his way -- Crane's heaviest stock, of course, pre-ordered by Bizzy herself, with sincere appreciations from the family of Beatrice Forbes Montgomery.
The donation was generous. Derek's always been good at the rote parts of what he is supposed to do, ever-appropriate, just enough to satisfy his obligations. Towards the end of their marriage, it was all either of one of them did.
"How are you doing, Addison?"
She doesn't say: I may have had a nervous breakdown in Connecticut, and my welcome home present was finding out that while I was making lists and sorting jewelry and pretending my repressed shell of a father doesn't blame me for my mother's self-inflicted death, my boyfriend was at home, fucking his ex-wife ten feet from their sleeping granddaughter.
"I'm doing fine," she says. "It's, you know, it's good to be back."
He's silent for a moment, maybe remembering the time he's spent at her parents' estate over the years. Usually awkward, mostly painful, and more often than not ending with Addison in tears or picking a fight with him before they'd even returned to the city.
"Amy said the Captain is selling the house?"
"That's the plan," she says.
They walk through expected niceties: the memorial service (touching), the Captain (holding up well), Archer (sends his regards), Sam and Naomi (the best friends she could ask for in her time of need). With rueful pride she realizes she is still rather good at lying to Derek.
She wanders to the back of the house, draws the blinds just enough that she can see outside. A flick of the lights and she can just make out the expanse of ocean, moving with a gentle roar.
"And you, how are you doing?" she asks finally. "How's Meredith?"
"We're doing well. You know, busy." He pauses. "Actually, uh, we've been dealing with some...fertility issues."
She can't help but roll her eyes. A dozen years of marriage and his timing is no better. But maybe he's learned something in the ensuing few years, because he trails off and sounds, for him, almost embarrassed.
"I shouldn't have brought this up now."
"No, it's fine," she says, somewhat surprised to realize that it is. It's not like they don't talk occasionally, swap email consults. They're civil, maybe even friends.
"She, um, she can call the practice if she wants," Addison says. "Have her call me in the office this week. I'm back tomorrow."
"That would be great. We have someone here, of course, but there was something they caught at the last -"
"I understand," she says, and it stings less than she thought to hear him say "we" and know she's not the missing piece of that familiar syllable.
"- visit that I hoped you could take a look at," he continues. "And I thought maybe Nai..."
She decides this would be the wrong time to tell him she's never going to speak to Naomi again. "If it comes to that, yes, I'm sure she'd be happy to help."
"Thank you," he says sincerely. "Look, if you need anything..."
If I need anything, you'll be in surgery! She'd thrown that at him late one night, along with a delicate goblet, a wedding present from one of her Bradford aunts. The glass shattered on the wall a foot from Derek's head; her words hung unaddressed in the air between them.
You need too goddamned much, he'd shouted back finally, slamming the door behind him. She'd cried herself to sleep then; now, with the benefit of a half-dozen years' perspective, she thinks he may have had a point.
"I'm all set," she says. "Thanks, Derek. Have Meredith call me if she wants."
She hangs up and stands there for a while in her darkened living room, watching the waves break outside. From here, they look close enough to touch.