Full Summary. It is not the lack of love that has broken her. It is love itself. This angsty and smutty combo features Addison and Derek spending a day packing up what is still left in the brownstone, post-divorce. Legally, the home belongs to Addison, but the task of moving out and moving on belongs to both of them. It's a frustrating process to do this together, but it gets a little easier once they start doing each other.
A/N. Title is from the song "New York," by Snow Patrol. Same with the individual chapter titles. This was supposed to be a one-shot, but I got carried away, because, duh, that's just what happens when you write from Addison's perspective. This will probably wind up being four or five chapters at most (probably). And, although there is maybe, maybe a sliver of closure in the end, this is not a get-back-together or happily-ever-after fic. The first chapter just sets the table and isn't particularly dialogue-heavy just yet (also no smut, if you follow me on Twitter and that's specifically why you're here ;)).
Chapter 1: Come on, come out, come here
It is not as overwhelming as the first time she flew back here. At least there is that. There is less to sort through now. Addison has this small consolation to hold onto as her eyes sweep over the living room, forming a careful assessment of the items that still need to be grouped: keep, donate, throw away. Or, see if he wants it.
The living room was the subject of some cheerful debate when they first moved in.
"It was always 'the family room' when I was growing up," Derek told her. "I guess I've never really thought about the difference between the two."
Here is a difference to consider: a family room implies the existence of a family. No one resides at the brownstone. Or at the house in East Hampton. Not anymore. This is what Addison is thinking about as she raises her BlackBerry to her ear after pressing the send key to make a call. She has been taking stock not just of the physical inventory of her life, but the moral and emotional inventory, too.
"Hey."
"Oh. Hey." She nearly startles; she assumed she would be leaving a message. "Wow, Sav. Answering right away. You must be desperate for better company than whatever they're offering"—Addison pauses, trying to recall the name—"at the Finance and Venture Capital Summit."
"You have no idea. Yet another reason we need more women in this field. Most of the men here are insufferable."
Men are insufferable everywhere, Addison thinks. Especially men who do not seem to understand that passing over shared properties does not absolve them of the practical and logistical matters that still must be handled.
"And D.C. in early September is also insufferable," Savvy continues, her words feathered by a woeful sigh. "I thought it was bad in the city, but the humidity is worse here. I don't know how this heatwave hasn't broken yet. When I stepped outside of the conference center yesterday, I just wanted to fall to the ground and die. But then there would be one less woman here, so we can't have that. Anyway, sorry. I'm rambling. Did that guy not show up? Carl? Jonathan said that he said he would be there between eight and ten. I can call and—"
"Carl showed up. He came right at eight, so I'm glad I left my hotel when I did; I would have felt bad if he was stuck waiting for me. I was actually calling to say thank you for the gift basket you put together. That was so nice of you."
Addison had found it on the center island when she went to set her bag down in the mostly-already-empty kitchen. It was such a classic Savvy gesture. The highlights of the wicker basket included a top shelf Cabernet, red plastic cups (this made her smile a little), bottled waters, and a few apples and packaged snacks for sustenance. There was also a Kleenex pack tucked at the bottom of the basket, half-hidden by tissue paper that was tactfully positioned over it.
She has, sadly, in just the three hours she has been here today, already used several tactful tissues. She was finishing going through her office (she got it about halfway cleared out the last time she was here) when she discovered the personalized stationery tucked in a desk drawer, and the custom address stamp. The kind they used together, when they mailed out Christmas cards, and birthday cards for their—well, his—nieces and nephews, and what specifically belonged to her: Addison Montgomery-Shepherd.
(There is something she could not have known when Derek placed that wedding band on her finger: when you get married, you become one, and when that happens, you lose a bit of yourself in the process.
But you don't get married thinking you will ever get divorced. So she has lost a hell of a lot more now that she is no longer married.)
"You're welcome." Savvy's voice is fainter when she adds, "I wish I could do more."
"You've done enough, between this and the boxes thing." Addison drags a finger over the antique, hand-carved sideboard set against the wall, and is not surprised the end result is a coat of fuzzy dust on her skin. In July, she notified the cleaning service—utilized weekly when they both lived here, and cut to monthly once she joined Derek in Seattle—that their services were no longer needed. A not-yet-selected realtor can sort everything out when it comes time to make the brownstone spotless so it can be listed. Same with the Hamptons home. Maybe the realtor will hire someone to do a deep clean before the staging, and Addison will get billed for it or something. She is not sure how it works, because she has never sold a house before.
She never thought she would have to.
"You don't need to thank me, Addie. That was nothing. Just a few phone calls."
The system for making it happen involved—to the best of her recollection—Jonathan, then his wife, then the wife's friend, then the friend's boyfriend Carl, who was in possession of a lot of moving boxes he was all too happy to give to a divorcée trying to pack up what is left in her marital home. Jonathan is Savvy's "work spouse," because some married people can have a work spouse—or just a work friend—without it leading to exam room sex. Not that Addison should be throwing stones. Not really, anyway.
"Still though. It means a lot," Addison replies. "Especially since it was last-minute. If I had texted sooner, you would have been able to tell me you weren't going to be back until late Sunday, and I could have booked my flight for another weekend. It's just—"
"Your house hunting adventure starts next weekend, I know. You've got a lot going on. Don't worry about it. We're still getting breakfast Monday before your flight…no, it's not much time together, but it's better than nothing. And besides, I'll come visit you in California when you're all moved in. You'll have to text me tons of pictures when you find your dream home."
"I will," Addison says, keeping her tone light. The thing is, this was her dream home.
And the life inside it was her dream, too.
Derek had been reluctant to buy the house. Or, more accurately, to accept the house, since the brownstone was a wedding gift from Bizzy and the Captain. Bizzy had insisted on purchasing a home for them, because in her words, newlyweds who are starting a life together should not live in a "pauper's shoebox-sized apartment."
(More like their Murray Hill apartment was just bad for the Montgomery "brand.")
Addison wore her then-husband down, both politely and methodically—as any wife playing the long game would know to do—after they returned from their honeymoon. The timing was ideal, because they were going to need to make a decision on whether or not to renew their lease in November. And, more significantly, what reasonable person says no when a piece of Manhattan real estate—coveted real estate to the tune of several million—is handed to them on a silver platter? A free silver platter.
"But there's no catch, right?" Derek had joked…although it was also not a joke. "We're not going to be subjected to weekly dinners with them or something, right? Or get summoned to events of your mom's at a moment's notice?"
She assured him this was correct. Mostly correct. If anyone was going to be guilted into feeling indebted, it would be Addison, and it would be more of an emotionally manipulative debt, not an outright on-the-hook one.
Privileged trust fund baby or not, she knew that receiving a house—not assistance with a down payment, but an actual house, and a gorgeous one with a view of tree-lined Central Park to boot—as a wedding gift was gauche and over-the-top. Especially compared to any other wedding gift they received, which included the cookware set Carolyn Shepherd had given them.
(They did not have any cooking supply-related things on their registry. Addison always assumed the pots and pans was her former mother-in-law's way of working in a passive-aggressive jab that her son's bride didn't like to cook, and would therefore not be the kind of wife—a Suzy Homemaker of sorts—she had envisioned for him.)
Derek eventually got on board with Bizzy's desire (well, demand) to purchase property for them, but he remained concerned about the upkeep the brownstone would one day require. He had done some research about the structural snowball effect behind owning a brownstone. Particularly the façade. He told Addison that the relative softness of sandstone means it is prone to decay. Over time, the veneer was going to start to crack and crumble.
In other words: their home was not really built to survive.
When Derek texts to say he is walking over, Addison almost rolls her eyes. It is not a long walk from the hotel—nine blocks at most—but of course he would do anything to continue to cultivate the woodsy, I-hate-Manhattan vibe he has undertaken since relocating. She takes a deep breath, willing her thoughts to be more charitable ones. He didn't have to come, after all. Should he? Yes. But is he obligated to? No.
Addison had given him ample notice that she would be in New York the second weekend in September to continue with her packing efforts…in case he wanted to fly out, even for just a day, to go through things that belonged to them both, and the ones that belonged to him. Derek had seemed unfazed and uninterested when she first told him, which, though disappointing, was predictable. All this is to say, Addison did not harbor a single expectation when she called him yesterday—having taken a red eye on Thursday night—and reminded him she was in New York, and that, if he could, he should come out.
I'm not trying to be mean or manipulative, she had said over the phone (she was though, because subtlety and hint-dropping never works on her ex-husband), but it's not my responsibility to go through and box up your childhood things. Like…your mom would be gutted if you didn't keep your pair of baby shoes that she bronzed. And I know you'll want to have anything that belonged to your dad. There are also some keep-or-throw-out decisions you'll need to make for other things, too. I'm going to be selling the house, Derek. So you have to come at some point. Either this weekend, or sometime soon. And if you can't do that, I'm sorry, but every remaining item in this house is going to end up in a landfill somewhere. I'm not kidding.
Maybe it got his attention. Or maybe Addison had just worn him down. Probably both.
"I'm not sleeping at the brownstone," he said.
Right. As though it would be easy for her to sleep there either.
"No one is asking you to, Derek. I'm not staying there. I got a room at 6 Columbus." She would actually prefer to stay at the Mark, but for this particular set of circumstances, the Upper East Side hotel is poorly named. Addison has quite enough residual guilt without having to inform her ex-husband, I've always thought the service I received at the Mark is better. "You could get one too. With everything I've already done…we could probably get this accomplished in a day. And if not everything, you can at least go through all your stuff, and figure out what you want shipped to Seattle, and what you want to throw out. Can you just give me one day?"
"Addie…"
She had inhaled slowly, wanting to be mindful of her tone as she issued a response. It is Addie when he is annoyed, impatient, exasperated. It is Addison when he is angry.
Her name in his mouth used to only sound like love.
"I'm trying to get this done as soon as I can. I told Richard—though I think he's in denial, because he didn't bring it up at the last attending staff meeting—I'm tendering my resignation at the end of the month." She had waited then, anticipating (or maybe hoping) that Derek would ask more about this, but he didn't.
"Oh."
Yeah. That was it. That was all Addison got.
But then he told her that he would book a flight and be there tomorrow.
It is about the complete lack of forethought. How could it seriously not occur to Derek that he would still need to do his part? This is what has filled Addison with enough rage that even though it isn't even noon, she has been considering opening the bottle of wine—thank God that Savvy placed a corkscrew in the basket. The majority of the Montgomery-Shepherd kitchen tools were given away months ago.
That's very generous of you.
That was what the divorce attorney told Derek when he offered Addison both New York properties.
It was not generous though. At the time it felt that way, yes, because of the shame sitting heavy on her chest, but now? No. Now Addison sees the act for what it truly was. Dismissive. Indifferent. Hurtful. Derek had said let me take responsibility when what he meant was neither home—and everything that happened inside those homes—means anything to me anymore.
This is Addison's third time returning to the brownstone, returning to New York. The first time—last October in better-but-not-that-much-better times—was to gather more things to ship to Seattle. Clothes and shoes, mainly, and yes, she could sense Derek's judgment when she told him that was what she was flying there for. He did not want to come with her. Of course he didn't.
(She also suspected he was suspicious that she was going to see Mark. She wasn't; she had ignored every single text of his since she originally came to Seattle. And she didn't even tell Savvy she was going to briefly be in the city.)
Addison did collect a few other things when she was there though. Not just her things. Some sweaters for Derek, since the Seattle weather was quickly cooling, and a coffee mug he had always liked. And as far as the his-and-hers belongings she brought back, chief among them was their matching cable knit Christmas stockings. She had hung the stockings in the trailer that December, wanting to be festive and get them back to them, even though Derek probably thought it was dumb. She took the stockings down though, pre-Christmas Day, after he confessed that he had fallen in love with Meredith. She didn't feel very festive after that.
The last time she was here—three months ago, in June—had been to start the process of officially clearing out the house. She donated some of the bigger items downstairs: the kitchen table, two sofas, the dining room table and chairs, an ornate accent mirror, an entertainment stand, a TV, and a glass cabinet with an open hutch. Donated. That was another Savvy suggestion. Her cousin Beth works for an organization that furnishes homes for lower-income families or something. Addison pretended it meant nothing when Beth and a few other people showed up to haul the items out to a moving truck.
She has not dealt with the home in East Hampton yet, but that one will be infinitely simpler. Each room there is basically already a perfect-looking showroom. They never personalized it—it could be anyone's home, because there are no photographs and no mementos. There are no specific signs Derek Shepherd and Addison Montgomery-not-Shepherd once spent time there. The lack of personal or sentimental touches was because they were not there that often, because all things considered, having a house in the Hamptons was really just that: being able to say that you have a house in the Hamptons. Addison knows she could throw out, sell, or donate anything in that home without her ex-husband's input.
She feels more pressure to deal with the brownstone first. The home that is both personal and sentimental. It hurts more.
There are the things that belong to both of them, in the what's-mine-is-yours marital vein, regardless of who made the purchase and who might have more attachment to the piece. There is the decorative gold clock and the bookends they bought at a shop near the inn and spa they stayed at in Laconia, even though they rarely left their room—not when it had that big of a bed, room service, and a fireplace. There are CDs and records. DVDs. Books. Vases. The cheese board shaped like New York. Custom frames.
(The picture frames are what get to Addison the most. Do they keep the photos of the two of them that are preserved behind the glass, or do they just keep the frames?
(And how do you honestly go about separating anything that matters—or at least did matter at one point—to them both?)
There are the jade green table lamps. The Towers in Narragansett watercolor painting they got when they were in Rhode Island, an entire state that became known to them henceforth—though rather silly—as the place with the boat. The barstools Derek made and painted for the eat-in section of their kitchen. The furniture they bought for their small backyard when they relandscaped it in 2002. All the Christmas things—splitting up the items Bizzy gave her and the items Carolyn gave Derek is straightforward, but they bought ninety-percent of their ornaments and decorations together. The signed Billy Joel picture at Royal Albert Hall they received for making a sizable donation to the Joel Foundation. The glass centerpiece. The ottoman Addison does not have a reason to keep, but the story behind it is a great one—too long to explain though—so she did not feel ready to give it to Beth and her team. The marble ring dish they used for their no-longer-necessary wedding bands, and Addison's engagement ring. The eclipse snow globe, and other little trinkets and decorative objects and odds and ends that lined their shelves. The weighted blanket she and Derek used to love to cuddle under in the winter, sometimes eschewing a fire or a generous setting on the heater, because coldness meant they just had to stay closer together.
That isn't everything. It's barely anything. It feels like there is so, so much more to have to separate.
And then there is her wedding dress. And his tuxedo. Both are sealed in bags and currently hanging at the back of the walk-in closet.
(Addison meant to ask Callie what she thinks about this. If hawking divorced wedding rings is bad juju, then a recycled wedding dress and tux would also be considered bad juju, right?)
(But what woman would not give another woman the chance to wear it? It might be from 1994, but it is a stunning dress and does not have the dated look that most "old" wedding dresses do. And God, the shoes. The Jimmy Choo ivory satin pumps.)
There are the gifts that one of them bought for the other, but the purchases still meant something to the one who picked them out, because of the recipient's reaction. The personalized whiskey set she got Derek for his thirty-second birthday. The fish cleaning station for his thirty-fourth. The jewelry he bought her; those purchases had improved and become more specific to her taste with time. The custom star map of what the sky looked like on their wedding night—it deeply touched Addison when Derek gave her this for their second anniversary. Even though he was a focused, tuned-in husband back then, the level of thoughtfulness for this particular gift had still taken her breath away. And he did without input. Savvy and Naomi had sworn up and down that he hadn't approached them for any gift ideas.
Separation is grief and grief is separation.
You typically find this out when someone you love dies. But you also find this out when you get divorced.
Addison still has their wedding album. When she was here in June, cleaning and sorting and donating, she wound up taking it back to Seattle with her. It is currently in one of the drawers of her hotel dresser.
She does not feel ready to say goodbye to it. If she is even supposed to say goodbye. She is not sure if there are expectations and rules around this.
It would be different if they had children, and then got a divorce. You would probably keep the album for the children, in case they ever wanted to look at it.
But they did not have children together.
And Addison cannot have children, anyway. With or without the man who she always believed she would create new life with.
There is a faint breeze in the air as Addison stands on the cement platform of the stoop, waiting just outside the double arched doors with the opaque glass. She doesn't quite like the look of waiting outside for Derek; the image seems a little too much like a 1950s housewife eagerly waiting for her husband to get home from work. But, it's better than the alternative, because she felt inexplicably embarrassed when it occurred to her that Derek would probably knock rather than just come inside.
She glances down at her shirt to make sure there isn't any dust on it—she used the time between hanging up with Savvy and then Derek's text to wipe down a few surfaces. The shirt looks fine…if not jarring, since she cannot remember the last time she wore this light gray Yale shirt. A long time ago, apparently, because the letters have faded, and three of the four have started to peel. The rest of her look is equally uncomplicated and uninspired, by way of yoga pants and running shoes. At least her hair looks nice though, and so does her makeup. She is not married to Derek anymore, but she figures she might as well do whatever she can to, appearance-wise, make him regret it.
Not that he would.
It is while Addison is doing her careful examination (which includes a light and inconspicuous tug on both bra straps to make her breasts, well, be better) that she realizes their welcome mat is gone. She did not notice this when she unlocked the left front door this morning with a key that is starting to feel less and less familiar in her hand.
It was already gone, she reminds herself now. She had thrown out the mat the last time she was here.
The weather-warped gray pot nestled against the side wall is still here, but there are no flowers. All the other plants in their home—a few large-leafed ones—are also gone, but those Addison can specifically remember telling Savvy (a bonafide green thumb whose loft is what Weiss once called "a homeless shelter for fiddle-leaf figs and succulents") to feel free to take them, and she had.
Last spring—well, not last spring, but the last spring Addison and Derek had been together—there had been purple hyacinths and trailing ivy in the pot. Right now, no semblance of a floral arrangement remains. And the soil is suspiciously low. Addison's guess is that when Greta set the alarm and exited the brownstone for a final time, cleaning service company-issued supplies in tow, she had out of empathy scooped out the fallen, faded petals and brittle roots.
Because whatever was in there had died a long time ago.
"You got a haircut." It is the first thing Addison can think to say as Derek ambles up the steps. His hair is a little shorter now, less floppy-looking. It reminds her of what New York Derek's hair looked like. She opens the door, and then makes a motioning gesture with her hand as she moves inside, a signal for Derek to come in.
"Yeah," he replies as he steps over the threshold. He touches his hair in the way that people almost always do when a compliment or something about their hair is pointed out. "Oh." He blinks as his eyes adjust to the interior. "You…you got rid of some stuff. You made it sound like everything was still here."
No, I didn't, Addison thinks. I've told you more than once what's no longer here. You never listen. She does not say it though. She just allows herself to see everything from Derek's perspective. And, yes. She did clear out a lot of things. She knows that her ex-husband will have the same realization when he goes into the kitchen, the dining room, her office (his office is upstairs), and the backyard.
Derek jiggles his wrist slightly, and it is then that she catches sight of the plastic bag he is carrying.
"I brought a few things. Some packing tape, scissors, things like that…" he trails off with a shrug. "I wasn't really sure what you had here. I can go out and get more stuff, if we need it."
"Thanks. We should be fine though. I have tons of boxes, and packing supplies. There's also some snacks and water bottles in the kitchen, if you need anything. And the downstairs bathroom is fully stocked with well, you know…" Why are you blushing? Stop being weird, Addison tells herself. "Anything you might need," she finishes lamely, because apparently she is thirty-nine-years-old and is no longer capable of saying toilet paper.
"Got it," Derek says, moving the conversation along. "So, how does this work? I didn't rent a car, but I guess I could try to get one, so that we can transport everything we're planning to bring to Seattle to a UPS store. It might end up being too much to put in a cab, or to do in one ride."
Ah, yes. He has never had to think about this before. Not in the way Addison has. When Derek returned to the brownstone the morning after he caught her and Mark in bed together, he had packed three suitcases, thrown them in a waiting cab, and then the cab had taken him to a nearby parking garage where their seldom-used vehicles sat. Shipping and mailing cross-country never had to be a thought for Derek.
The one time he actually wanted some things from the brownstone—about three weeks after he left—he had contacted Weiss with a list of documents he was hoping his friend could get for him, and then mail to him. Instead of, you know, sending his wife a message or shooting her an email.
After Weiss had called Addison—sounding all sorts of conciliatory for being put in the middle of this uncomfortable situation—she had gathered from the safe in the guest room what Derek had specifically requested: his birth certificate, social security card, passport, vehicle title, and a few insurance and financial documents. Everything added up to just even more confirmation Derek had no intention of returning, and that his position in Seattle was a now-and-forever one.
(She cried for several reasons when the safe was finally opened, but the big one was that the marriage certificate was inside it.)
Weiss, to his credit, looked incredibly sad when Addison handed everything over to him in a mailing envelope. And then his expression shifted into one of surprise when he saw the address for Seattle Grace Hospital, and ATTN: Derek Shepherd, M.D. that Addison had written on the envelope.
"Come on, Weiss. He might not be returning my calls, but you don't think one half of a couple buys acres of property in another state and the other half doesn't find out about it, do you? I already knew he was in Seattle anyway; it's not like he's tried to not leave a paper trail. Transactions, calling the right people…I'm not an idiot."
She apologized though, for sounding snarky. None of this was Weiss's fault. He had awkwardly patted her shoulder when she started crying after that. It felt like all she did was cry back then.
"You don't need to worry about the transporting piece. I have a relocation manager and coordinator. Or something like that. I can't remember his exact title." Addison raises her shoulders. She knows Derek is listening—for once, perhaps—but his eyes are wandering around the room. Again, she can see it from his perspective. It must seem overwhelming. An entire corner of the room that is expanding straight out like a growing stain is crowded with decorative objects, CDs, records, books, and DVDs she has put aside for them to sort through. "His name is Robert. We just need to indicate what boxes need to be shipped where, and he'll get them where they need to go. Savvy found him for me. The brother of a friend of hers, or something. You know Sav." Derek actually shares a smile with Addison when she says this. "If there's something you need, but it's outside of her scope, she'll find someone else."
"Yeah. That's true," Derek acknowledges. "She does always find someone."
It triggers an unexpected memory.
Addison had been so happy when Savvy met Weiss their third year at Yale, but there was one night, thanks to a combination of too many shots and mixed drinks, she had become emotional, because her own two previous relationships at Yale were short-lived. And Weiss was just so sweet. And decent and considerate and funny. And he loved Savvy so much. Oh, Addie, Savvy had said, offering her an infinite amount of reassurance and patience, even though she was not much better off from an alcohol perspective; Weiss had to give her a piggy-back ride on their way back from the bar to the apartment the two girls shared, because Savvy had told him, babe, my feet can't walk.
Don't worry. You'll find a boy to love, too, Savvy had insisted as she dabbed at Addison's tear-streaked face with a tissue. And if not, I'll find a boy for you. There will be a boy though. I promise.
Savvy was right. It's just that there were unfortunately no promises made about keeping the boy you found.
"It's weird being back here." Derek's quiet statement reveals a raw vulnerability that Addison was not expecting. She feels bad for him in this moment. She almost places a hand on his upper back, as he looks around the home, appearing apprehensive, but she decides she shouldn't do that.
"I know. I know it's…a lot. But it gets a little easier," she reports instead. "It gets easier the longer you're in here."
(No it doesn't.)
"Okay. So." Derek points out the corner pile. "Should we start with that? Or was there something else you wanted to do first…?"
"Here is good. I was thinking we can start with this, and then move into the kitchen—though the kitchen is mostly cleared out. There are just some things on the counter I want you to look at, in case you want any of them. And I brought all of the childhood things you had in the basement into the dining room for you to go through. And also the Christmas decorations."
He presses his lips together. "That was a lot for you to have to bring up here."
"It was, but it's okay." Addison tries to sound good-natured. "It's basically a substitute for going to the gym, so it kind of worked out."
(She hates having to spend time in the basement. But there isn't any way her ex-husband's mood wouldn't immediately darken if he saw Mark's bike.)
"All right." Derek gives her a small nod. "Then…let's get started."
Let's get started was what he said when they first met in Gross Anatomy. After they had all introduced themselves, and received a lot of instructions, Dr. Huang told a doctor-in-training at each table to make the initial cut. Addison and Derek were the only ones at their table who made a movement with their scalpel that revealed they were interested in going first. That they were brave enough to begin the cadaver dissection. Mark and Sam would certainly deny that Addison and Derek were the only ones, but Addison knows what she saw that afternoon.
Derek had deferred to her. "Go ahead," he told her, and she was certain that he was the very definition of smiling with your eyes. "You've got this, Addison. I'll go next. Go ahead. Let's get started. It's a beautiful day to find out just how complex the human body really is." He sounded so hopeful and sincere.
She made the first cut that day.
And then Derek made the next cut. And after his turn it was…it doesn't matter. It never mattered. Addison only had eyes for him as they trimmed through deep fascia ("Well, and you had eyes for the cadaver," he teased when she sheepishly told him this a few months later, when they were young and earnest and desperately in love).
He ended up making the very last cut.
The cadaver isn't on Addison's mind when she thinks this though.
