I've seen so many ships sail in,
Just to to head back out again and go off sinking
One Chance, Modest Mouse
"It's okay if you really want it, right? If it means something?"
You don't know what to say. She's whispering down the phone, intense and hushed and hanging between excitement and meltdown.
"I think," you say slowly, "if you have to get my approval, Addie, it's probably not okay."
"I think I might love him," she says, as though you hadn't spoken.
"I don't doubt that." There's always a little bit of love, even in the dark corner of an office, even when you're going to end up doing the wrong thing and someone's going to get hurt. But mostly it's not worth the damage it does. "That tends to be the way it goes."
Thinking she might love someone is the story of Addison's life. It started with your father (an undeserved adulation that transferred itself to you). Then Derek, Mark, some intern, the cop you took it upon yourself to see off and now . . . whoever the new guy is.
"I really think I might love him, Archer." She breathes in audibly. "There's . . ." You can hear her trying to find exactly the right word. "There's something so powerful there. It's like . . . it's like when I met -"
"Derek?" you supply dryly, since she can't utter the word her thoughts led her to. You hear her swallow at the other end of the line. "Well, you know, Addie. If it's love, I guess it's love. But . . ." You pause. "Have you considered maybe giving the road less travelled a shot this time?"
There's a silence and you wonder if she's going to full-blown cry or yell or hang up. But then she breaks out into laughter, loud and unrestrained.
"You all right there, Addison?"
She winds herself down a little before saying. "That's . . . that's just too funny. Out of your mouth! The road less travelled, huh?" There's a little residual guffawing. "Have you considered it?"
"Well, yeah," you say. You considered it when you thought you were dying from brain worms; you consider it each time there's a little love. You consider it, but it doesn't take. But, then, you're a lost cause; she has a chance not to be. "My wicked, wicked ways are too damn compelling, though." It's a deflection - you don't want to talk about yourself. "But you're not me."
Another silence, this time as though she's thinking. But insight, as you well know, can be inconvenient when you want something you shouldn't have.
"His name is Noah," she breathes with a blush in her voice that makes you roll your eyes. She used to sound that way (still does a little, actually) when she talked about Derek.
You suppress the sigh you know she doesn't want to hear, but you can't listen to this any longer and you clatter a couple of books against the desk to pretend there's an interruption. (If you could manage it, you'd throw in a horny, feminine giggle. But while Addie would definitely buy your ditching her for sex, she wouldn't buy the impression.) "I've gotta go," you say quickly.
She's lost now, in her own special combination of doubt and reverie, and she almost croons, "Okay, Archie."
You hang up.
Your sister breaks what's left of your heart. She's a shell of herself: brittle, lost, washed up on the beach she claims to love so much and clinging to each next chance to feel loved and alive.
She knew how to be alive once. You don't know where she got it from, because your family only does the bled-dry imitation, but somehow she knew what life meant and she was glorious.
People call you an ass. They're right. You were bred and raised to be one, and whatever nature and nurture failed to instill you've learned by yourself, practiced like hell and had a damn good time doing it.
But you picked Addison up when she fell off her bicycle and you carried her home. You would pick her up again, if she'd let you. And you hope like hell, one day, she'll find it in her to be glorious again.