Just kidding, you actually get TWO divorce chapters. It is still essentially one very long chapter, just sliced in two and possibly best read in one sitting (but now that I think about it, that's like 32 pages of assigned reading and I'm not your snooty Lit teacher, so do what you want…although I have dropped some Hemingway references throughout this fic, so perhaps I am in fact your snooty Lit teacher…yikes). Thanks for your patience with the update(s) – since these chapters go hand-in-hand, I wanted to be able to publish them at the same time, and I also had to go sloooowly, because man, this HURT to write and I wanted to make sure my mental health stayed intact while doing something that is just supposed to be, you know, fun and breezy. The majority of the angst is in 41. This chapter sort of sets the table for the divorce, and has some angst/feels, but also fluff and sex and an Amelia flashback, and I know my readers love Amelia – as do I. But most importantly, hi and welcome back! Chapter title is a lyric from "Keep on Walking," by Gabrielle Aplin.
PS – based on the pregnancy timeline, our favorite couple could probably know the sex of the baby by now (realistically, Addison could eyeball a sonogram from five feet away and still be able to tell), but I'm saving that for chapter 42…as though we don't all already know what the sex is going to be lol.
. .
. .
Chapter 40. From the Bruises, Flowers Grow
"Those are new." Mark catches a quick glimpse of a striped short-sleeve shirt and pajama pant set Addison is wearing before she tucks the comforter around her waist. She peeks up at him upon hearing this observation, sleepy-eyed and cheerful while one of her hands maps the curve of her stomach.
"They are. The other shirts I usually wear to bed -"
"Also known as my shirts."
"Nope, not anymore," she banters back. "There's still space for my stomach in my collection of no-longer-yours shirts, but they just feel a little more…restrictive now. So maternity pajamas it is. Today has been a big day for me pregnancy-wise, with stretchy pajamas, and then, you know…" she briefly rubs her lips together. It is enough for Mark – who is holding an empty glass in his hand and was about to go to the kitchen to fill it up before they go to sleep – to change course of action and crawl into bed next to her. "The whole 'everyone knows' thing. Or…will know."
Dr. Montgomery…are you pregnant?
It happened early this morning, the exchange Addison had with Charlene. She was heading into one of the break rooms to shove a few handfuls of cereal down her throat (being in the second trimester ostensibly means she is hungry all the time now), just as Charlene was leaving. It would be Charlene. Of all people, Addison told Mark later, it would be her. It does not meet the definition of irony – correctly-used or otherwise – for Charlene to be the first one at NYP to have the nerve to ask Addison if she is pregnant, but in Addison's opinion, surely it meets the definition of, well, something. Something about it just felt fitting.
"Good morning, Dr. Montgomery-Shep…oh. Dammit."
Such a greeting was enough to make Addison grin in amusement. "Charlene, you've been fine for weeks now. What happened?" Her tone was playfully mocking, but truthfully, Addison understood. It is an adjustment. There are still some mornings where she stares at her reflection and whispers the words, until the combinations and letter removals start to make more sense, or at least sound less foreign coming out of her mouth. It makes her think of the speech articulation exercises she had to do as a little girl. Certain activities for certain sounds. Agility drills. Gestures with her tongue meant to improve strength and range of movement: in and out, up and down, sweep left to right, push back against the spoon. And the "kissy face" exercise Miss Linda would have Addison do when she started to get frustrated, because it always made her giggle. But this, now. This is not language production so much as it is language reintroduction. This is a different muscle to train. Addison Montgomery. Dr. Addison Montgomery. Ms. Montgomery.
"Being here all night is what happened," Charlene answered. "I covered an on-call shift for someone. I'm on my way out, and look, I know it's rude to ask, but I'm running on over twenty-four hours without sleep so I'm just gonna ask anyway, because I'm starting to…hear things. And I'd rather…" she shakes her head, still hesitant. "Dr. Montgomery…"
Charlene's shoulders rose and fell with a faint shrug as she finished her question, looking a touch apologetic. But Addison was not offended that Charlene posed the question. Nor is she offended now, when an entire day has slipped by and she has had time to process it more. Charlene has been around the maternity floor long enough to know what to look for. Addison is certain the nurse already noticed even the smaller details: Addison's slightly fuller face, the reddened hues of her palms, how congested she sounds sometimes, and the way her facial muscles will twitch to form a grimace beneath her surgical mask due to the occasional rush of heartburn or leg cramps. And those are just the subtler indicators. At sixteen weeks, Addison's belly is distinctly…not subtle anymore. Maybe it is not one-hundred percent obvious she is pregnant, but at minimum, it is mostly obvious now. Her new curves make an appearance in her clothes, even the looser-fitting ones. Especially scrubs. She cannot put her finger on it, and maybe it is just the material, but something about wearing scrubs makes her bump stand out more. And she has been in scrubs a lot lately. September is the most popular birth month.
"Yes. I'm pregnant." Addison paused to offer a thank you when Charlene smiled and wiggled her fingers, nearly clapping as she congratulated her. "I'm due in March. Mark and I told the Chief at the beginning of the month. And now I'm telling you, since you asked. I haven't shared this with anyone else here yet, but I'm sure people have their suspicions." Addison caught Charlene's sheepish hear things remark earlier, and she has also noticed more than a few furtive glances from staff members directed at her midsection. Most people have the decency not to ask a pregnant woman if she is pregnant – at least not at this stage, the perhaps-but-perhaps-not one – but Addison also knows most of her colleagues would prefer to talk about her than with her at the moment if the topic is not directly related to work. It almost feels like she is poison. And the strange thing is, she was closer and on friendlier terms with the staff at NYP than Derek was (most of them, at least). But whether or not it is the woman's fault, it is somehow always the woman's fault, isn't it?
We have each other. She knows that is what Mark would say. And there are still going to be some people left, when the gossip finally stops.
"About the speculating…you're right." Charlene's expression appeared pained to reveal this. "I was in the cafeteria with a few nurses last Friday, and they started talking about whether or not you're pregnant. I pretended I had just gotten a text, so I could leave the conversation. Sorry." She frowned. "I wasn't sure if I should -"
"Charlene? Just tell people. Tell everyone. Screw it." Addison gave a firm nod when Charlene's mouth rounded, presumably to question this order."I'm not saying hijack the hospital intercom or send out a group email. Or put anything on the fantasy football message boards." At the last one, Charlene giggled. Addison cannot help it. She does not really like football, but she has found herself taking a genuine interest in Mark's fantasy team. "But if someone brings it up…tell them I told you I'm pregnant. You'd be doing me a favor, really. My only request is that you make sure to mention Mark is the dad. I could do without any potential 'who's the daddy?' jokes. It just seems easier this way, because each passing second I am getting closer and closer to just shouting, 'yes, I'm pregnant' at every person I see rake their eyes over my stomach."
"Definitely a big day, pregnancy-wise," Mark murmurs now, in complete agreement. Addison said she does not have any regrets about what happened this morning though, and he chooses to believe her. "I was thinking it might be nice to get out of here for a few days. Not the Hamptons…maybe something different this time? I was thinking Rockport. Similar vibe, but smaller," he explains. "Lynette recommended it. She used to take her boys there when they were kids. We could rent a place near the water. It's no longer peak season, so we'd have some options. It's a little over four hours away, but I'm sure you don't want to have to sit that long…" Mark almost laughs when he sees the grave look cross over Addison's face that confirms this. Definitely not. Not with the back pain she is starting to experience more frequently now. "So instead we could fly into Logan and get a rental. It's not too far from the airport. I was thinking we could leave on Thursday, and then come back Sunday."
"You're just thinking or you've already planned it?" Addison raises an intrigued eyebrow. Tomorrow is Tuesday. It would be such short notice to request Thursday and Friday off, but the way Mark carefully presented all of that makes her think he already inquired with Dr. Patel about whether or not she could spare one of her best surgeons for the latter part of the week.
"Started to plan it," Mark says quickly. "Which means I can stop at any point. I know you don't like surprises. I just…I wanted to do something nice for you." He pauses, allowing the unspoken real reason behind doing something nice to sink in. In ten days' time, Addison will be meeting Derek at her attorney's midtown office to sign the divorce papers. "I was looking at this cottage within walking distance of a beach. It's still available – the guy said he'd hold it for us, as long as we let him know by tomorrow. It's a bit rustic-looking, but -"
"Rustic?" Addison interrupts, puffing out a short laugh. "You know I'm ending a relationship with someone who has turned into a flannel-wearing, wood-chopping fisherman, right?" She smiles when Mark begins to chuckle, even though the turning into part is not completely accurate. Addison cannot speak for wood-chopping, but the fisherman part has always been true for Derek. And he already has plenty of flannel shirts – most of which she bought for him throughout the course of the marriage. Earlier in the month, Addison tried to remember what the last item she purchased for Derek was, but she came up empty. This was on her mind because his birthday was on the eighth. She ended up sending Derek a quick email, wishing him a happy birthday. No response, of course.
"I promise it's rustic decoratively," Mark says. "Not literally. Trust me, when I told Lynette it was 'rustic,' she about fell out of her chair laughing at the idea of you being anywhere rustic. So, she looked too to confirm we wouldn't actually be 'roughing it.' Here, check it out." Mark pulls up the link on his phone, and then hands it over so that Addison can flick through a series of pictures of the listing. It is a small-looking home, really only fit for two – some sort of cottage-cabin hybrid – with worn, sable brown shake siding, and unruly lavender and shrubbery tangled beneath its windows. There are shots of the interior, which features a main room with high ceilings, a few skylights, couches and armchairs that Addison's pregnant self deems comfortable-looking, a lot of wall art and decorative pieces that do in fact fit the classification of rustic, and some intricate details along the wooden support beams. There is a kitchenette, but at this point, if they do not order takeout, Mark does the majority of the cooking, so Addison cannot really consider a small cooking area to be an inconvenience. There is a cozy bedroom tucked away up a few steps, and then a front yard with lush, deeply-green grass that fans out to an expansive view of the water, sunlit in all the pictures. Addison does not read the descriptions under each image, or skim anything in the wall of text about the overall home, but she can imagine the cheery words used to advertise it: charming, scenic, peaceful, private. Montauk might be the end of the world, but this place stands alone, too. Addison sees the appeal, honestly, and Mark's intent when it came to wanting to rent the place for a few days, so she finds herself nodding, happily agreeing.
"Is this a babymoon thing?" She asks when she hands Mark his phone back, a smile gracing her lips. "Or a my-married-girlfriend-is-getting-divorced-next-Thursday thing?"
"Both, I guess." Mark sets his phone down on his nightstand and rolls back to face her. "I just thought it might be good to get away. I know next week won't be easy."
"Yeah. Thank you, for planning something special for us, and for just…being so kind about all this." He has been kind about this, Addison knows. He has. And patient and accommodating and understanding when it comes to all of her stress, remorse, and sadness. She has thought for a long time now that Mark has been supporting her through this as a friend, not just as a boyfriend. And it is different with Mark, because of how it touches him, which extends to it touching her. Addison has Savvy, yes, and even Naomi now. It was weird to tell Naomi, and she could certainly hear the combination of shock and judgment in her friend's voice, but once they kept talking, the subject eventually shifted from infidelity and an unexpected pregnancy to just how freaking hard divorce is, no matter what it was that led to the legal match being struck. But it is different because Savvy and Naomi do not love Derek in the way that Mark does. Derek did not belong to either of Addison's girlfriends in the way he belonged to Mark. Addison knows that Mark is hurting, too.
She tries, vaguely, to remember the last time Derek touched her. She feels guilty for even thinking about it, but she cannot help it. Before the incident on the staircase, before the loose hug Derek gave her when he allowed her to come back into the house, dripping wet…it would have been that Friday, before he left for Greenwich for the Governor's speech, right? Probably a chaste, mechanical kiss on the lips, as weightless as air. It does not matter now. Addison hates the part of herself that occasionally still thinks about things like this, but Marie says it is okay. Marie says it is normal.
"And I actually took the thirtieth off," Mark continues, tugging Addison out of her Derek-filled reflections. "The office will be open, and Lynette is going to go in and do some filing and scheduling stuff – which, yeah right, she's probably just going to binge something on Netflix – but I'm not seeing any patients that day. I thought maybe I could wait for you at a nearby coffee shop or something while you meet with Derek and the lawyers? And then you can meet me there afterwards and we can catch a cab back together?" He watches the subtle shift in Addison's expression, the confusion before the oh-it's-you look of relief comes. At a certain point in her marriage, he knows that she stopped having this sort of support, stopped expecting to have someone show up for her.
"That would be great. Thanks. I have to swing by Harper's office again next Monday – something she needs a wet signature on – so I'll keep an eye out for places close by. You know, Marie says…" and then Addison grins weakly. They do this now, sometimes. Trade therapeutic nuggets back and forth. Boundaries were dropped a long time ago, long before Addison started going to therapy at the end of August, and long before Mark divulged to her that he had a therapist. Boundaries were dropped though. Him first, then her. But they can only go so far with words, since therapy is not just talking about feelings. In Addison's case, it is where she and Marie are developing a plan to address her trauma and past heartaches, and to heal wounds currently patched with a flimsy bandage. Bandages are ineffective armor. "Marie says I can feel bad about what happened – having an affair, Derek catching us – and I can feel bad about how it happened, for the hurt it caused, but that…that Derek's not allowed to make me feel bad about myself, especially when I see him in person next week." You can try to put him in a tiny box. You can try to make him seem petty and inconsequential and like nothing special so that he can fit into this tiny little box, but you have to remember that you were hurt throughout the marriage too, Addison. Your pain matters, too.
"He's being a prick," Harper decided a few weeks ago, and Addison was taken aback at her attorney's comment. Harper has been cool and direct during their attorney-client interactions, but always professional. But then, Savvy recommended her, and in Addison's opinion, it will be a miracle if one of Phoebe's first words is not a cuss word. "About the real estate. He's being lauded for his…generosity," Harper went on, rolling her eyes. Nothing has changed since Derek's initial insistence that he does not want the brownstone or the house in the Hamptons. "I've already had to hear that from Stephen's lapdogs several times now." And Addison nodded in response. Stephen something, who represents Derek, out of a satellite office for some Seattle firm. Or maybe the office on Third is the main one, and Seattle is the satellite. It does not matter. Some of those details run like liquid through Addison's fingers. It is why she pays Harper though. For that and for remarks about her soon-to-be ex-husband that she does not necessarily dispute. "I'm sure anyone who touches the legal docs will acknowledge how kind Derek is, how selfless he is, giving you both of your guys' million-plus dollar properties, but that's not why he's doing it, right? It's not to be the good guy."
"No," Addison murmured in agreement. "He's doing it to punish me."
I'm sure he suspects I'll sell the homes. I told him I live with Mark at his apartment. So now it's going to fall on me to clear out both places and deal with the realtor and the offers and just…everything. I'll have to do everything, Addison told Marie last week, when her therapist asked her to elaborate, to explain how exactly Derek was punishing her. Every piece of cutlery, every saved receipt, every candle, every insurance document, every kitchen appliance, every stitch of clothing, every piece of furniture, every hand towel, every drinking glass from the set his mother got us as a wedding present, every errant battery shoved in a drawer…I have to sort through all of that. And make piles, and honestly, probably get rid of or donate most of the stuff. But it's not like I would just throw away any of Derek's belongings. You know, sweaters he left behind, childhood things, his med school diploma, novels, CDs and records, fishing equipment, articles he's had published, everything in his office, an old laptop of his, trinkets his mom gave him, things I bought him. So it falls on me to have to go through all those things and then ship them to him. And then also, I think I just…you know, my primary grievance throughout the last few years of my marriage was that he was indifferent. That he didn't love me as much as he used to. I don't…I don't really know how to explain it, if that even makes sense, but -
"You think that he's showing you," Marie said, "either consciously or subconsciously – just how deeply he's willing to cut with his indifference."
"Yes. Which makes it feel less like indifference, and more like…outright hatred."
The thing is, it is not just his stuff and her stuff. It is their stuff. There is the couch they purchased together after Addison gave the futon one to Mark, and honestly, what feels like a hundred additional pieces of furniture they picked out as a couple. Paintings and photographs they selected for the walls. There are Christmas stockings – they have matching ones with their names on them, the same red cable knit pattern. And ornaments they bought when they had their first Christmas in the brownstone and quickly discovered the large Balsam fir they brought home – significantly bigger than the trees they would get for their Murray Hill apartment – had too many sparse areas on its branches. There is their personalized address stamp. There is their wedding album, Addison's wedding bouquet that was preserved and framed, a leftover favor someone forgot to take with them at the end of the night, and their wedding outfits – her dress and his tuxedo, sealed in special bags and hanging in the back of the walk-in closet. There is every single photo of them together. And really, Addison told Marie, this is just off the top of my head. There is so, so much more than that.
Addison. Her name is crooned out, and she feels herself being drawn back to the present. Mark has a hand in her hair, fingertips lightly working against her scalp. She manages a small, brave nod when he asks her if she is okay. Relatively speaking, at least, since they both know that nothing about this is okay, and she is not actually okay. And neither is he.
"Yeah. Just. It's almost over." She says it in a tone that sounds almost wondrous, with sadness and relief – because really, there is a lot of relief – piling high.
"It's almost over," Mark repeats.
"Earlier…weren't you going to get some water? You had your glass -"
"It can wait." He brings her closer, coaxing her head onto his chest. She sighs in appreciation when his arms fold around her, one hand framing her back, and the other touching her elbow.
"Instead of a coffee shop," Addison says, "maybe you can wait behind Harper's building. On the back side, there's this patio area that leads out to Lexington. A lot of employees eat their lunch there. Maybe you could wait there for me." She feels the rumble of Mark's chest beneath her when he says okay. "Thank you. And I'm sorry," she adds woefully. "It's not just me. I know this is hard for you, too." She slides a hand up to give Mark's shoulder a comforting squeeze. He was yours before he was mine, she thinks, not for the first time. And probably not for the last time, either.
. .
. .
Eleven Years Earlier
"Come on." Mark holds a hand out to Amy, who practically scowls at him for daring to come over to her unoccupied table, where she has been busy arranging her cloth napkin into various animal shapes to pass the time. "You have to dance to one." Mark's first thought when the wedding reception started and they all filtered to their assigned tables was that whoever the high schooler is dating – because he assumes she is dating someone – had plans this weekend and could therefore not make it to Addison and Derek's wedding. But then his second thought was that Amy probably could not bring a date, or even just a friend to keep her company, because Addison's mother probably has certain standards about who actually merits a plus one on a wedding invitation. Which seems ridiculous to Mark. Let the poor kid have someone. She is significantly younger than the majority of the wedding guests, and probably bored out of her mind. Hence playing with the napkin. "Also, that's a hella good swan."
Amy actually does appear pleased by the compliment. "You should have seen the butterfly I made earlier." And then her lips tighten into a thin line. "You're just asking me to dance because all the other bridesmaids came with boyfriends or husbands, I bet."
"Not true."
"Did my mom ask you to ask me?"
"Nope. Now, come on." Mark holds his hand closer and Amy gets to her feet. She ignores his hand, but she does walk with him to the area where couples are swaying to a slow song, some more coordinated than others thanks to the open bar in the ballroom of The Plaza. Amy brushes uncomfortably at the front of her floor-length, plum-colored bridesmaid dress when they find a space. "I wanted to ask you," Mark continues, tone jovial. "You're my favorite little sister. My favorite toddler sister, because I can't believe -"
"Oh, don't be all mushy."
"All right, fine." He grabs one of Amy's hands, and sets his other hand lightly on her back, ensuring there is appropriate space between them. "I know you're not a toddler. You're…fifteen now?"
"No. Sixteen. I turned sixteen in February." Amy gives him a look that he cannot quite place, but it is definitely a look that looks like trouble when she lifts one eyebrow and smirks at him, just a little, the corners of her mouth barely tilting up. This one might turn into a handful for Carolyn, if she hasn't already, Mark thinks. He is not around the Shepherd matriarch or Derek's sisters enough anymore to know what their day-to-day lives are like. And Lizzie is at Brown now, so Amy is the only one at home full-time.
"You know how earlier Addison danced with her dad?" Amy says, now pensive as she meets Mark's eyes. "I won't…I won't have that one day. I won't have a father-daughter dance." Mark blinks in surprise. He was not expecting such a soul-baring admission, but then, with college and med school and residency, and living in an entirely different zip code, it is not like he has spent much time with Amy lately. He mostly remembers her as a little kid, knee-scraped and messy-haired and a dimple on her left cheek. Far younger than sixteen-in-February. She was always loud, until she was quiet after her dad died, and then somewhere along the way, her grief softened and she became loud again. And Mark can see now that she is starting to share more again.
(He does not know – none of them know – that Amy's "Hurricane Amelia" behavior is not far off. In retrospect, Mark as his present-day self knows there must have been a few occasions – holiday gatherings, probably – where Amy was high as a kite in front of them all, but not one person in a room full of doctors and doctors-in-training recognized it at first for what it was; she could hide it well. But Amy became quiet again. Eventually, Amy told Addison – who told Mark – the pills made her feel alive. Mark remembers that time though, the instances he interacted with her, and historical material he compiled from Addison and Derek, and it did not really seem like Amy was alive. Drugs took her voice away.)
"I know," Mark replies. "I know you won't have that one day. And it sucks, and it's really unfair. But you still have people in your life – guy people – who will be there for you. I know it's not the same thing, but I swear one day when you walk down the aisle you won't do it alone. You'll have your brother. Derek danced with Kate at her wedding and he walked her down the aisle, too…remember?"
Amy gives him a small smile. "Addie cried during your best man toast," she says, abruptly changing the subject. "I saw her dab at her eyes with a napkin."
"Not a swan napkin though, I bet," Mark says. This does not surprise him, and frankly, it is Addison's right to cry today, he figures. He has noticed that many things have made the bride emotional, and he even caught Derek looking misty-eyed a few times as well. Mark did not see Addison wipe away any tears during his speech – he felt like his eyes were everywhere all at once while holding his champagne glass, because he was a little nervous – but he is certain he knows what it was that "did it" for her. His toast was primarily centered around his friendship with Derek, but he did also share about the first time he referred to Addison as "my friend" rather than "my friend's girlfriend," and that that was when he knew she was special. A keeper.
It was January of their first year of med school, just a few days before they were about to start spring term (cruelly named). The five of them – Mark, Derek, Addison, Naomi, and Sam – drank a little too much one night, and come Sunday morning, Mark and Addison were the only ones capable of leaving Sam and Naomi's apartment to get some sort of breakfast for the rest of the semi-dying group. They went to Morton Williams to pick up some items to make pancakes, and ran into Johnny Naldoni, who grew up with Mark and Derek. And when Johnny looked at Addison, waiting for an introduction, Mark said, "This is my friend, Addison."
Maybe he had known they were friends for longer than that – they had been hanging out in small group settings for months by that point, and there had also been some "Addison-Derek-Mark dates," as Addison affectionately called those outings. However, this was the first time it was like Mark saw her as his friend, and not just as his friend by extension of her being Derek's girlfriend.
"You know…" Amy grins conspiratorially, prepared to go after her brother in the way that only little sisters can. "You know that Derek didn't really have that many girlfriends though, right? So when you said 'my friend's girlfriend,' it's not like there was a whole army of -"
"I know. I get it." Mark chuckles. His gaze drops over to Derek and Addison, who are wrapped in each other's arms, spinning near the center of the room, practically oblivious to the guests mingling around them as Derek whispers something in Addison's ear.
He is certain no one has ever looked happier than the two of them do right now. They make him feel hopeful, but for what specifically, Mark is not sure. He just knows that even if he goes home alone tonight, everything about this day felt absolutely perfect, top to bottom.
. .
. .
Mark comes down the handful of steps separating the loft-style bedroom area from the main room of their home for the next few days, rubbing at his sleep-clouded eyes as he looks for Addison. It is a very small cottage though, so it only takes a moment to find her sitting on the couch, legs stretched out along one of the footrests, with a faux fur, ruched throw blanket covering her. Her face is illuminated by the light from the TV, and when Mark gets further into the room and is able to get a clearer picture of the screen, he discovers she has SportsCenter on, which nearly makes him laugh.
It is three in the morning. He tries to remember if anything seemed off before they went to bed last night, but no. He does not think so. They spent a nice, sun-soaked afternoon on the beach, explored the shops in Bearskin Neck, and then ate dinner at a waterfront restaurant just as the glowing oranges and reds of sunset started to fall over the harbor. The last thing Mark remembers before drifting to sleep, as unexpected rain formed a chorus on the roof above them, was talking about week sixteen.
"I'll admit," Mark begins, trying to start with some humor when Addison meets his eyes. "There have been two, maybe three times where I've been a horrible teacher and asked an intern to run to the locker room, get my phone, pull up the app, and make a lineup change for me, but I've never watched football highlights at three in the morning to see if I need to be making any moves. Couldn't sleep? Wait…" he glances at Addison's lap, where she is holding a notepad and a pen. She has been somewhat indulgent when it comes to his playing fantasy football, sometimes even referring to it as their team. "My God, are you taking notes for me?"
Addison shakes her head, offering a quick laugh. "No, the TV is just on for background noise. I couldn't sleep, and I just felt…restless." She sets the pad and capped pen on the log end table next to her. "So I came out here. It's not football-related notes. I was actually making a list of baby things we'll need to buy eventually. And jotting down some ideas for Baby's room. I figure after we know the sex, we can start diving a bit deeper into that. Did I wake you?" Her expression transitions into one of guilt. She felt like she had the volume low enough – just a notch above mute – but it is a small place. "I'm sorry if -"
"No. You didn't. I just woke up." And then I reached for you and you weren't there, Mark thinks, and he has a brief flashback to a teenage Amy – Amelia – telling him not be mushy. Months ago, such a statement was what Mark would have expected though. Anticipated. His greatest fear, that one day Addison would just stop being there, would stop wanting him (or just want someone else more). But tonight (or this morning, technically), her absence just feels like anguish that could not be contained to a sleeping area. It needed to be everywhere. I would give up everything to be with her. That is what Mark would want to tell Derek, in addition to a flood of apologies. But of all the things I would give up to be with her…you would be the very last that I'd part with. "We're on vacation though," he carries on, giving Addison an easy smile as he sits down next to her. She scoots over so that he can share the footrest with her, and then adjusts the blanket so it can cover him, too. "We can sleep in late. Or I can start acting like a dad and take short couch naps throughout the day. I didn't really…" he pauses to wrap an arm around her shoulders. "I didn't really think it was football-related. I know at best you're just tolerating my fantasy football thing. Is it because it's raining, Red?" His gaze scales up to one of the skylights, now so drowned in droplets that he can barely make out the moody blue-black of the sky.
Addison talked about it with him recently, sparing no particulars when it came to the descriptions. How tightly her grip was on the balusters. How when Derek pulled her to her feet and dragged her to the door, she resisted, and for some reason it entered her mind that when she was in college, she and Savvy once went to a self-defense class, but the things she learned there apparently did not stick, because she could not break free of Derek's hold. The coolness of her hands on fogged-over glass. How each bead of rain that landed on the stoop was like a miniature explosion when it struck the ground and then splattered up onto her calves. At the time, she explained, it was scary. But now it just feels more sad than scary. And more like…not straight fear, more just fear…neighboring. Yeah. Fear-neighboring. It's on my Marie List. You know, something to be explored.
"I'm sure the rain isn't helping," Addison admits. "But, no. I think it's just…everything. Sorry." She turns to look at him, eyes wide and helpless, body stiff against his. "I know you worked hard to plan a nice trip away for us, and today was perfect, but -"
"It's okay. Really. It's okay. I get it."
She sighs. "My chest feels…tight. Like…like I can't breathe. But I can. I'm fine," she assures when she sees how worried this disclosure makes Mark look. He skims his fingers lightly along her arm, trying to offer comfort. "I'm fine, Mark. I can breathe. Earlier I was thinking about this incident that happened to me on the Captain's boat. Archer and I collected plenty of war wounds out on the water over the years; it's easy for it to happen, especially when you're a little kid and not exactly focused on practicing safety. Just…slipping on a wet deck. Banging into winch handles. Not having your hands in the right place when adjusting the sailing sheet and ending up with a friction burn. One time Archer even got a concussion when he didn't get out of the way of the boom in time and it smacked him in the back of the head. Anyway, there was this incident where Archer and I were messing around, and I tripped and fell forward and landed on a cooler. I think I was seven. I wasn't able to brace myself in time, so my stomach hit the cooler, and it knocked the wind out of me. And I was sobbing hysterically, and saying I couldn't breathe, and I just remember the Captain gripping my shoulders and telling me over and over again, that if I could talk, I could breathe." Addison makes a chuckling sound through clenched teeth. "Which isn't even exactly true, you know, or at the very least that phrase oversimplifies things, since if you're talking but you can't properly exhale then you're not exactly breathing enough…but in my case, the Captain was right. And while a hug would have been nice, I don't think he was actually trying to be unfeeling about the situation. Just logical. Which is kind of necessary when you're floating on the Sound with two little kids, both of whom are freaking out about what happened."
"Jenny said something similar once, about breathing and talking."
"Really?"
"Well, not exactly like that," Mark replies. "I think I was nine or ten at the time. A bunch of us were playing pond hockey, and I got tangled up with someone and ended up falling and splitting my chin open. Needed a couple stitches. Jenny took me to the ER, and since my injury wasn't too bad and this was a smaller facility, we were stuck in the waiting area for a while. And eventually I started to panic and like…hyperventilate. I think I was just scared, you know? So we approached the reception desk, and when Jenny said I was having a tough time breathing, Nurse Ratched or whatever asked what my full name was, and I told her, and she tried that 'if you can talk you can breathe' line on us. And Jenny lost it. I just remember her snapping, 'And my full name is Genevieve Rose Sloan, and if you don't bring my son back there and get him into a bed immediately, I'm going to reach under this glass and claw your eyes out.' And like five seconds later, what do you know, I was in an exam room."
Addison smiles softly. "Wow. Good for Jenny. I know that…I know that she was flawed, but she didn't just love you, Mark. She loved you fiercely."
They do not say it aloud right then, but they both think how fiercely they will love their baby. Their baby, who is now the size of an avocado and has eyes that are sensitive to light and makes fluttering movements inside Addison that she describes as similar to that feeling when you get off a boat and your stomach still feels a little swirly, a little flip flop-ish. That feeling, and a butterfly feeling. Mark still thinks in most ways the things he has learned about how to be (hopefully, potentially) a good parent come from the Shepherds, not Everett and Jenny. The Shepherds were never visibly high and/or drunk in front of their kids, especially when they were barely old enough to fend for themselves. The Shepherd kids would have never woken up at midnight to a parent-free household. The Shepherds knew when to say no and how to set boundaries. The Shepherds provided structure and stability. Mark would love to be able to tell Carolyn this – to tell her all the ways in which she has helped ensure he will not be a terrible father – but he has not seen her since last Thanksgiving. She sends him a card each year for his birthday, and Mark does the same – hers is one of the few birthdays he can remember (or, to be honest, care about) without relying on a calendar. He still intends to send her a card this December, but he supposes…that is it. There will be birthday cards, but maybe nothing else, ever. It is hard to imagine seeing Carolyn again or talking to her. His adult relationship with her is much different than his childhood one; even before Derek and Addison's marriage blew up and Mark's role in that was shared with Carolyn and Derek's sisters, he and Carolyn did not really have the kind of relationship where they talked. Not without Derek in the background, at least.
"Yeah. She did love me fiercely. You're right," Mark says. "She told me once that her heart beat for me and Everett. And I thought it was just the Valium and whatever she'd been drinking that day, just getting her all worked up and emotional and sounding like a Hallmark card, but I get it now. I get what she meant. Keep talking for me, Addie." He nudges her shoulder, and the contact is enough for Addison to tensely release another breath. "Tell me about your list. Or talk about Baby's room."
"Okay…Baby's room. I think we should paint it. Your apartment – I don't know if -"
"We're allowed to paint; it's fine. What color?"
"I was thinking some sort of light gray. Or a light bluish-green color. And a lot of nursery rooms have themes. Phoebe has these really cute clouds and hot air balloons on her walls; it's like a travel or adventure-themed room, or something. I've always thought some sort of zoo animal thing would be cute. And then in addition to all the typical baby furniture, we could get an area rug, and make a cute little book area over by…by the rocking chair. We can figure it out together. And we can also…" Addison closes her eyes, suddenly starting to feel tired again. She inhales groggily, and feels the cushion shift beneath her as Mark pushes against the footrest, sending them into more of a reclined position. She twists her body in response, curling into Mark's side to get more comfortable. He feels so warm against her. "We can include some of her – or his – sonogram pictures on the wall. That might be nice, too. And I promise…" she says, head jerking as she tries to push sleep away for a little longer. "I promise you can veto any of my ideas if you don't like them."
"I'm sure I'll like them. You know, we should probably invest in another galaxy nightlight. Or some sort of nightlight. I'm sure our kid would like that, being able to look at something on the ceiling."
"Yeah…good idea…"
And then that is it. Addison tumbles back to sleep, and does not wake up again until mid-morning. The sun is peaking through the skylights, bringing more warmth into the room. She can feel the steady rise and fall of Mark's chest from where she is burrowed under his chin, the motion deep enough that she can tell he is still sleeping peacefully.
She blinks a few times, feeling her thoughts become clearer as something Marie said recently comes back to her: No matter what you did, you still deserve to be happy, and to be loved, and to feel safe. You deserve to have good things and experience good things. And eventually, you have to be able to forgive yourself for having an affair.
Mark stirs slowly when she adjusts herself in his embrace, leaning up to kiss his jawline. "Hi, bunny," he murmurs, eyes still closed. "You sleep okay?"
"Hi. And yes," she responds. "You can go back to sleep if you want. I was just thinking that at some point while we're here – and when you're more awake – we should buy something for Baby. Like a cheesy destination onesie or something for Baby's room."
"I love that idea."
Addison is not sure if it is one thing more than another. Mark's sleepy-voiced greeting. How when he finished his question, she could feel their baby flutter inside her. How soothing the sunlight feels on her skin as it falls through the skylights and nearby windows. How nice it is to be here with Mark, and how thoughtful he was for planning this. How he knew exactly what she needed last night in order to fall back to sleep. It could be any of those things or all of them. Love just sometimes feels more…prevalent in the morning, in Addison's belief, and she is certain that in this moment, she has never loved him more.
. .
. .
"Next year around this time, Baby will be six months old. Nearly seven, actually. That's just…insane. He or she will be sitting up, babbling like crazy, and probably making giant messes as we attempt solid foods. Six months is supposed to be a really fun age," Addison reports while staring out at the temperate Atlantic, watching the quiet ebb of low tide. A breeze pushes around her and Mark, occasionally lifting grains of sand onto the beach blanket they are sharing. They will not be able to stay out here much longer; the sun is starting to make its descent, and it is quickly becoming chillier. But for now, Addison basks in the peaceful, craggy landscape of Rockport, enjoying this time with Mark. It is not lost on her that a year from now, she will also be free. The complicated history will still be there, yes, and she assumes she will always feel badabout how her new life with Mark began, but at least a divorce will no longer be looming over her head. The things that are currently twisting her stomach into snug knots – like all the boating ones she learned from the Captain – will not be taking up space anymore.
"I'll have to take your word for it." Mark grins weakly. "I'm still working through the in-utero stuff. I haven't gotten to life-outside-the-womb yet. But I'm getting there. Lynette already bought me a book about what to expect during the first year. I'm going to start that one soon."
"That was nice of her. We still need to return the favor, by the way. We should have her and her husband over for dinner sometime, and cook for them. As soon as we can pull her away from the new grandbaby, I suppose."
Mark tugs on one of the sleeves of her taupe sweater, amused. "That's a pretty bold use of the word 'we.' You know who is actually going to be doing the cooking."
"I'm perfectly competent in the kitchen. I just don't really like cooking, and you do." Addison dips her head to rest it on his shoulder. "I love it here," she says quietly. "It would actually…it would actually be really nice to have a place near the water that's just for us and Baby." She remembers what she said – or implied – a few weeks ago about not being ready for a joint real estate purchase, and how the thought sort of made her nervous, even though she knows she wants to spend the rest of her life with this man. But, now, maybe Addison feels like she could be ready for something like that. The beach was crowded this afternoon, which offered her a lot of time to take in the collections of families with babies and toddlers, each one a miniature scene with sand-dusted shovels and pails, floppy sun hats, and happy little shrieks each time foamy, white-whisked water bubbled over a child's wriggling toes. That will be us one day. We'll get to have that, too, she has thought more than once today. "Here is great, but we might want something a little closer; the shorter the ride with a baby or a little kid, the better. Westhampton could work; it's only like eighty miles outside the city. Bizzy would say that it isn't the real Hamptons, but still. It's supposed to be family-friendly and a little more low-key than some of the other areas."
Mark angles his head to touch his lips to her hairline. "Sure. Sounds good," he says, and although it is such a simple response, Addison can still feel the promise of commitment behind it. "You know," he adds, "I was like a fish when I was little – well, you were too, I guess. So odds are we'll have a kid we're going to have to force to get outof the water."
"Yeah, true. Hey…what if we did more of a beachy theme for Baby's room? Not over-the-top with it, but just like…little ocean and nautical details. I've seen art prints of sea animals that are cute; we could get a set. And when I was at Pottery Barn Kids last weekend with Sav so she could pick up some things for Phoebe, I saw these crib sheets that had little whales on them. And ones that had suns on them – that could work, too. Something like that. Oh." Addison draws in an excited breath. "Oh, wait…remember those little wall hooks we saw in that shop this morning that were shaped like sand dollars? We should go back there tomorrow before we leave for the airport; we could pick up a few. And we can frame the picture we took by the water, and hang it in the baby's room or just…anywhere in the apartment, I guess. It's like our first family photo." She smiles warmly at the memory. She and Mark asked a fellow beachgoer to take a picture of them when they were down by the water earlier. It is the first picture of the two of them that really means something. Off the top of her head, Addison cannot think of any photos of just her and Mark (plenty of her, Mark, and Derek though), but surely there are some from predictable, smile-for-the-camera settings – most likely at a party or something, beers in hand. It wouldn't be like this though. A real couple photo. And not just two – it is the three of them. Addison had one arm around Mark's waist, and the other resting on her stomach.
"That sounds good to me." Mark returns her smile. Her enthusiasm is contagious, and it is strange to remember there was a time where she was anything but enthusiastic about being pregnant. June just feels so…removed from them now, in some ways. And it makes Mark wonder if this current time period will be the same. They are happy, yes – maybe happier than they have ever been – but there is no denying how tense things are for Addison with the impending divorce. Their time in Rockport has been wonderful and has served as a much-needed break – and other than the one night, Addison has been sleeping well – but it is not like the vacation blissfulness can completely wipe away the anticipation of next Thursday. Mark hopes that maybe when they reflect on this time years from now, the feelings of stress and anxiety associated with it will not be as dominant. "And the stuffed octopus we picked up for Baby will be right at home in a beach-themed room," he mentions, giving Addison's sleeve another tug. "It's getting kinda cold. Think we should head back?"
"Depends." She arches a suggestive eyebrow. "Are you going to warm me up when we get back?"
"Absolutely."
They gather up their supplies quickly, and waste no time in getting back to their home for one more night. They are on one another in an instant once they reach the bedroom, lips clashing and hands eagerly roaming over each other as Mark walks her back into the nearest wall. Addison sighs softly in appreciation when he scrapes her wind-swept hair away from her face and presses his lips to the side of her neck. He concentrates on this area for a bit, knowing how much she likes it, and rolling his hips against hers, but when his hands drift beneath Addison's sweater, she shifts a little, not quite tensing, but not quite not tensing either.
"Hey…" Mark pulls back. He removes one of his hands from under her sweater, and brings it up to touch her cheek. They always keep going – and the keep going part feels really, really great – but he remembers that this is what initially happened the last two times they had sex, too. "Don't be self-conscious," he urges. "You're beautiful."
Addison's tone is a little grumbly when she tells him, "You just like that my boobs are bigger." She does not want to feel insecure, because the end result is going to be a baby and all of this is normal and exactly what is supposed to happen, but it is still…different. Her linea nigra has started to develop – it looks a lot grosser than how she views it on her patients – and her nipples are darker, along with some changes to the area around them (Mark laughed hysterically when she told him the medical term for it was Montgomery's Tubercles, and he had to make it up to her later in the form of a very long shoulder rub). She has some stretch marks now above her hips, sitting there like rungs of a pale pink ladder, where the skin is so much fleshier than it used to be, thanks to the nine pounds she has gained. It should not matter, none of it should, and Addison knows that, but she still has moments where it sort of does matter.
"I'm not...I mean, look, I'm not going to pretend that I don't like that they're bigger right now. It's like a cool, really sexy science experiment or something." The palm Mark has stilled against her side starts to rub up and down again, and he can feel the way her body tilts at the gesture, practically melting into him. "But I liked them before you were pregnant and I'll still like them when you're no longer pregnant, too. And I like the bump. I love the bump. It's not a turn-off. You look great, Red. Seriously. You're beautiful." The declaration is enough to make her smile. "Hey, do you want me to gain some sympathy weight to make you feel better?"
"No." She smirks at his joke, and is swiftly ready to tease back. "Because I'm only dating you for your rock-hard abs."
"That's not the only thing right now that's -"
Addison swallows the tawdrier part of his comment with a kiss. Their clothes are peeled off fast as they fall into bed, but then they slow down, taking their time tracing lazy designs over flushed skin and giving one another pleasure until she uses one of her legs to coax Mark closer, now desperate for more contact. He slides into her and begins an unhurried rhythm, relishing the soft, breathy sounds she is making and how her hips feel as they grind against his. They trade occasional kisses, but devote most of their coupling to just watching one another through heavy-lidded, lustful eyes.
Feeling her getting close, and knowing he is reaching the edge as well, Mark moves a hand between their bodies, touching her and murmuring words of encouragement until she clenches around him. Her eyelids flutter closed, and the air fills with more moans and pants from them both. Mark leads her to an overwhelming release, and follows moments later, falling slack against her and whispering her name into her sweat-slicked neck.
"What is it?" He asks later when he rolls them both onto their sides and notices a solemn look on Addison's face. Her lips are opening and closing, stopping short of saying something. He pushes back a dampened strand of hair clinging to her cheek. "You okay?"
"Yeah. That's actually…that's what I was going to say. Everything is going to be okay." Addison inhales slowly, and when she lets the breath go, a wide, happy smile chases after it. "I was just thinking that. Everything is going to be okay."
Mark leans forward to kiss the bridge of her nose. "You're right. Everything is going to be okay."
. .
. .
Notes/References/Nods to Various Episodes
One of the italicized therapy exchanges was a nod to Grey's 5x15 (one of the crossover episodes), when Addison tells Derek, "I put you in a tiny box. After the divorce, I made you petty and inconsequential and nothing special so that you could fit into this tiny little box that would help me get out of bed in the morning."
Grey's 2x07. Addison to Derek, while in couples' counseling: "I know. You're a flannel-wearing, wood-chopping, fisherman. I get it!"