2000.

Camden, Maine. The place with the boat, Mark can remember his friends once saying. And that is all he knows about the coastal town Addison and Derek visited several years ago. They have become more private about their marriage as they have gotten older. Mark is fine with them not sharing many of the particulars of how they spend their alone time though. Some things aren't worth knowing.

He is in Maine for work, not pleasure. Pen Bay Medical Center is just ten minutes south of Camden. It's a vestibular schwannoma: a tumor on the main nerve that extends from the inner ear to the brain. A growing tumor, in this case, that not every surgeon was willing to touch. So, enter Dr. Hughes, a legend at Mount Sinai, and certainly one of the best in her field. She will be performing tomorrow's procedure, and she selected one of her underlings to accompany her. And obviously it is Mark. An invite to any of the other surgeons at his hospital currently completing ENT training would have been a pity one.

It is a crisp Sunday morning, and autumn foliage is in full swing, with New England looking as picturesque as it always brags about itself being this time of year. On the short walk over from the inn, Mark notices the fire-bright trees in various shades of red, orange, and yellow, their leaves trembling in the wind. And then, beyond the trees, there are docked boats crowding the harbor, rocking lazily as water splits around them. The place with the boat, plural, then.

Mark has managed to weasel his way out of getting a late breakfast—brunch, but he can't take that word seriously—with Dr. Hughes and her husband, claiming that he's just going to walk around for a bit to stretch his legs. But, he knows he will need to accept their offer when they inevitably ask him to join them for dinner at whatever restaurant they select off a brochure plucked from the lobby of the inn they are staying at. It would be rude to decline twice. Mark gets the sense that Dr. Hughes wants to mentor him outside the OR—not just inside it—during their remaining time together, to make him a more well-rounded person or something. It's annoying, but it could be worse. Dr. Hughes is easy to get along with, and fairly gentle with how she delivers constructive criticism…not that Mark receives much. And the husband, who came along for the trip, seems nice, too. He works for a group practice in Chelsea. Mark learned more about them as a couple during the flight from LaGuardia earlier this morning. The Doctors Hughes have a plan to retire at sixty-three, which isn't too far away—they own a second home in Montauk, so they are looking forward to spending more time there. They met in med school and have been married for thirty years. They have two children, and a grandchild on the way, believe it or not (it's a strange way to word it; was Mark supposed to say he couldn't believe it, that they don't look a day over thirty-three—his age—or something?).

It is like peering at a future Addison and Derek; that thought occurred to Mark later, when his companions went back to reading their books, and he was able to stare out the window, studying the dense layer of clouds hovering under the belly of the plane. And it's not a bad thing. Just a different thing, Mark supposes. The three of them are getting older, but when it comes to non-career growth, Addison and Derek's lives have changed infinitely more than his, and will probably continue to.

He finds the candy store unexpectedly when he takes a left at the next block, and then a right, loafing further away from the waterfront. The goal up until now has just been to kill time, and maybe grab a coffee, and whatever passes for a bagel here, but Mark hasn't really been paying attention to where he is going. He also neglected to bring the map of downtown that the pretty girl with reddish-brown hair at the front desk handed him when he checked in, but he'll find his way back. He's never been lost for long. Not physically, anyway.

Most of the shops so far have been vaguely nondescript—and depressing to Mark in the way places often can be when the town in question is more known for coming to life in the summer months—but the candy one stands out, with its cheery red and white striped awnings shadowing the windows, and its chalkboard display out front. He still almost keeps walking though, in search of increasingly elusive coffee, but then saltwater taffy catches his eye. Personally, he can't stand the stuff; it's a texture thing. However, just seeing it written in dusty, downward-running chalk makes Mark realize there is something else he remembers about the place with the boat—it is also the place with the taffy. He can recall Addison and Derek raving about it, and encouraging him to try some they brought back with them ("We know you don't like taffy, but you might like this taffy."). Mark did try it, and he did not like it, as expected, but they did. Addison and Derek loved it. And this is enough to compel Mark to wander inside to pick little wrapped pieces in a rainbow's worth of colors out of buckets tilted on their sides.

He told Derek last week about the procedure he was going to be assisting with, and presumably Derek would have told his wife, but neither of them probably made the connection that the hospital Mark was operating at was close to the place with the boat and the place with the taffy, and even if they had, they wouldn't have wanted to trouble Mark by asking him to pick up some taffy on their behalf. So, this will be a surprise.

"I think about this taffy all the time," Addison proclaims with glee when Mark stops by the brownstone a few days later to drop it off. She smiles dreamily as she twists the cellophane bag in her hand, while Mark feels a flush of pride similar to the one he felt when Dr. Hughes let him do some of the work during Monday's procedure, and had complimented his technique as he navigated through the branches of the eighth cranial nerve. "Thanks. I can't even explain how excited I am about this. Seriously. Like, I practically fantasize about this taffy."

"Someone"—Mark makes it a point to clear his throat and look at Derek as he delivers the rest of his joke—"needs to do better then, if this is what you're fantasizing about."

He also has something else for them from the candy store. The taffy will only be good for so long (though frankly Mark is convinced fresh saltwater taffy and stale saltwater taffy taste the same), but the ridiculous socks with the taffy pattern—a pair for each of them—have no such timeframe. So, Mark waits. He waits until December, when they exchange gifts in the lead-up to Christmas, to pass those along to his friends.

"I know it's dumb…" he prefaces as Addison and Derek reach into their respective gift bags after he has given them a bottle of wine purely for the purpose of not just socks. It is like Mark can never exchange presents without a self-deprecating disclaimer—odd, for someone who is ordinarily so confident. And odder still in this case, because Mark does believe his friends will be amused by the socks, and will wear them from time to time while they pad around the brownstone; it always gets cold in this house during the winter. "It's from the taffy shop in Camden," he explains. "I got them while I was there."

"It's not dumb," Addison insists. "I love them. I love them almost as much as I love actual taffy." And then Derek says something too, some sort of agreeing murmur or a thanks, but Mark does not completely hear it. There's that feeling of pride washing over him again. It's undoubtedly sweeter than any piece of candy. "Thank you, Mark."

Addison turns to face Derek, and gives him a hopeful smile. Something about it—though Mark can't say what, specifically—makes him so uncomfortable he has to look away.

"We should go back there sometime. To Camden. With the taffy and the boat."

Her voice tipped up at the end of the sentence, as though it was a question. Or a plea. Mark is not sure which. He keeps his gaze trained away from them, pretending to be interested in the weather outside. Water droplets are starting to assemble on the window panes—it is raining this evening. And it is also the winter solstice. The shortest day and the longest night.

It will not get any darker than today. There is some comfort in that.

2001.

"You can say no." This is the first thing Addison says—how she chooses to initiate the conversation—when Mark answers his cell phone.

"I never say 'no.' And I don't hear it much, either. Who is this?"

"Mark—"

"I'm kidding." He saw her name flash across the screen, of course. Just her first name. It's Addison for Addison, and then for Derek, Derek. Mark cannot say this is the case for any of his other contacts, except his dad. Everyone else listed in his Nokia has a last name assigned to them. "Hi, Addison," he intones. "What's going on?"

And once she explains the situation—she has two tickets to The Nutcracker, and wanted to see if Mark would be willing to go with her—he understands why she is giving him an out. His experience with ballet is limited to fucking one of New York City Ballet's principal dancers off and on throughout 1999. Colette was flexible, to be sure, so that was fun, and she was generous with her mouth in the way most desperate-to-please-you women are, but otherwise she was wholly uninspiring. You would think the star of Swan Lake would have more of a personality.

"You really can say 'no,'" Addison repeats. She does not add, I can find someone else, because Mark instinctively understands he was not the first person she attempted to ask after Derek was unexpectedly called back to the hospital. She would have contacted Savvy, and one or two other friends whose names Mark can't remember, because they are Addison and Derek's couple friends, and not since Holly—which was over four years ago—has he been part of a pair long enough to earn an invite to those kind of get-togethers.

He can also fill in Addison's unspoken, there is no one else. Naomi is in California, and a handful of other individuals they were close to in med school no longer live in the city. And, the truth is, it is hard to make friends outside of work when work is where you spend the bulk of your time. Plus, for Addison, "mom friends" is presumably the next step, but she and Derek aren't there yet, as far as Mark is aware.

"No, it's fine." He does not have any plans tonight, and he would feel bad turning Addison down when he has no excuse. "I'll go. I want to go. Should I meet you there, or…?"

"Yeah. We can meet outside the Koch Theater at seven, if that works? I'll bring your ticket. And thanks, Mark. I owe you a drink. Oh, and this can be your Christmas present to me, so now you're officially off the hook for that."

Mark realizes after she ends the call that he neglected to ask about the dress code, but he is capable of making a reasonable assumption about what people might wear to a ballet, so he opts for gray slacks, a button down shirt, and leather Oxfords. The kind of clothes he'll wear more when he eventually has his own practice, rather than being stuck in hospital-issued scrubs at all times, even the non-surgical ones. He is still a ways off from establishing a practice though. It's just gaining more experience at this point, because money isn't a concern, and there will also not be any concerns when it comes to having a consistent number of clients. The best I've seen in years, Dr. Hughes and all the other surgeons whose opinions at Mount Sinai he actually values have said before.

Addison and Derek are moving along in their careers, too. Addison has an MFM fellowship under her belt in addition to her OB/GYN board certification, and she recently opened her own practice. And Derek is set to start his practice in the spring. It sounds risky, maybe, to take these huge professional leaps so close together, but obviously they have Addison's trust fund to fall back on if things go ass over teakettle. Not that Mark has talked to them about the risks, or the financial stuff.

It is longer-going for him. He will not be done with his subspecialty training until the summer. And it will take time to get his practice up and running. Which is discouraging when he considers his friends' progress, even though it shouldn't be discouraging. They have different specialities, which means they are beholden to those specific requirements; they are not in direct competition. But, Mark always feels like he's behind the two of them, somehow.

When he arrives at the venue, he sees Addison before she sees him. She is wearing a long wool coat, but it is hanging open enough to grant a decent preview of the dark green dress she is wearing. It is different from those wrap-like ones Mark has noticed she tends to favor, and he would notice, because he does check her out each time he greets her (just a quick and subtle once-over—he might be a pig, but he does try to be respectful, since this is his best friend's wife, and also a close friend of his). It's different, perhaps, but the dress still seems like a "usual" Addison choice in that the material hugs her tightly. There's a word for this style of dress, but Mark doesn't know it; he just knows it's one of those dresses that has a snug enough silhouette that any flaws would be on display. But, it sure doesn't seem like Addison has any. He is glad she hasn't spotted him yet—she will any second though—since it gives him the chance to keep staring. This won't necessarily end when she meets his eyes though, because although Mark will be a gentleman later and help her take off her coat when they get to the coat check station (it's Addison, so God forbid she just balance the coat in her lap, where it might wrinkle), he will definitely be looking at the back of the dress as he does.

"Hi. You look great," he says when she finally sees him, and comes over.

"So do you. Look at you"—Addison makes a sweeping motion with her hand—"building up that private practice wardrobe." And Mark grins, because this is what he was thinking about earlier while he was getting ready. He suspects most of his colleagues know he won't remain at Mount Sinai forever, but Addison and Derek are the only people he has talked to about branching out. And of course Addison would be excited for him, and supportive; that is just who she is. She has so much faith in Mark. Most people do not.

"Thanks again for coming with me," she says after they have taken their center aisle seats. "I know this isn't really your thing."

"You don't know everything about me. I happen to love the ballet. I'm a regular here." Mark's comment makes her giggle. "Derek's loss," he adds, feeling strangely guilty that—even though it's not his fault—he is the one making Addison laugh, not her husband. "Sorry about the last minute surgery."

Addison looks forward, focusing on the stage, but he can still see the way her expression shifts, how her lips crater into a thin line and her eyes seem to narrow. "It actually wasn't last minute," she announces, a clipped edge in her voice. Then the lights darken, signaling the performance is about to start, so Mark does not have a chance to respond.

It might be better this way, because he does not know what to say. Or maybe he's just too uncomfortable to say anything. That's more accurate. He might not know much, but he knows enough to know that not all marriages look the same, but they all still need to include spouses who make time for one another. Meaningful and intentional time, if you want the marriage to be successful. And maybe this is something his friends are struggling with. Addison and Derek are both workaholics who are incredibly unapologetic when it comes to doing whatever they can to advance in their fields, but Addison still puts Derek above her work—that's what Mark thinks. Perhaps the opposite isn't true though, or not true right now, since there are probably ebbs and flows that accompany any marriage.

There are a lot of couples here tonight—couples who made it a point to prioritize their relationships. Mark noticed that earlier when he and Addison were making their way down to the second ring. And they look like they could be a couple too, he realizes. In an alternate universe, maybe it would be him and Addison. He can see out of the corner of his eye when she crosses and uncrosses her long, toned legs, the left one now balanced over the right. Her mood has lifted; no matter what is going on in her personal life, she is enjoying the performance playing out in front of them. Mark can't help watching her more than he is watching the dancers leap and twirl.

It is not challenging, from a visual perspective, to imagine them being here as a couple, and more significantly, leaving as a couple. He would have an arm around her waist as they worked their way outside, keeping her close as they maneuvered through the cluster of bodies snaking out onto Columbus Ave. He would sit next to her in the cab, screw the other window seat, and do little things in the cover of the shadows, just to rev her up, to make her ache for more. He would cover her exposed neck and collarbones with kisses. And her lips, too. He would briefly cup her breast, lightly massaging, and then do the same to the other one. He would rest his palm high up her leg. Casually, at first, but then he would skate his fingers over the more delicate, sensitive skin of her inner thighs. The dress Addison is wearing is so damn tight and ends too far down—just below her knees—to have much success with negotiating a hand under, so Mark would have to settle for just stroking her through a layer of material, but it would still feel good for her. She would be breathing heavier, and would inevitably squirm when she could feel herself getting wet. And she would get wet. She would.

They would arrive home. To their home. Something nice, and impressive-looking, but still smaller than the brownstone, which is fucking ridiculous for two child-free people. They would stumble uncoordinatedly into the bedroom, kissing the entire way. He would have that zipper on her dress purring down her back in seconds. He would take her hand and hold it against him, just for a moment, so she could feel how much he wanted her, how excited he was to be with her. After that, he would lay her on the bed, spread her legs, and make her cum with his tongue and fingers. He would take his time with it. And then he would have her gasping when he finally filled her—she wouldn't be the first woman to be overwhelmed by his size. And, look, he doesn't care how it sounds, the reality is you can't have the same best friend for twenty-seven damn years and not know certain things about them, especially when plenty of those years involved changing next to each other in a locker room. Compared to what Addison is currently experiencing, there is room for growth. So to speak.

Addison leans over near the end of the first act to whisper that the fluttery bits of white that are dropping from above the stage are pieces of paper. Mark barely hears her, because in his head, they are busy with other things. It is another part of the night, and her lips are molded around him. His hands are scraping through her hair, offering quiet encouragement, and then praising her as she takes in more of him. He promises her that he will return the favor when she's done. Happily. As many times as she wants.

"…and then after they finish and the curtains close, they'll sweep everything up and reuse the paper for the next show."

Mark nods, somehow able to not startle when Addison's words force their way into his disgusting brain. Her head is still bowed close to him. Her hair smells nice. It is styled in soft, loose curls tonight, and he likes it like this, when it seems more low-maintenance (not that anything with Addison is actually low-maintenance).

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The combination of the colorful imagery he has been allowing himself to linger on, the floral-like smell of Addison's hair, and the warmth of her breath tickling his ear, all have him struggling not to react. He misses his coat, wishing he could shield his lap with it. He needs to stop thinking about her before his blood vessels continue to open, before he has an embarrassing response, and definitely before the lights come back on for intermission. Addison will probably want to get up and go get a drink from the champagne bar or something. And Mark needs to be able to get up without, well, being up.

It's perfectly innocent though. Not in the sense that it's appropriate, obviously, but in the sense that it's normal. Right? Because who wouldn't want to fuck her if given the chance? Mulling it over, and letting his mind contemplate some of the sexual hypotheticals, is not harming anyone. He's a guy being a guy. And Addison is probably a lot of fun in the sack. She seems like she would be.

It doesn't mean anything.

Except maybe it does. And it's disappointing, very disappointing, because in general, Mark feels that he is able to be the best version of himself around Addison and Derek. Isn't that what Holly said once? But, perhaps not. Maybe he's just a terrible person after all. And deeply fucked up. Because, the thing is, this doesn't feel like some sort of competition, like the private practice thing is. This doesn't have anything to do with Derek, because it's not like when Addison is with Derek, that Mark is pining after her. It's more like when they're alone, when it's just the two of them.

Addison latches onto the sleeve of his coat after the show, shortly after they have made it out to the street to flag down rides. She opens her mouth, but before she can speak, she stumbles closer to him as someone accidently jostles her. She steadies herself with ease, but for a second, Mark—with the brain cells and testosterone of a God damn caveman, apparently—wants to chase the guy down and tell him to apologize to her. He takes a breath, and forces himself to refocus on Addison, who looks like she wants to tell him something.

"Did Derek say anything to you recently about me maybe being pregnant? I'm not," she adds hastily. Her eyes are wide as she looks at Mark, as though prepared to scrutinize his response. In heels, Addison is just about his height, so it is like there is nothing between them right now. "But…did he?"

"Contrary to what you might think, he doesn't tell me everything." Derek actually doesn't tell him much of anything these days. Least of which, his marriage to Addison. "But. Uh." Mark swallows uncomfortably. "You thought you were?" He feels nauseous at the thought of Addison being pregnant, because she and Derek having a baby just ties them more together, and will push him further away as a result. Everything will change when they have children.

"Yeah. I was a few days late, but then…yeah, I definitely wasn't pregnant." She seems embarrassed to say this, which does not surprise him. A proper-built WASP, through and through. "I told Derek I was late though, and then, when I finally got my period, he was upset, and we had this big…thing about it. We've talked before about wanting to be more settled in our careers first, but I guess he sort of got his hopes up, when I thought that I might be…anyway. Even if we did bump up our timeline, he's just been so busy with work lately, and he's only going to get busier when he opens his practice, and when he's actually around…I don't know." Addison's teeth slide along her lip. "I feel invisible sometimes."

"You've told him all of this, right?"

It comes out harsher than intended. But, there is a part of Mark that feels hurt. Did Addison invite him here just for the purpose of having this discussion? No, probably not. She's not cruel like that, and Mark is ashamed for even having this thought, maybe even more ashamed than thinking about what she looks like naked.

He shouldn't be the sounding board though. It's not right. And, okay, maybe he's annoyed with Derek at the moment, too, and not just because what kind of dick volunteers for a surgery—a cool-but-it's-not-like-he-will-never-see-this-kind-of-procedure-again surgery, Addison had shared during intermission—over spending time with his wife. It has been taking Derek much longer to text Mark back lately, and most of the time when he asks him if he wants to hang out, Derek says that he can't, or that he's working late, or maybe another time. And this is why, Mark is realizing now, when he thinks of his friends, it's always Addison and Derek. Not Derek and Addison. When did that start?

"Sorry." The last thing he wants to do is upset Addison. "I didn't mean to snap. But…have you? Have you talked to him about all of this?"

"I have." Addison nods. "I don't know that he gets it though. See, when Derek becomes a dad, his life won't change. I mean, yes, it will in that he's, you know, a dad, but nothing about his overall day-to-day life will change. But with women…it's different. I have to carry and birth the baby for one thing, and recover after doing so. And then I'll be the one expected to consider giving up my career—and I won't, and I'll feel guilty that I won't. And I'll be responsible for figuring out childcare, and I'll do more diaper changes when we're out and about because it seems like only women's bathrooms have changing tables, and I'll be handling all the appointments, and I'll be making Halloween costumes because that's what Derek's mother did and God forbid how we parent look any different than how she parented her children, and I'll be the one who gets called first if something happens and our kid needs to be picked up from daycare." Addison pauses, nearly out of breath now. "It's not fair," she admits, "but it's just—"

"How it is," Mark concludes.

"Right. But…it'll be okay." She pulls her coat tighter around herself. It has buttons, but she has not buttoned it up—surely some sort of stylistic choice, frigid temperature be damned. "Derek's not scheduled to go in tomorrow or Monday, so I'll have more time to talk to him then about the baby thing."

There was more to my question than that, Mark thinks when Addison says that she should get going. But, he doesn't push it; he just stretches out his arm to flag down a cab for her. Only her. He'll catch another one. There is no sense in sharing, since it's pretty much a straight shot to the brownstone from here, and Mark needs to be taken to the other side of Central Park. He might walk for a few minutes before he gets a cab anyway. It's cold, but some fresh air sounds good. And necessary.

"This was a great Christmas present. And I mean it—don't get me anything else. This was more than enough." Addison wraps her arms around Mark as the cab he has just secured idles next to them. He tries to stay relaxed in her friendly embrace. "Thank you for coming with me." She keeps her eyes on him as she opens the rear door. "I know this was boring for you."

"It actually wasn't."

Snow is falling all around them now. Even slower and gentler than it did in the play. It occurs to Mark then that Addison never looks more beautiful than she does in winter.

"Addison." He says her name gruffly. The street light with the road sign for West 63rd is catching her just right, leaving a muted halo above her. "You're not invisible. Especially not in that dress." It is bold. And it is the most direct Mark has ever been with her. He expects her to blush, to shyly thread some hair behind her ears, to do some polite demuring, but she does not do any of those things. Instead, she stares back at him, a coy smile tugging at her mouth. It is almost unnerving. She likes this attention, Mark realizes, if only because she is probably so damn starved for it lately. "But you're not invisible any other time, either," he adds, because it is the truth, and because he cannot seem to help it.

2002.

"Enjoy yourself," Dr. Hughes had told Mark when he was saying goodbye to her, and handing over a box of fresh cannolis from Ferrara Bakery. He doesn't normally do holiday gifts with coworkers, but Dr. Hughes has been good to him, so getting her something for Christmas—especially this year—seemed like a nice touch. She was happy about the cannolis, but even happier that Mark will be getting some rest over the holidays…although he could tell that his primary mentor truly cannot imagine not being with family at Christmastime. Dr. Hughes does not ask about his family though. She tried to once, in Camden, in an attempt to get to know Mark better, but he was able to make it known in not-too-many words that he does not like to talk about his family, and that things between him and his dad have been strained for years. "Enjoy yourself, because things are going to get really real in the new year for you," Dr. Hughes added with a kind smile.

Yes, they are going to get really real. Mark will be opening his practice in March—April at the latest. That's the goal. He has been working feverishly hard since last summer (on top of already working hard at Mount Sinai), which hasn't left time for much else—hence why Dr. Hughes is glad he is taking two weeks off. None of this would have been possible without Dr. Hughes though, and her husband, too—not with this warp speed of a timeline, specifically—so Mark hopes that they are also planning to relax this holiday season. He might be the one doing the hard, round-the-clock preparation, but for months now the Doctors Hughes have offered him support and guidance. Not financial support or anything like that, but they connected him with a great, fast-moving real estate agent, and also an accountant. And Mister Doctor Hughes—who has years of private practice experience as an ortho surgeon—has given Mark a lot of advice on how to charge for services, what claims processing should look like, insurance payment contracts, how many staff he should hire and what qualities he should look for while hiring, employee benefits, what documents and certifications are needed and which of them must always be displayed, malpractice things to be aware of, and on and on and on. Mark can say with one-hundred percent certainty if the Doctors Hughes had not offered to advise him on opening his own practice, he might well have given up and just stayed at Mount Sinai. Well, not the Doctors Hughes. Elaine and Jim. They insist that he call them by their first names. Because we like you, and because you're talented, and because we want you to succeed, Elaine had said when Mark skeptically asked why they wanted to offer him guidance with the behind-the-scenes stuff. And, just so you know, Mark: it's okay to ask for help, and it's also okay to assume that sometimes people just want to help, without there being anything in it for themselves.

Dr. Hughes's—Elaine's—words are on Mark's mind as he ambles back into his suite. He has embraced enjoy yourself as his theme for the past week. He is currently in Costa Rica, at an all-inclusive, adults-only resort. The bungalow he is staying in faces Culebra Bay, offering an optimal view of the beach and its lush, surrounding greenery. This trip has been heaven so far. He has started every morning in the hot tub on his private balcony, watching the sun come up over the Pacific. He golfed earlier today, and followed eighteen decently-played holes with a hot stone massage. He has already gone windsurfing and kayaking, and tomorrow he and a few other resort guests—and Gabriela, if he can talk her into it, since she said she has tomorrow off—are going further up the Papagayo Peninsula, where a guide will be taking them through a tropical dry forest with ziplines and rope bridges.

He feels so loose and relaxed after the massage that he is considering taking a nap—or, more like an early bedtime at this point—but before he can make his way over to the bed, his cell phone rings. Purchasing international minutes seemed silly, since the point of this trip is to completely disconnect from "regular life," but he knows Addison and Derek—well, Addison—would prefer to call him on Christmas Day, not send an email, so it was worth enhancing his plan for the month. Mark knows his friends wish he wouldn't spend Christmas alone, and that he'd just come with them to Carolyn's (and patch things up with his dad, too), but he also knows that they know better than to needle him. Send us a postcard, Addison teased, but Mark could not help but observe something akin to disappointment in her eyes when he shared that he would be out of the country for Christmas.

Today is not Christmas though…the twenty-fifth is three days away. But, Mark is still happy to see an incoming call from Addison.

"Hi."

"Hey." She sounds surprised. "I wasn't sure if you'd pick up."

"You caught me at a good time. I'm finishing up this postcard."

"Ha. How is it there? Meet anyone special?"

"No, but thanks for checking in about that." It is a weird question for Addison to ask, in that Mark cannot recall her ever asking something like this. She wants to know things when he has girlfriends (it's been a long time since that though), but she never wants to know what he does in his spare time that pertains to women. Not anymore. The same crap you get up to in your twenties is a lot less endearing in your thirties to other people. "Costa Rica is really nice though, and the resort is awesome," he shares next. "I've taken a lot of pictures. Are you still at work, or…?" He calculates the time difference; it is a little after six in New York.

"No. Today was my first day off; the practice is closed until the second," Addison explains. "I just got back to the brownstone a few minutes ago, so I figured I'd call to say 'hi.' Savvy and I had lunch at Gramercy Tavern and then we went to an afternoon showing of Thoroughly Modern Millie. It was pretty good. And Derek is still at work. So, I'm home alone."

"What are you wearing right now?"

It is a joke. A close to a crossing-the-line joke though. Mark can confidently state he has never gone too far with Addison. Last year was forward, with the thing about her dress, yeah, but not entirely unacceptable, he feels like in retrospect (and there is a retrospect—Mark thought about that comment a lot afterwards). Mentioning the dress was a compliment at best. And asking what she's wearing right now—because she's home alone, which could have other implications if it was anyone but his best friend's wife he was talking to—is just a joke. It's innocent.

Just maybe not innocent enough.

"You are truly the Murderer's Row of being inappropriate."

"Wow." Mark is impressed. "That's a pretty good baseball reference, Red."

"Well, I do know a lot of things about the Yankees because of the two of you," Addison tells him. He can hear the wine—or hard alcohol, but probably wine—she has consumed. She's not drunk—she has a pretty high tolerance for booze—but Mark can usually tell when she has been drinking, even over the phone. It's something about her words; they don't get slurry, or lazy, but they just sound different than how they normally sound. "I know it's not Christmas yet, but I called because I wanted to thank you for the snow globe; I caved and opened your present early." She pauses there, long enough for Mark to picture her unwrapping a blue and white snow globe that depicts a scene from "The Waltz of the Snowflakes," aka the snow scene he knows Addison likes so much. "Is it because of last year?" Her voice is softer when she asks this.

"Yeah."

Do you want me to call her? She can come out here; she's between appointments right now. That was what Addison's bubbly receptionist said when Mark dropped by Addison's practice shortly before heading to JFK. He had shaken the woman off though. He didn't want to see Addison open his present, because he knew she would love it, and for some reason—though Mark cannot say why—he was going to feel uncomfortable when he saw how much she loved it. It felt like too intimate, too personal of a gift. And it was, because Mark didn't just walk into a random store to buy something; he ordered the snow globe online, after browsing through a lot of Nutcracker paraphernalia. And, it is especially too intimate a gift compared to the six-pack he got Derek, like he used to do before gifts started to matter more to him.

"Well, I love it," Addison continues, "so thank you. That's my favorite scene in the play. I'll give you your gift when you get back. You know…" there is another pause. "I'm actually wearing what I wore to The Nutcracker. The green dress. I don't know if—"

"I remember. That would be a tough one to forget."

"Yeah?"

It is one word, just one syllable, but it sounds…well. Pretending-to-be-modest-but-not-modest, because she absolutely already knows that he likes the dress. Or…flirty, maybe? No, probably not that, but Mark can tell how pleased Addison is by his interjection. Much too pleased. To the point that he's nearly humiliated on her behalf. It is all too easy to envision a desperate, needy Addison standing near one of the brownstone windows, twirling a lock of hair, probably still wearing her heels, one leg lifted slightly, enhancing the muscles in her calf as she talks with him.

"Yeah." There is no reason to pretend otherwise, and honestly, she could probably use the validation; it is becoming more and more obvious how absent Derek is continuing to be these days. "So…what else are you wearing?"

It is another joke. But it is too far this time. Mark saw a pair of her panties once, when she and Derek had been dating for a few months. He had come into Derek's room to borrow his gross anatomy notes, and next to one of the brass legs of Derek's bed—nearly hidden from view—was a small scrap of crumpled black lace. Derek had covered it with his foot, laughing and feigning embarrassment, although of course he wasn't actually embarrassed. What guy would be?

Addison still probably sticks with black lingerie. Maybe white, on occasion, which would look great set against her creamy skin. Mark can feel himself getting turned on at the thought. She's just…so hot. He wishes that resort bartender was off sooner. Gabriela. He met her at the swim-up bar yesterday, and they flirted while he sipped on a beachy cocktail he would only ever order on vacation. Come to the restaurant near the tennis court tomorrow night, Gabriela suggested, her voice husky and honey-warm in the way that Addison's usually is. I'm working the bar, but I'll be off at eleven.

He might not be able to wait until then though.

"I think I'll keep what else I'm wearing to myself, actually." Addison laughs, but there was a noticeable pause, silence traveling over the line, before she responded.

Was she considering telling him? Mark can feel his stomach tightening. That feeling of fullness, that pleasant tingling and stretching of skin, will not be far off if he cannot clear his mind. He takes a seat on the sofa. No, he definitely isn't going to make it a few more hours. He holds the hand that isn't cradling his cell phone behind his back, purposely wedging his arm between his spine and the cushion. As though he can't control himself, as though he is fifteen years old again and his body is constantly trying to betray him.

He just needs one time with her. Just one. And then he will be okay again. Addison is just something that he has to get out of his system. It can't happen though. It won't happen. And that's the hard part. Pun not intended.

"Are you still there? Mark…?"

"Yeah, sorry. Uh, room service just got here."

No. Room service is not here. Mark hasn't ordered anything yet. And the hunger he is feeling right now has nothing to do with food. His hand is flexing, wanting more to do.

"Oh." Addison sounds disappointed. That's what he thinks, at least. Or maybe just hopes, because he is an idiot and something is very, very wrong with him. Something has been wrong with him ever since last December, even though he has been able to successfully push away most of his more untoward thoughts about Addison. Not this time though. He adjusts his position, and allows his hand to drift between his legs. "I'll let you go then. Just…promise that you won't make going away for Christmas a habit, okay? I'm serious, Mark. I would miss you too much."