A/N: Apologies for the long delay. This fic has been on my mind a lot though, I promise, and I still have every intention of finishing it. This chapter picks up right where chapter 4 left off, and all you really need to remember from the last time around is that: Derek found a watch that belonged to Mark; Derek and Addison had really good, angry sex; and at one point an anatomy comparison was stated (in Mark's favor, not Derek's).

(No smut this time around, since I had to cut the chapter off somewhere. It'll happen again though. Soon!)

Chapter 5. No joy in mending

It is quiet.

They are both still lying on their backs, the now rumpled duvet spread in waves beneath their sweaty limbs. On either side of her, Addison can view out of the corner of her eyes the outline of fist-molded rises in the material that she created from gripping the duvet insert while Derek moving inside her with a near-punishing rhythm.

If the man next to her was anyone else, Addison would want to shimmy under the covers. Even with Mark post-coital, she would succumb to the modesty—and a touch of shyness, maybe—she was raised with, and has held onto throughout adulthood. But, she and Derek have slept together and seen each other naked for the better part of sixteen years. That sense of decency starts to melt away the longer you are with someone.

Derek always liked to look at her afterward. Used to, anyway. It was as if he could not get enough of her. She can still remember what it was like after the first time they had sex, in that little apartment of Derek and Mark's located a few blocks from campus. Addison was positioned just like she is now, but her head was arched in Derek's direction. And he was on his side, his body close to hers as he slid one of his hands along her nude figure, taking his time exploring her. She can recall each action so clearly, so concretely. Derek holding the weight of her breasts, so much smaller without the illusion of one of her glorious push-up bras—funny, how self-conscious she had been at the time about her chest, and her toned-but-not-very-much-there backside, too—but Derek seemed to love every part of her. Using a finger to trace circles around her nipples, his touch faint enough that Addison's skin pebbled with gooseflesh. Scaling up and down the curved ladder of her rib cage. Rubbing along her stomach. Thumbing her hip bones. Massaging the tops of her thighs, squeezing gently. And then drifting back between her legs, cupping his hand around the area she had meticulously shaved the previous day, because she anticipated that the next time they went out—their third date, because yes, Addison was often a cliché—would be the night they had sex.

(He is not looking at her now though. And she is not looking at him.)

"Don't," Derek had said when she squirmed bashfully at his touch, when he could sense she was making a move to retreat beneath his much-too-old blue comforter, but his tone contained more of a fervent plea than a command. He leaned forward to smooth his lips over hers. And it made Addison relent; his voice, when he made it like that, as soft as fresh snow, always had that effect on her. "You're beautiful."

(The word choice surprised her. That is far from the adjective most twenty-two-year-old guys would go with first.)

"I just wanna look at you some more," Derek persisted. "And don't worry." He had grinned then, wolfishly, perhaps, but in a way that still struck Addison as sweet. Their first time together had been so good. "I'll keep you warm if you start to get cold."

This was the moment she realized the afterglow that followed sex—all those lingering, heady chemicals—could actually be so romantic, and so lovely.

(And Derek did warm her up again that night. In more ways than one.)

(It was a long time ago though.)

Addison concentrates on drawing air in and out as she tries to think of what to say in this decidedly not romantic and lovely afterglow. She will speak first, be the one to break the ice; she just knows she will. On her left, she can see that the panels covering the window are still drawn closed. Thank God when they first came into the guest room she had only pulled apart the second curtains on the double rod to usher more light into the room. This situation is complicated enough without one of the Bancrofts—who live across the street—peeking out their windows and spotting a naked Addison on her knees with Derek rutting behind her. The panels do happen to be sheer, but at best, all an innocent neighbor would have seen was two vague shadows wriggling around. She and Derek have had sex in this room once before, shortly after moving into the brownstone, but Addison can remember they waited until the curtains were hung up. They had joked about "christening" every room of the house. And they had, even the basement, thanks to the presence of the washing machine (spin cycle). Of course they had christened every room. Back then, they were unlined, vastly more energetic, and so far away from the impending "aging gracefully" remark.

She can hear a clicking sound. And Addison knows, without tilting her head in the direction of the door, that it is the wall clock hanging above the head jamb. A purposeful decorating choice, as this ensured the clock was not immediately obvious if someone were to poke their head into the room. Because the clock is…ugly. Instead of numbers, each dial inside the dark green finish features a picture of a different kind of freshwater fish. Ugly, twelve times around. But, Derek and his dad won the clock at some sort of father-son fishing competition. So, even though the clock is, without a doubt, one of the ugliest things Addison has ever seen, not displaying it (at least Derek was not picky about where though) could have never been an option. You make sacrifices and compromises in a marriage. You just do.

(Until you decide that the sacrifice isn't worth it. She had said that once, in Richard's office, when she and Derek cornered the poor guy to discuss his marriage. But, had she meant it? Logically, sure, but if Derek had told her it was worth it with her, would she not have immediately, and desperately, fallen back into his arms?)

"We forgot about the clock." Addison's words come out tired and weak-panted. She still has not entirely caught her breath, and she cannot figure out why this is the case, why she is convinced she has never once been this winded after sex. Some of her undergrad experiences were nothing to write home about, but the rest of them…well. Mark is great in bed. And so was Karev, though that was technically not in bed, but against the wall of an on-call room (there is something to be said for the enthusiasm and the won't-be-sore-tomorrow body of someone in their twenties). And even Guy Number Ten was good. This is different though. This time with Derek—a time that should not have happened—was raw and animalistic and Addison swears she can still feel the thrum of her heartbeat everywhere, not just in her chest.

The wall clock is a decent way to initiate a conversation. It was time, after all, that led to all of this. Her ex-husband saw the Bulova watch that belonged to Mark, and lost it, which led to them pouncing on each other (Derek started it though). And now there is the clock. There is probably an apt metaphor here, or symbolism or something, but Addison's mind is too tired to follow the ribbon of thought all the way through.

Derek makes a throat-clearing noise of acknowledgement. "We did," he says. "I guess…I guess I'll take it with me when I leave."

Silence casts over them again. Addison readjusts one of her legs, getting it away from a large wet spot in the middle of the duvet (she recognizes what part of her the puddle is shaped like, naturally). Dampness. Wetness. Water. She finds herself thinking about how drowning is not always flailing limbs and panic and choking out little bubbles as you gasp for unclaimed air. It is often—like the state of this room right now—a very quiet process.

(She knows not to mention anything about drowning aloud though. Derek's girlfriend—or not-girlfriend, as it stands—almost drowned. Or self-drowned. Addison is still not clear on the whole story.)

(On that note, she was incredibly kind and encouraging to Derek that day. She clasped his face between her hands when she told him not to break down, not to fall apart. She did it because it was the right thing to do. Not because she expected anything. At the same time though…it's petty, yes, but Addison wishes he would have thanked her later, for her support. But, maybe he doesn't remember it.)

"Are you okay?" She asks next.

"Yeah." Derek does not sound okay though. This feeling of guilt, if that is what this is, is new for him. Or newer for him than it is for her, because Addison…well, she's no novice. "You?" He adds, but it feels like he is asking more out of obligation than genuine curiosity.

Yeah, she thinks sarcastically. Perfect. Grand. Fan-freaking-tastic.

"Why did you do that?" Addison says instead, angling her head so she can study him. "Kiss me. I know I kissed you back and everything, but…why?"

Derek just sighs, rubbing a hand over his jawline. "I don't know, Addison."

(Of course he doesn't. Men never have to consider the consequences of their actions, or justify their behavior, do they?)

He rolls to his side, and she tries to remain motionless as he reaches a hand out. To touch her? To nudge her further away? It could be either, and the stress of not knowing what is going to happen next makes Addison's stomach burn. And then one of his fingers sweeps over a bluish-purple mark on her outer thigh. He is careful not to apply pressure though.

"Did I do that to you?" Derek seems concerned, and Addison is tempted—God, she's sick—to say yes, just to see what he will do next. It is strange to think there was a time when he swore that when she was hurting, he was hurting, too. And she had felt the same way.

"I'm a little worried, given your medical degree, that you think a bruise forms that quickly," Addison says instead, which makes them both smile. "No, this was from yesterday, when I was lifting my suitcase off the baggage carousel. I don't know how to explain it." She shrugs, her shoulders temporarily pushing further into the pillow she is resting on. "It just banged into my side. So, no. It wasn't you. It's fine. It's just a small battle wound."

"I don't know if you get to call it a 'battle wound' when it's an accident, Addie."

"Well, it's not any different than how you say that you got that little scar on your forehead from riding a motorcycle." She smirks, and Derek graces her with a similar expression. They are bantering. They are having fun. They are being them. "Because that is definitely not a battle wound."

"But it really was from—"

"Derek, were you riding the motorcycle, or did you get hurt simply from tipping over the side of it when you tried to mount it and then hit the ground face-first?"

The motorcycle belonged to Mark. He bought it when they started making real money, not intern money. And Addison and Derek were not happy about the purchase. It seemed dangerous, as so many Mark-related things were, and Derek was also far enough along in his residency to have performed plenty of surgeries on patients who lost control on the road.

Derek was, however, game to see the thing, so Mark took them down to the parking garage below his apartment building to show off his new ride. And, somehow, that led to Derek trying to sit on the motorcycle ("Don't worry, I'm not going to take off with it; I just want to see what it feels like, Addie."), but he did not manage to do so successfully. His right leg went over, and then all of him went over.

(Mark sold the motorcycle eventually. He got tired of it, in the way that he generally does get tired of the things he plays with.)

(Maybe not her, or at least not completely, but Addison doesn't want to think about that, because that would mean she is moving backward, not forward.)

"Can you just get a bike instead, Mark?" She had said when he first started talking about getting a motorcycle. "A regular bike?"

(He did. Said bike is currently in the basement, next to a dust-coated rowing machine she and Derek stopped using years ago. She will need to remember when she emails Beth tomorrow to tell her that, in addition to many things in the living room, a few of the basement items can go as well. Including the bike.)

"Fair enough," Derek concedes. He rises up a little, pushing with his elbows, as though something has just captured his attention. "Your phone…" he comments, and Addison turns her head in time to see the lit-up screen of her BlackBerry give way to a vibration that sounds clunky against the nightstand. She hastily grabs the device.

"Sorry." She grimaces as her thumbs poke at the keyboard. "It's Savvy." She gives Derek an apologetic look—why though, she is not sure—when she sets her phone back down, message returned. "She'll keep texting me if I don't answer. She's been really sweet. Just…checking in with me and stuff."

The worry and uncertainty—and wow, is it embarrassment, too?—is apparent in Derek's voice when he asks, "What are you telling her?"

"I'm sending her a picture of us naked in bed together," Addison snaps back, bristling at the question. "What do you think I'm telling her, Derek? Just, like, regular stuff, not-what-just-happened stuff." She pulls in a breath, willing herself to calm down. "I told her that we just finished in the guest room."

"Did we ever," Derek says, a brief chuckle edging past his lips.

She tries to smile in response. It is almost funny. If any of this were funny, that is.

Addison has waited long enough. She has to pee. And she should pee. It is what she would advise any patient to do after having sex, and two UTIs during her time at Yale was certainly enough on a personal level to not want to have to relive those symptoms ever again. And to have to relive them courtesy of someone she should not have slept with? No, thanks.

The basket. She remembers now. In the awful stretch of days following when Derek moved out of the brownstone, but before she went to stay with Mark, Addison had slept in the guest room each night—sleeping in their bedroom was not an option. And she had been cold, and the duvet had not been enough, so she dragged upstairs a woven basket stuffed with blankets that they had always kept in the living room. And then she shoved it between her side of the bed and the wall. Where it still is.

She sits up, and pulls one of the blankets around herself like a cloak. It is not about coldness from her sweat finally drying and the air conditioning continuing to blast, or at least not completely about those things. She was fine with lying next to Derek stark naked. Something about getting up though, about having to walk past him on her way out of the room…Addison feels like she can't. Not anymore. It is as if she has reverted to who she was in the early days of their relationship.

"The grosser you can be around each other, the more comfortable you'll feel." Savvy said this once, when Addison had started to spend more time with Derek—not actually, formally living together, but practically living together—and was fretting about how hard it was to try to remain perfect. Or, basically, not gross. It felt impossible to fully relax though, until—and Addison cannot remember when, or what specifically happened—all of a sudden it wasn't. It was fine.

So, even though she should—and does—feel ashamed in a general sense for sleeping with a man she is divorced from, there is no rational reason to be uncomfortable about walking past Derek naked. To act as though she has not made that bedroom-to-bathroom journey so many times, with their mixed fluids smeared between her thighs. As though they haven't seen each other without clothes for sixteen years. As though she never picked up his dirty socks and underwear. As though they never kissed with stale morning breath. As though she never held an ice pack against his groin after he pulled a muscle overdoing it pace-wise in a 5K. As though he did not see Addison each January, when her motivation to shave would hit an all-time low. As though she was not in the car on the way to East Hampton when Derek had to swerve off the Expressway and speed-walk into a local diner because something he ate wasn't digesting right (they left from work, so to this day he blames the hospital food). As though he had not closely inspected—upon her request—a freckle on her lower spine—well, basically right above her ass crack, no point in pretending otherwise—that Addison was convinced was getting darker. As though she had not witnessed so many occasions where Derek cut his toenails, little pieces flying like shrapnel onto the bathroom tiles. As though he had not seen her unflattering "at home bras" and "period underwear." As though they had not survived two stomach flus together, one when they still had the apartment in Murray Hill. As in, one bathroom. Addison had cried, she was so embarrassed—and thinking about it now, maybe that was the catalyst for her becoming less embarrassed? Yes. That's right. It was. She can remember how much Derek assured her that it was okay, that bodies were just going to make body-like noises and smells, sick or not sick (very sick in that case though), and they would survive this flu together.

(Relationships—marriages, especially—are never entirely beautiful.)

(She never could have anticipated just how ugly hers would get though.)

"I'm gonna use the bathroom." The color is all wrong, but the way Addison is clutching the blanket close to her throat reminds her of the time she was Little Red Riding Hood for Halloween. "The guest bathroom is already cleared out, but the downstairs one still has everything, if you don't want to wait for me…" Addison trails off. Yeah, if he doesn't want to wait to use the bathroom attached to the bedroom that she had sex with his best friend in—Derek is very much aware of which one she is speaking about.

And then he starts to laugh when she hauls herself to her feet, the blanket still wrapped around her. It amuses him, apparently. "Really, Addison?"

"Shut up." She is laughing too though. She moves a few paces beyond the bed, and then draws to a stop when she comes close to stepping on the watch. And obviously Derek noticed that she stopped, and he would have noticed why she stopped, too. She waits for his amusement to die in his throat.

It doesn't though.

"I'll give you a thousand dollars"—and even with Addison's back turned, she can tell he is smiling, as though this was not the very object that sent him over the edge earlier—"if you can just keep walking."

Addison can't though. Not even if she needed the money. Leaving something on the floor? No, never. She scoops the watch up, and returns it close to where Derek found it. It makes a metallic clanging noise as it strikes the surface of the dresser.

"I'll bring it back to Seattle with me," she contributes, a little awkwardly. "I'll give it to him."

"Or sell it and donate the proceeds to an anti-sexual harassment organization. In his honor."

It was a joke. So, Addison tries to laugh. "Very funny," she fake-praises.

After relieving herself, washing her hands, and dabbing a warm, wet washcloth along certain body parts, just wanting to feel clean again, Addison drags her fingers through her hair, trying to smooth it out, to untangle the rough snarl that the back of it got worked into. It winds up looking only passably better though.

The walk-in closet is her first stop after she comes back into the primary bedroom. Addison determinedly fixes her eyeline away from the empty space splitting a section of what limited clothes she still has hanging off the closet rod. The existing space was the end result of Derek's wingspan; after he found her and Mark in bed together, he methodically gathered as many of Addison's jackets and coats as he could into his arms, and then, along with their comforter, heaved everything onto the rain-darkened sidewalk. It is not difficult to look away though, at least. Derek's shirts and pants were always kept on the opposite side of the closet (though, Addison had plenty of clothes on that side as well, given how simple Derek's wardrobe has only been).

She is not really considering the optics of it when she reaches for one of Derek's remaining not-in-Seattle shirts—a light blue button down one. It's instinct. It's autopilot. And a pair of low-sitting black panties with the faintest hint of lace are plucked from the built-in dresser next (she owns too many of this same design, color, and brand; that Addison knows for sure). How often did she wear a uniform exactly of this making when she was younger, as though she wanted it to be obvious she had spent the better part of the night being drilled into a mattress by her boyfriend? (To the invisible audience surveying her life, that is, since it was not like Addison did it when anyone else besides Derek was around.) She thought she looked so sexy, so cool, prancing around half-dressed in her boyfriend's shirt. It felt grown-up.

(At first it was mostly casual shirts, like band ones and Bowdoin ones and the like, as Derek did not have many dress shirts when they met. She bought more for him though, as time went on.)

(It is not sexy or cool or grown-up anymore. It is just sad.)

Derek is still on the left side of the mattress, in relation to the foot of the bed, when Addison returns to the guest room. He is sitting up, his back curved into the velvet headboard. His boxers are on again (she does not recognize this pair, and that hurts a bit), and same with the simple charcoal-shaded crewneck he was wearing when he got here this morning. If he has noticed that Addison is wearing his shirt—and it's a big if, honestly—it apparently does not bother him.

The positioning makes sense. The bedroom is wrong, and everything about this is wrong, but the sides they are on are correct. Addison was always on the right. And he was on the left.

"What side do you normally sleep on?" She had asked Derek the first night she slept over, when they were getting ready for bed. He pointed to the far side, and he actually said the right—that's the arm that hangs off the mattress, Addison, so that means it's the right—but she had always thought that, whether it made sense or not (and maybe it doesn't), the side of the bed you slept on is defined as if you were standing by the footboard and looking at the headboard.

(It does not actually matter. Especially now.)

(Nothing is left. Nothing is right.)

It did surprise Addison back then though, that after Derek said he slept on the right (or left—again, doesn't matter), or at least closer to the right side, he climbed into bed without a second thought. And that was fine—normal, even—but the thing is, if the situation had been reversed, and they were spending the night at her apartment, Addison is certain she would have told Derek he could pick the side he wanted. It's a small thing, and a stupid thing, yes, and absolutely the sign of an unhealthy people-pleaser, but it's still a thing.

(He picked in the end though, didn't he? He just didn't pick her.)

"You and Mr. Bigger…" Derek begins once Addison has gotten into bed and spread the blanket limply across her lap. She has no interest in hiking her yoga pants back up her legs just yet. She notes that Derek's voice isn't unkind, but it certainly isn't kind. She braces herself, afraid of what is going to come next. "When I walked in on you, was that really the first time?"

"Yes. But, we'd been getting closer. We…we had kissed a few times." Addison swallows tensely as she regards Derek. She had not expected to answer so candidly. "Amy caught us once," she adds, her reason for sharing this detail not clear to herself. "It was a couple weeks before you walked in on us. We—you, me, and Mark—had gone to East Hampton for the weekend. It would have been early April. And our internet connection had been acting up, and you had some writing to do…"

(Ordinarily this would be the part where Addison says that Derek promised he wouldn't bring any work with him, which was true, but she doesn't really have any moral high ground to stand on at present.)

"You went to the East Hampton Library," she continues. "You said you'd be back in a few hours. And Amy…she was supposed to stop by around dinnertime. Remember that? She was spending Friday and part of Saturday with a few friends in Amagansett"—friends from her med school days who were actually good influences, which pleased Addison and Derek—"and she said she would come see us on her drive back to the city to catch her flight to Baltimore. But then she—"

"Got to the house earlier than you expected?" Derek finishes.

"Yeah. She had a key—I guess we gave her a key at some point." Addison ignores Derek when she hears him make an under-the-breath allegation about his youngest sister probably having stolen a spare key, and taken advantage of the time between when they bought the Hamptons house and when they upgraded their alarm system (Addison does feel that this theory holds water though; it took Amy a long, long time to buckle down and become less destructive). "And she let herself in while Mark and I were on the couch…making out."

(Addison does not disclose that if Amy had not arrived hours ahead of schedule, she is pretty sure she would have had sex with Mark that day.)

(Instead, she avoided him for weeks following the incident. Until he came over one night, a night he knew Derek was—or so they both thought, at least—staying in Boston, thanks to conducting a lecture at Mass Gen. Mark was wounded-looking against the backdrop of the rain, bordering on distraught. Don't shut me out, he said. And Addison didn't. She opened the front door wider, and later she opened her legs for him. And then everything came crashing down.)

"So, you lied," Derek says now. And she agrees with this accusation, one-hundred percent. It's not like Addison thought that kissing Mark was acceptable, or that it didn't count as cheating. Despite what Derek thinks—and despite some of the choices she made—their vows had meant something to her, too. "That night might have been the first time you guys screwed, but it wasn't the first time you actually messed around behind my back. You lied about that, too."

It never would have occurred to Addison, when she and Derek reconciled, to tell him the whole truth. The truth was scarier, and would have graver consequences than the lie. And hasn't she always been this way, a little bit? Just so, so afraid to get in trouble? And desperate for others to love her, to like her, to not be mad at her, to accept her as she is? When she was six years old, had she not denied over and over and over again that she was responsible for the fallen crystal vase that Bizzy found in pieces on the floor of the sitting room? Archer—just a year older than Addison—finally took pity on the whole exchange and interjected to cooly inform a screaming-and-pacing Bizzy that he was the one who accidentally bumped into it. Bizzy eventually found out the truth though. She called Addison a pathological liar, which was certainly fifteen stretches too far, but still. Maybe it wasn't fully off-base.

"Yeah, I did. And I shouldn't have lied. I'm sorry, Derek. Really, I am."

(Addison has not thrown anything out there yet that warrants an apology from him, but she is aware that even after all this time…she always ends up being the one to apologize first. And she often ends up being the only one to apologize, too.)

Derek makes a clucking noise with his tongue. "I'm not surprised Amy didn't say anything," he reports, tone softening. Addison believes his reaction would be angrier—rather than angry, but also just so damn tired of having to hear what that lying, tramp of an ex-wife has to say—if this had all come to light while they were trying to work on their marriage, or at the time when she confessed it wasn't a one-night stand. "I guess that's why I didn't see her that day. You said she had the information wrong about her flight, and that she called you and said she needed to head straight to JFK. Which, since it's Amy, is plausible enough. I'm sure she thought she'd crack if she saw me."

"I think it had more to do with the fact that she was completely disgusted by what she saw, so she didn't want to stick around," Addison offers. Her cheeks grow warm at the memory. Because her sister-in-law (well, former sister-in-law) had been disgusted. And while Amy might have kept the information to herself, with little pleading on Addison's part, she was absolutely livid about the situation, and had no problem saying so. Addison was in tears by the time Amy—Amy, of all people—finished telling her just how selfish and reckless she was being.

"But she kept your secret. She chose you. Like I said, I shouldn't be surprised." Derek's eyebrows push closer together, showing disappointment. "She was always a better sister to you than she was to me."

"I don't think that's true. Or at least not in that she chose one of us over the other. Amy just didn't want you to get hurt. And neither did Mark, honestly. He never meant to hurt you." Addison does not say, neither did I. She has already said it hundreds of times. And apologized just as many times, too. She was lonely. And she went searching for something familiar, which led her to Mark, who was the closest thing to Derek. And it turned out to be comforting, and all too easy to get tangled up with him. Mark told her what she wanted—needed—to hear. He made her feel like she wasn't invisible. He made her feel desirable again.

"In a weird way, I think Mark was just…" Addison hesitates, trying to think of how to make it make sense. His thing for her wasn't just about her. She knew it then, and she knows it now. "I wasn't the only one in our little trio who missed you, Derek. You were absent. Not just with me—from me—but from Mark, too. You were so caught up in your work. Like, single-mindedly caught up in your work. And I feel like Mark felt that spending time with me was somehow bringing him closer to you again, because you weren't there. You were at your practice or at the hospital. The hospital was pretty much where you slept most of the time, in the end. You were never home. And even before I said anything, Mark knew we were having problems. You know how he just…notices things. I shouldn't have talked to him about our marriage, but he brought it up, and I guess that made me feel like I could talk about it with him. So, we became closer. And, yeah, like most Mark things, it's not like he went about it the right way, and it's not like it was born completely out of altruism, but I really do feel there was a part of him that was trying to be there for both of us."

"He could have mentioned it," Derek counters, "if I apparently wasn't paying him enough attention. And if he thought my marriage was on thin ice, he could have told me that, too. A real friend would have told me."

"Would you have listened though? To either of us?"

"Addison—"

(She is thinking about earlier, about that vicious little half-smirk that showed up on Derek's face when she tried to goad him into calling her a slut or whore, and he basically went right ahead and did it. Why not both, he had sneered.)

(Say what you will about Mark. And God knows there is plenty to say. But he wouldn't have taken the bait. Of this, Addison is certain.)

"You know what, Derek?" A shiver-skinned feeling passes from Addison's shoulders to the base of her stomach when she cuts him off; this always happens when she is trying not to cry. "I made a mistake. A mistake I apologized for so many times. And I know I did a bad thing, but that doesn't make me a bad person. It doesn't make me a slut or a whore or a bitch or Satan or whatever else you said to my face or in your head or just implied. I'm still a person. Even if you weren't going to be able to forgive me—and your obligation, by the way, was to tell me you didn't think you could, and that you didn't want to be with me anymore, instead of half-heartedly trying just because we were husband and wife—you didn't have to be cruel." Addison's voice is a little sharper when she repeats, "I'm still a person."

"I know." She can see the movement in the column of Derek's throat as he swallows, and then adds, "I shouldn't have said what I said earlier, before we…or…or any of the other things."

"You've always sucked at apologies, you know."

"Addie…" Derek rolls his lips together, visibly uneasy. "You're right. I'm sorry."

There it is. Sort of. She gives him a small incline of her head. And a bitter, accompanying smile, too. Derek is still staring at her, as though he is going to say something else of substance, of weight, but then his gaze darts away. So, she opts to do the same.

(Is it like that night, when he said that looking at her made him feel nauseous?)

Nothing of substance or weight follows. Derek eventually mumbles something about going to use the bathroom. He veers right out of the guest room, which means he is heading toward their bedroom, not to the bathroom downstairs. Addison suspects he will move quickly, and try to see as little of their bedroom as possible. Kind of like she did.

Her throat feels tight. There is an ache from the words left unsaid—she should have asked Derek to expand on his apology. The ones she has offered have always been specific. I'm sorry that I or I'm sorry I didn't or I'm sorry because. What part, exactly, is Derek sorry about? All of it? Some of it?

And does he actually understand what he is apologizing for?

Once, Naomi, Sam, and Maya had slept over at the brownstone. They came over one morning a few days after Christmas because the pipes in their apartment building froze, and running water was not anticipated to be back until the following day. (Naomi and Sam had been talking about moving to California for the better part of a year by then, and things like this were just bringing them closer to dubbing something as the last straw.) Addison had enjoyed this unexpected extra time with them. Sam and Derek were able to score last-minute tickets to a Knicks game, and she and Naomi had (quite happily) remained at the house. There was the schedule to contend with though. That was a big thing of Naomi's, and in her defense, Maya did seem tired, so Addison could certainly understand her best friend's desire to keep Maya on the hook for her one o'clock nap, even though all the Bennetts were a little off their "usual" routine, what with the new accommodations.

Maya was having none of it though. And, when Addison mentioned that Naomi could lay her down in the guest room, Maya had protested. No, she did not want to take a nap. And not in the guest room.

What had she called it? The poop head room? The poop face room? Addison's breathing had become staggered as she tried not to laugh; she knew that would just encourage Maya. And then the little girl growled out an "I hate you" that was directed at her, and honestly that was somehow—though it should have just been mean—even funnier than the feces indictment. It wasn't done with malice, of course. Addison knew that she was simply in Maya's line of fire, by virtue of being seated next to Naomi.

Naomi had latched onto Maya's wrist and steered her out of the room. They were in the kitchen for several minutes, talking in low voices, and when they reentered the living room, Maya had crawled into Addison's lap, all cuddles and sweetness, murmuring a sorry close to Addison's ear.

"Tell Aunt Addie why you're sorry," Naomi had prompted, but Addison tried to dismiss anything extra. Maya was just too adorable, and she was enjoying getting to hold her—her goddaughter was so independent and active now, so Addison rarely got to keep her arms around her. Naomi insisted though. And it was a two-part apology. First, for whatever insult had been lobbed at the guest room, and second, for the "I hate you" assertion. She has to learn, Naomi told Addison later, when Maya was down for her nap. Otherwise she might be apologizing just to get it over with. And that's not okay. I know she's still little, but she should be able to say what she is sorry for. When you know better, you do better—that one was on one of the mommy blogs I read recently. And now I just need to read up on how to handle the things kids pick up at daycare, because that kind of talk isn't happening in our home…

Addison can hear the whoosh of the bathroom sink as water begins to flood out. Derek will be back soon.

Her throat still feels tight.