A/N: Hiiii. This Maddison one has been a lot of fun to write (it will likely be four chapters, though possibly more depending on how things shake out during the writing process). There are italicized parts in the middle of certain sections meant to indicate past events—it should be obvious, but usually I write flashbacks as separate scenes, so I just want to make sure I clarify that upfront. I hope you enjoy this fic, and I hope you'll let me know if you do! The first chapter is pretty tame, but I have the rating bumped up because the next one will be both smuttier and emotionally heavier.
Fic title is a lyric from the song "The Lime Tree," by Trevor Hall, and each chapter title is also a lyric from the song.
Nods to canon are listed in the end notes.
Also (sorry this is long, but hey, it's nowhere near as long as the chapter itself ;)), tags at That Other Site are a lot of fun to come up with, some I'm copy/pasting them here to give you an idea of what's coming: get in losers we're going back to the 1980s, trust that my references are accurate gen z, apologies if i have insulted anyone's school, but let's not pretend mark is above that behavior, uconn gets piled on, i am so sorry huskies, also apologies to swarthmore, just fyi there's smut in this eventually, significant effort was put into researching yale residential life but saybrook students didn't live in vanderbilt hall until 2011 and I want to be honest about that, also taking some liberties when it comes to residences remaining open to students over winter recess, put more thought into the timeline than grey's and pp writers ever did, dropped a yankees reference per usual, features savvy because she's our fandom ride or die, there's also some archer in this, his eventual insult about a particular university is way crueler than anything mark said, but i promise their views are not my own, the love is requited but mark and addison are idiots, plus some angst because it's maddison
Fall 1985
Wispy clouds have collected overhead, mingling with a pale, matte-like sun as Mark makes his way through the courtyard. Morning light is fanning the stone walkway beneath his feet. Ornate buildings squared around Old Campus inevitably tempt his eyes upward, but only for a moment. He runs an open palm down the side of his face and then retrains his gaze forward, edging nearer to the corner of High and Chapel.
Yale is a postcard-perfect setting—Mark will give it that much.
He has five minutes to get to class. The building he is seeking is not far from Farnam, so he will not be late, but he should have made an effort to leave earlier as to not be almost late. It will be fine though. Things generally have a way of working out for him.
Choice of university aside. How do you get into Yale but get waitlisted at Syracuse and outright rejected from Duke and UConn? Seriously. His jaw clenches as he mulls this over again. Fucking UConn. How does that happen? Each crisp, thick-edged envelope that arrived this spring contained a series of disappointments, even though Mark knows he should be grateful. He knows. Thousands of students across the country would kill for this opportunity.
Have a good attitude. You'll end up liking it. That is what his parents told him on a rare occasion when they felt obligated to be parents. And he is trying to like Yale. He is. It is just that he never saw himself in New Haven. Applying to a top university was about proving he couldget in, not actually going.
He likes his roommate and the other guys he shares a suite with well enough, but he does not have much in common with them. There must be people in Farnam—and outside of his dorm, too—worth developing friendships with, but so far Yale is a sea of monograms, twill slacks, and popped collars, and none of these things are Mark. He can only imagine the glee with which those on campus who were old enough to vote last fall had cast their votes for a second term for Reagan.
And when it comes to the women here, he does not feel like any have noticed him yet. This is his fault, too. He should not have skipped the orientation stuff, because today the women on school grounds are too preoccupied with the beginning of the semester to take interest in anything else; they are all nervous, concentrated energy bound by printed headbands securing layered locks.
Mark feels a flicker of disappointment when he discovers the lecture hall in Liora is almost full—again, his fault. There is not much time to spare. The professor is already here, rolling a nubby stick of chalk between a thumb and pointer finger while the clock ticks closer to 10:30.
There is a vacant seat in the second row, which triggers additional disappointment. Mark is more of a middle-to-the-back-of-the-room student, but nerve-formed tunnel vision is preventing him from scanning for other options; there might be more remaining seats, but his focus on reaching the second row becomes single-minded.
It is not until he is comfortably settled and has pulled up the creaky writing tablet mounted to his seat that his surroundings become more visible. And, suddenly, being this close to the front has an upside, because the woman sitting on his right is worth noticing.
Mark assesses her out of the corner of his eye. Her hair—God, what a color, especially set against creamy, soft-looking skin—is scraped neatly into a ponytail. She is wearing a linen blouse, and has a pale purple sweater draped around her shoulders. Mark's view is slightly obstructed due to his foldaway tablet, and her tablet, too, but given how long her legs appear to stretch, it is likely that the jeans hugging her thighs are just as appealing as the pair Brooke Shields was first shown wearing several years ago—Mark was twelve or thirteen at the time, and he can remember how transfixed he was when he saw that Calvin Klein commercial.
The redhead reminds him of a lot of women here. She is hot, yes, but not of the brand Mark is familiar with. Of course not everyone at Yale is the product of private schools that feed into the Ivies, but he has yet to identify any clothes that girls—because it is girls for high school and women for college—at his high school wore. So far there are no tops with contrasting colors laid out like blocks, leggings paired with oversized sweaters, cuffed-sleeve jumpsuits, and a variety of other selections to make an impression that the girls did not care—especially the seniors—when in reality they cared a lot. Those clothes were ordinary, and down-to-earth, even for the ones who, like Mark himself, could be counted among the wealthier families in Westchester County.
He spies an opening when he realizes that her pen is not working. The date is there—8/28/85—but the page in the spiral notebook is becoming scratch-worn as she attempts to write the name of the course. Classic Mythologies. The prospect of attending this class twice a week rankles Mark, but it was one of the few humanities courses left that still had openings.
"Here." He holds out his pen.
"Oh." She graces him with a shy, closed-mouthed smile. "It's okay." One of her hands pats the leather tote at her feet. "I have more pens in—"
"Take it. I have more too." It is relatively pointless to say this if she has other pens available, but Mark wants to keep the conversation going.
"Well, thank you then." The woman's smile widens as she accepts the pen, and this time, it reaches her eyes. "I'm Addison," she says. "Addison Montgomery."
"Mark Sloan. It's nice to meet you."
"You too. So…" she looks uncertain, but he can tell she wants to keep talking, like he does. "Is…is this your first class?"
"Yeah. You?"
"It's my second. I had Principles of Human Biology earlier this morning."
"Pre-med?" He recognizes she could be taking that course for the hell of it—just as he is taking this particular one to obtain credits outside of his major—but something about Addison's serious, straight-backed posture hints at a future doctor. "Me too," he adds. "I have Bio this afternoon with Rivera."
"That's who I have." Addison thumbs at the corner of her notebook to flip back a few pages, revealing the notes she took.
"Wow." Mark is equally impressed and disturbed by how much she was able to capture. "Well, it looks like you take notes worth borrowing. I'm kidding." He can see from the expression on Addison's face, from the twitch of her mouth and the set of her square jaw, that she is not sure if he is joking. "Although…maybe we could study together sometime, and compare notes. Especially since I was thoughtful enough to give you my pen."
Laughter bubbles past Addison's lips. "Yes," she replies. "I'd like that."
"It's weird that a year ago that was us."
Addison tracks Mark's movement as he tips his head up from a textbook to see what she is referring to. On the other side of the lawn is a collection of Yale hopefuls ambling past Bass Library. A young woman is walking backward and using animated gestures while she speaks, which indicates that she is the group's tour guide. Addison is too far away to scrutinize the specifics of the individuals following the tour guide, but she can envision the wide-eyed enthusiasm they are displaying while being led around campus.
"Don't do it, kids," Mark stage whispers. "All you're gonna do is study and come to the painful realization that you're a lot dumber than you thought you were."
This makes Addison giggle. She is used to being the top student—her grades and math and verbal SAT scores have always reflected that. But, so is Mark, from what she has perceived over the past two weeks. He is much more relaxed and easygoing than she is, but she can tell that he does take school seriously. There is some truth in his recent statement though, because while Addison does not feel particularly dumb, everyone at Yale was an exemplary student in high school, which sinks them all down to middle-of-the-pack now, in a sense. And Mark is not wrong about the workload. Addison's prep school education involved significant work, but it is nothing compared to what Yale has been like so far.
There are, however, moments of reprieve, even with ever-present coursework. This afternoon, the two of them are seated at a rubbery picnic table beneath a large elm tree. Dappled patches of sunlight are tunneling through the branches, illuminating notes and spread-open books. Their concentration is half-hearted at best though, as there is too much pleasant sunshine, too much chatter, and too many opportunities to "people watch" from this location.
People. More like strangers.
Mark seems like he is adjusting well to university life, especially when it comes to having fun. Addison has determined that his confidence and outgoingness are traits that lend themselves perfectly to making friends. He has talked a bit about his roommate, Russell, and other guys on his floor, and even when he does not mention things he has done recently, Addison can just tell he is succeeding socially. They had lunch together at the Commons on Monday in between classes, but she assumes Mark takes the rest of his meals in the JE dining hall, surrounded by new friends. And twice now—in as many weeks—Mark has arrived at Classic Mythologies with a sleepy-but-satisfied look on his face. Addison assumes the nights before involved female company, but she does not want to know anything about this.
And as for herself…well. She is having fun with Mark, so at least she is having some fun.
It is just really comforting to have someone to talk to.
"Did you think about going anywhere other than here?" She asks.
"Yeah," Mark says. "Yale was my only Ivy though."
"I applied to a few others." Harvard. Brown. Columbia. Addison does not announce this, nor does she share that she received acceptance letters to all three. She does, however, feel compelled to talk about Columbia, since she knows Mark is from New York; he told her that he grew up right outside the city. "I was tempted to go to Columbia. I love the idea of living in New York. Especially at Christmastime."
He nods pleasantly. "The city is cool," he shares. "Syracuse was the only New York school I applied to. I can see you at Columbia though."
"What made you apply to Syracuse?"
"It's my dad's alma mater, so I've been there a few times, like for basketball games and stuff. It's a nice campus. And it has a good biochemistry program."
And I thought I'd have more fun there.
This explanation is not followed by Mark admitting he did not get in. He is not sure why. This is nothing to feel humiliation over, because Syracuse is somewhatselective with its applicants. The university has a "party school" reputation though, so that is probably why he is not revealing more to Addison.
He does not want her to think that everything is a joke to him. He likes her. And he is trying to take it slow—slower. He wants to turn over a new leaf, and there is no better chance to start over than at Yale. Girls there are going to have more than two brain cells, Derek told him once. It was a snarky comment (although Mark did chuckle), but other than that, his best friend was reassuring in the lead-up to them heading off to their respective colleges. He told Mark he understood he was disappointed, especially about Duke, but was sure he would end up liking Yale.
"I didn't feel pressure to go there," Mark tells Addison next, "but I was interested in Syracuse for sure. And then my dad went to Fordham for business school—that's where he met my mom." It is classic getting to know you stuff, but he is still surprised by his openness in the absence of a prompt. Usually, he talks about Everett and Laura as little as possible. He must really, really like this woman then if he is willing to bring up his useless parents. "My mom did her undergrad there, and got a job in the communications department. Biding her time. She's smart"—this is true—"but she wanted to do the family, homemaker thing."
This is partially truthful. His mom liked that job, as far as Mark knows, and she loves her current, more high-powered one in marketing. Laura did want a husband though—a committed partner—who shared her interests, namely socializing. But she did not want children. Including the one she and Everett eventually had.
"Similar story for my mom," Addison reports. "You know, trying to get that MRS Degree. My mom went to Wellesley. Yale didn't admit its first class of women until the end of the sixties." She sighs at this. "My parents knew each other before college though. They're both from Greenwich."
"Yale wasn't my first choice. I didn't tour the campus or put much thought into it, actually. It was like I put on a blindfold and the Ivy my pin landed closest to was New Haven." The confession spirits off Mark's tongue before he can stop it. "Duke was my first choice, but I got rejected from there." He sees the way Addison's shoulders sag with empathy. Surely she knows what a commendable university Duke is. Mark waits a beat, and then adds, "I was also rejected from, uh, UConn."
"How do you get into Yale but not UConn?"
The question provokes a fast-spreading blush from Addison. She is embarrassed for asking this, for the disbelief that strained in her voice. It is not like the University of Connecticut is a bad school—far from it. It is a good school; it is just that its acceptance rate is nowhere near as restrictive as Yale's.
But Mark barks out an amused laugh, saving her from issuing an apology.
"Thank you," he says.
His laughter makes Addison laugh. She busies herself with her lecture notes next, reading the same line about the building blocks of molecules over and over again so as to not tempt herself to gape while Mark is quarter-turned, leaning down to root for something in his backpack. The broadness of his shoulders always gets to her. Even though it shouldn't.
She peeks up again to look elsewhere—that sentence is not going to sink in right now—and catches an unexpected glimpse of Charlene and Esmé walking across the lawn about halfway between where she and Mark are, and Bass Library. The girls have noticed her, too. Addison almost elevates her hand in greeting, but she cannot quite will her limb into action. It ends up being a blessing though; Charlene and Esmé have already turned away.
"Friends of yours?"
Her head whips in Mark's direction. "No, but they look familiar. They're in Vanderbilt, I think. On a different floor."
This is a stupid thing to lie about. Charlene and Esmé are not on a different floor in Vanderbilt Hall. They are on Addison's floor. And not just her floor. They are in her suite, their bedrooms on the other side of the common area, opposite her room and Hannah's.
With Hannah, her other suitemate, there is potential for camaraderie. Hannah is nice—or at minimum, not outwardly unfriendly and dismissive—but she is also busy. Hannah arrived at Yale committed to becoming a member of Yaledancers, the university's oldest dance company. And her practice for the upcoming audition is not limited to rehearsal spaces scattered around campus; she also practices in her room, too, playing classical music while working through variations of movements across the hardwood floor. The volume is kept respectfully low, but through their shared wall late at night, Addison can sometimes hear the tender sounds of Tchaikovsky's violin concerto warbling away on Hannah's record player. It makes her want to cry. And sometimes she does.
Making friends is easy when you are outgoing. But it would also be easy—or easier—if Addison had gotten to campus sooner. Like she planned. The baseline levels of friendships had already been formed by the time she came to Yale. She missed all the orientation festivities, and the welcome dinner with members of her residential college.
"I suppose we could take the train"—the Captain's shallow sigh makes it all too apparent how he regards this method of transportation—"to London and charter a flight out of Heathrow." He turns off the television, which wipes away the grave-toned summary from a reporter standing outside one of the terminals at Manchester Airport. Addison saw the smoke behind the reporter, curling ominously across the sky.
"Paris," Bizzy says, which captures Addison's attention. Her mother's voice did not lilt up at the end; this means input on this idea is not being sought. "We can extend our trip. The Abbotts are there right now. I'm sure they're at the Plaza Athénée again. I could have Susan call ahead for us."
The Captain swirls his glass thoughtfully, the remaining droplets of gin and vermouth sloshing around. "Is Emmeline—"
"She isn't with them," Bizzy interrupts. "And since Archer is already back at Princeton, this would be a good opportunity. Come back to Connecticut with everything the way it was before. And you know they think Addison is such a doll. I'm sure if she's with us—"
An ache creeps through Addison's stomach as the new plan—courtesy of grounded flights at Manchester Airport—even the private ones—comes to fruition. And it is not a plan she likes. Flights will probably only be grounded for a day or two. There is no reason her family cannot wait it out at the Edwardian, even though she feels guilty for only considering herself when over one hundred people were on the Corfu-bound plane that caught fire on the runway. Who knows how many casualties there are. The BBC reporter said they did not want to speculate yet.
Bizzy had assured Addison when Susan was initially booking the trip that her schedule would not be impacted. But, apparently reconnecting with Roland and Nell right this minute—never mind that only ten miles divide their families' homes in Greenwich—is more important than bringing Addison to Yale.
She tries, really tries, to plead her case, to not be collateral damage because no one can manage to screw up a relationship less than a month old better than her brother. Or, if Bizzy and the Captain want to travel to France, could they book her a flight back to Connecticut first?
"Oh, Addison." Her mother shakes off her suggestions with an impatient groan. "Stop being such a baby. Susan will contact the Saybrook dean to let him know you'll be a few days later than anticipated, and Jeanette and Luz can pack up your things. You'll be there in time to start classes. Not every first year attends orientation and the silly pre-orientation nonsense anyway. You're the daughter of three generations of alumni, dear. Your father worked for the university in one form or another for twenty years, for heaven's sake. What else could you possibly need to know? And your brother—"
Addison had lowered her eyes to the floor then, accepting defeat. She knew what Bizzy was going to say next: that Archer did not attend Princeton orientation last year, and things turned out fine. Never mind that missing out on activities before the semester convened was his own fault. Archer and his friend Leo accidentally slammed the sailboat they were manning into one of the piling docks at Oak Bluffs Marina, which left them stranded on the Vineyard for longer than anticipated. The boys had been drinking, and caused considerable structural damage to the dock, but any potential legal problems were washed away in the aftermath like a frothy wave retreating from the shoreline—thanks to Archer and Leo's parents. And while "the incident" did delay his arrival at Princeton, this was not a disadvantage for Archer; he has no problem establishing friendships.
(She tuned Bizzy out completely once the discussion moved toward Archer. His breakup essentially qualified for the same timeline as Phil Davidson and the lake, which is not something she wants to have consume space in her brain.)
Addison was tired when she returned to Connecticut. And still tired, actually. There are so many days that she feels both younger and also much older than turned-eighteen-in-April.
"Hey…" Mark says, pulling her out of her thoughts. "You wanna go out with me tomorrow? Maybe to that bar and grill place off Crown? We can grab a drink. An alcoholic one if I don't get carded." It is not the least bit shocking to Addison that he has a fake ID. Or maybe all Mark has to do is flash a disarming smile to get what he wants. "And sodas or something else if I do, I guess."
We have class Friday morning. She succeeds in keeping this unsaid. Oh my God, Addie, she chides herself. You're such a nerd.
But some things are not meant to be left unsaid.
This is the part where Addison should say no. Or, if not no, then be upfront with Mark. Give him an out. She has found solace in getting to spend time with him—be actual friends with him—but a more complicated element has been building, too. She has tried to kick it aside, to enjoy Mark's company and be grateful he seems to enjoy hers as well. Even if his intentions were never meant to be wholly honorable, the friendliness he has shown her has not felt exclusively like a means to an end.
"Sure." Addison is not brave enough to be honest. "That would be great."
I waited two weeks, Derek. And I invited Addison somewhere other than my room. Aren't you proud? Mark thinks after issuing a silent thank you to Margaret Thatcher for making pussy bow blouses—a hilarious name if he has ever heard one—popular, because there are some women who look incredibly sexy wearing these blouses, and Addison happens to be one of them. The bow on her silky white top rests just below her collarbone, and even though it does not offer much skin to ogle, there is still something alluring about it.
He was careful to arrive early for the benefit of witnessing Addison enter the place he suggested—and it is worth it. Her top has been paired with tight jeans and low, pointed heels that she moves rather gracefully in.
"Hey. You look great," Mark says when she arrives at the pub table he secured. Addison tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear while murmuring a hushed thanks. "Can I get you a drink?" He asks. "I'm going to try to grab a beer."
"Coke if they don't fall for your twenty-one and up schtick. And beer if they do. I'll take whatever kind you get."
Addison does not want a beer, truth be told. Whatever Mark orders will probably be better than the warm, stale-tasting canned beers available at the handful of high school parties she went to, but she is still not likely to enjoy it. Addison assumes that like any Montgomery, she will eventually transition to wine and martinis, but for the time being, mixed drinks that do not taste particularly alcohol-ish are preferred. Beer is the cool choice though, and as Mark lingers at the bar counter, she reviews what he is wearing in the same way she is sure he did to her when she first came in. Black jeans and an open button-down with a white T-shirt underneath. He wears it well. It's like something out of The Breakfast Club, she pictures Celia saying. They saw that movie together last February. Gosh, Addison misses her.
Mark returns with two beers in hand—of course it worked out for him. The foamy tops threaten to spill over the edge of the glasses when he is temporarily distracted by one of the television screens playing a Yankees and Blue Jays game.
"You like baseball, I'm guessing," Addison says while he sets their drinks on the table. "Me too." He appears intrigued by this disclosure, so she elaborates. "I mean, I don't think any game should be more than five or six innings, but I do like to watch sometimes."
She takes a sip of her drink. A bigger, near gulp-sized sip follows to make it seem as if she likes this beer, but she is determined to pace herself, to not get drunk. It will take more than one beverage to feel anything, but Addison wants to have her wits about her.
Slowly though, any guardedness melts away. Mark is so easy to talk to. If someone were to ask at the end of the night what they talked about, Addison is not sure she could say. It is just randomness. But meaningful randomness.
Mark finishes his beer first, but the sparse remaining liquid in Addison's glass is enough to warrant asking if she would like another. She shakes her head at the offer, and then regrets doing so; declining a second beer opens the door to them leaving.
What happens next is not going to be a surprise. Addison braces herself. She knows what is coming. Earlier Mark mentioned he tries to catch the occasional Yankees game on TV with his roommate, but his roommate is not around tonight—the rowing team left for Boston this afternoon for additional endurance training in preparation for a head race on the Charles next month. Meaning: his bedroom is available and he and Addison will not be disturbed.
Mark's hand floats across the table to rub her shoulder, his palm warm through the thin material of her blouse. She expects herself to stiffen at his touch, but the contact is electric, spark-tinged. It flusters Addison as much as it captivates her. Then his hand shifts again, this time tugging on one of the strands of her bow, two fingers rubbing at the end of the material. The purpose is not to untie the bow; it is to let her know he wants to. That he intends to, when they leave together.
"You wanna get out of here?" His voice is low, wanting.
It is like a scene out of a movie for Mark. It is far from the first time he has said this—he has been having sex since he was fifteen—but he has never asked this question in a grownup setting before—a college setting. He is used to saying this or some variation of this after a football game or at a parents-are-out-of-town house party, with the sound of overplayed songs thumping through his veins as he and a girlfriend snuck away to find an unoccupied bedroom. And not only a steady girlfriend, either. There was Tricia or Lucy from time to time, when they were in between boyfriends. And the occasional hollow-cheeked tennis girl.
He always knows what he wants. And he goes for it.
"I actually…I have a boyfriend."
His fingers collapse from Addison's blouse upon hearing this, landing with a hapless clunk on the table's surface.
"I'm sorry." Addison's cheeks are singed pink with discomfort. "I'm sorry, Mark," she repeats as he slides his hand back. "I…I had a feeling this might be a date, so I should have said something earlier. It's just that…I've been having a hard time making friends here." She glances away when her breath hitches. Her head hangs down. "You're like the only friend I have here, to be honest."
I was scared if I told you that I have a boyfriend that you wouldn't be interested in spending time together anymore. Her throat is too tight to say this, but she assumes Mark gets her point based on what she has already shared. Her Chanel flap bag is on the table, and she snares her fingers around the quilted lambskin at one of its corners, needing to give her hands something to do. But, she quickly resettles her hand in her lap with its pair, because it occurs to her that she is maneuvering her fingers in the same way that Mark was when he was teasing the fabric of her blouse.
Celia, Kit, Isabelle—their parents have been friends with Addison's parents since before she was born. She did not find those girls or initiate friendships with them as much as their companionship was essentially handed to her. She had been on the phone with Kit last night—well, early evening for Kit—and it sounded like Kit was making friends at Stanford. It floored Addison that Kit was brave enough not only to attend school on the other side of the country, but to also form new connections.
If Mark had not sat next to her in class, would they even be friends? That thought came to Addison while she said enough things during the catch-up phone session to make Kit believe things are going great for her. They are not though. Academically, everything is solid, business as usual. She has never been afraid to raise her hand when she knows the answer—which is often—or contribute to group discussions. But, socially, it is different, and it is not a thing that can be all-the-way understood if you have never felt this sort of anxiety lurking beneath the surface of your interactions. Addison was convinced things would become easier when she no longer lived under her parents' roof, but so far, it is not any easier. She does not consider herself to be shy or introverted, either. Just…uncertain. She can make acquaintances. But she is not as sure she can make friends.
Her stomach had rumbled when she placed the phone back on its cradle last night; she had not eaten enough at dinner. Walking over to Saybrook's buttery was always an option, but she did not want to go alone. She assumed Mark had plans, but even if he didn't, she does not know where his room in Farnam is. Hannah was not around either, and when Addison went out into the common area—pretending she needed to use the restroom at the end of their floor—she could hear Charlene and Esmé in Charlene's room, talking softly. And later, when she was back in the safety of her own room, she heard Charlene's door open, and then the door to the suite rasping open and closed. Maybe Charlene and Esmé were headed to the buttery—any buttery, because they are probably comfortable exploring the late-night snack bar situation at any of the other residential colleges.
If her friends were here, would they do that? Addison has pondered this. Once in a while, perhaps she, Celia, Kit, and Isabelle would have holed up in one of their bedrooms like "old times," but they would never exclude another person who lived with them. And they would not be dismissive—downright cold, even—in the way Charlene and Esmé have been since she met them.
"I'm sorry," she says for a third time, voice breaking. "I'll understand if…if you don't…"
Beneath the muted yellow halo from the outdated light fixture hanging over them, the tear that slips down the curve of her cheek looks both tragic and beautiful to Mark. He pushes a flimsy bar napkin discreetly across the table until it bumps into Addison's wrist. He can tell by the fixed determination of her posture that she would prefer he not acknowledge the escaped tear. She dabs at her face, and then looks back at Mark, her eyes still shined-over, but no more tears prepared to tumble down. If it were not so bleak to witness, he would be impressed by how swiftly she has managed to compose herself.
"Don't be sorry," he insists. "I would love to keep being your friend, Addison."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Let's keep being friends. And note-sharers." This makes her laugh. The emotions she has experienced make the noise sound different, more snuffle-filled, but it is a laugh all the same, and Mark is relieved. "What's his name?" He asks next, because he cannot puzzle out anything else to say. "Your boyfriend."
"Topper."
"Topper? What the hell kind of a name is that?"
This makes Addison laugh again. She can feel her angst lowering, her tension starting to settle. Nothing happened with Mark. Nothing was going to happen. And yet, she cannot deny that there was the faintest echo of pressure between her thighs—how it occurred that quickly, she does not know—when he touched her. She will just need to keep reminding herself that nothing happened and nothing would have happened.
She is not like her father. Or Archer. She is not a cheater.
"It's a nickname," she tells Mark. "His name is actually Christopher, but he goes by 'Topper.' We started dating a few days after we graduated. I'm sure"—Addison's lips crook up into a broad grin—"you'd also be interested in knowing that I went to prom with someone named 'Skippy.' His full name is Fletcher, but he's always gone by 'Skippy.'"
Christopher…Topper. The other name-to-nickname he cannot process at all, but Topper by way of Christopher is not an unheard of stretch, Mark supposes. He knows a man named Christopher, too. Knew. He cannot think about Derek's dad without pain spreading throughout his chest. But this is not something Mark wants to talk about.
"So how do you get Skippy from Fletcher?"
Addison makes a show of holding her bare wrist in front of her, miming that she is looking at a watch. "How much time do you have?" She says.
"Well, 'Topper'"—his tone is faintly sardonic—"is a lucky guy. When do I get to meet him?"
"You probably won't. He goes to Swarthmore, so he's not exactly around the corner. He's on the baseball team there." She considers that this may sound braggy, but she does not mean for it to. She is proud of Topper. And it was not until Addison liked him, and saw how much he likes—loves—baseball that she realized there are some things to appreciate about the sport. "He plays first base," she adds.
"Division three ball at a liberal arts 'Little Ivy.'" Mark juts his chin in the direction of the game on TV. "Look out, Mr. Mattingly. Addison's boyfriend is coming for that Gold Glove of yours."
"You know, it's dawning on me that I have no idea why I'm interested in your friendship."
"I'm kidding. Being a college athlete at any level is awesome," Mark assures. "But don't tell Donnie Baseball I tried to get you to come back to my room. He probably wouldn't like that."
"No, I wouldn't think so."
She has not told Topper about Mark. Topper is neither possessive nor paranoid—the word that best describes him is kind, actually, and Addison knows how lucky she is to have someone like that—but she does not feel she would be able to properly explain her friendship with Mark to him. There has not been any discussion with Kit, Celia, and Isabelle about Mark either.
She likes that he is something she gets to keep for herself.
And also hates herself for feeling entitled to keep Mark for herself.
"Did you think I'd go home with you tonight?" She purposely coats the question with skepticism.
"Well, hoped," Mark replies, flashing her a smile. "There's just some heat between us, you know? No"—he says this faster—"don't answer that. I have a fragile ego and won't be able to stand it if you feel differently."
(He wonders if Derek would be disappointed in him for making the comment about the "heat" between him and Addison. And Derek would be right to be disappointed. Mark knows he did not need to say that.)
"Somehow I doubt your ego is fragile." Addison rolls her eyes. And then her expression grows more serious. "I'm so glad you're my friend. But I…I keep telling myself that I'll make more friends here, too."
"You will. I'll be on the lookout for potential girlfriends for you. Ones who like to party, ones who think New York City at Christmas time is ugly, and ones who believe practicing law is a vastly better idea than going into the medical field. Right?"
She laughs. "You know me well."
It is beyond dark by the time they return to campus, the sky a deep blue-black with few stars visible tonight. Mark's ego actually is wounded as he walks Addison to her building (something he knows a friend would do, not just a boyfriend or a guy who wants to have sex with her). Wounded or not though, he does still want to be her friend. Being on the bench, he figures as they pass under the archway leading into Vanderbilt Hall, is better than not being on the team at all.
"Addison," he calls after her when they have said goodbye. She turns to look back at him, her hand coiled around the door handle. "I'm going to get coffee before class tomorrow. Do you want anything?"
He never used to drink coffee. Too bitter. But, Mark now understands why people do. He has never used his brain this much before. Coffee also seems like a thing you would bring a friend. And he is glad he asked. Addison visibly brightens at his offer.
"I'd love a cappuccino, please. And I'll save you a seat." That is not new; she has saved Mark a seat every class after their first one. But, there is something special for Addison about saying it aloud this time, because she is saying it to someone who has no plans to abandon her.
"Okay. Hey, let's try to aim for the fifth row or back."
"No." Addison shakes her head. "I'm not going any further back than the third row. I like to be up close."
"Fine. I guess I can live with that." He smirks. "But only because we're friends."
"So…that's her?"
Mark takes a covert, eye-slanting peek at the woman seated on one of the white benches in front of Harkness, poking through her tote bag. Addison has told him about Savannah, but this is the first he has been able to see who she is talking about.
"Stop staring," Addison hisses.
She cannot blame him though. They have different reasons for looking at Savannah, but Addison can still see what Mark sees. The girl she would like to become friends with has a wide, inviting smile that reminds her of Phoebe Cates, and long, thick blonde hair that hangs halfway down her back. Addison is sure all the Durfee boys are crazy about Savannah. And now Mark too, perhaps.
Savannah is nice, and that is what matters to Addison the most. They usually do not get to sit near each other in Global Affairs—it is a chaotic scramble to locate a seat in a class that full—but later this afternoon they will be beside one another for their much smaller Literature in the Early Twentieth Century course, and then again after a half-hour break when they return to class for a group discussion. And they will—fingers crossed—continue to make light conversation from time to time throughout that stretch.
Mark scoffs. "I'm being subtle."
"You're not. You just think you are."
"Hm." He keeps his response short, noncommittal. He is not sure if this means Addison noticed when he was checking her out the first time they met. Hopefully not.
He knew he still wanted to be friends the night he walked her back to Vanderbilt after the date that wasn't a date, but he had wondered if her rebuff would make things too difficult, too awkward, for them to remain close. But it is almost as if that night never happened. Mark cannot pretend he doesn't wish things were different, but he genuinely does like being Addison's friend.
It sounds ridiculous—like it has been lifted straight from an angst-ridden teenage girl's diary—but something about Addison calls to him. They have not known each other long, so it would be reasonable for this to be a harmless, ultimately forgettable infatuation, but it is not like that for Mark. There have been other ladies—fun ladies—on campus to distract him, but Addison is never far removed from his thoughts.
"That's disappointing to hear." He makes another adjustment in his tone to weave in humor. "I thought subtle was my strong suit. Anyway. Ask her if she wants to get coffee. You need to do this, because"—he gives Addison a teasing grin—"this is the most I've ever encouraged two women to be together in a non-sexual way and it's starting to get irritating."
"Ha." Addison bumps her shoulder against his. "Sorry to irritate you."
She understands her worth academically, but Mark is convinced this is the only area where she does. Addison could be trying harder to make friends—in his opinion—but it is like she assumes she is not capable of making friends if someone else does not initiate the contact. Her parents have done a number on her—that Mark knows for sure.
Things do seem like they are a little better now with the two Chris Hargensen girls (his description, not hers), but for the most part Addison's relationship with her suitemates is one of coexistence. She seriously does need more friends. Mark thinks she will get there with time, regardless of whether or not he encourages her to take the first step with Savannah, but there is no telling how much time it will be before Addison grows a pair—or whatever the female equivalent of demonstrating courage is. He needs to offer reassurance.
Mark wants her to be happy. It surprises him, that sometimes this seems like the only thing he wants.
"You have like an hour before your Lit class, right? Tell her you're going to grab a coffee, and ask if she wants to join you. If she has something else going on—although it doesn't look like it—I'm sure she'll counter with a time she is free. Don't overanalyze this," he says. "Everyone needs a fun blond friend."
"You're my fun blond friend."
"First of all, excuse you, my mom says my hair is sandy brown with some blond undertones." This distinctly girly description makes Addison giggle. He has always struggled to describe his hair color, actually—the particular shade is not as clear-cut as acknowledging he has blue eyes or fair skin. Mark mostly just knows that graying hair is coming for him, sooner rather than later, if Everett is any indication. "And second," he continues firmly, "you need a fun blond girlfriend. For pillow fights and stuff."
"Girls don't really do that, you know."
"All right, Addie. Whatever you say."
Addie. He calls her this sometimes now. The first time he bought coffee for them, the guy behind the counter taking the order misheard him, and ended up scrawling Edison with a Sharpie on the to-go cup. Mark and Addison had a good laugh about this, and she told him next time to try "Addie"—a nickname her brother gave her when she was little that stuck.
"I'll still be your number one friend." Mark's rumbly voice sounds more sincere when he says this. "But you deserve to have more than one friend here." Their shoulders touch again when he nudges Addison back. "Go get her, tiger."
"No. Fuck that."
Mark feels the light, reprimanding thwack on his upper arm when Addison lazily swats at him. Not a shocker. He usually tries to limit his swearing in front of her—she is not a fan of his more colorful language—but present circumstances warranted expressing his distaste about riding the bus. Mark does not add this clarity to his protest, as he is sure Addison was capable of sussing out what fuck that was in reference to, and also why he came to an abrupt halt, when prior to that they had been walking briskly to make it to the next stop ahead of the bus scheduled to arrive around 3:30.
The bus comes to a standstill with a punishing squeal of its brakes. Mark and Addison are still about fifteen feet away from the door to climb onto the bus, but he knows what he saw when the bus trudged past them: faces in each window.
"And you accuse me of being a snob?" Addison challenges.
"It's just because it's so crowded." He waves a hand in the direction of the idling bus. "Look at it." He knows Addison will agree with him, that she will now be thinking the same thing. It is far, far too hot to be packed in there like sardines. Their faces are still flushed and their shirts are still damp with sweat. "And be honest, Red." It is not like Addie because this is a nickname he gave her, and Mark cannot tell if she likes it or not, but she has never objected, so once in a while it peppers his dialogue. "Have you ever been on a bus before?"
Her lower lip pushes forward in a fake pout. "I've been on field trips—"
"No, a city bus. Not a school bus that your headmistress rented for you and your fellow uniform-clad prepsters for the day. An honest to God city bus. Try again." Mark starts to chuckle when she shakes her head. "I knew it."
"Well, I bet you can count on one hand the amount of times you've taken the bus when it isn't school-related."
He mutters an answer, conceding her point, even though it is not true. Addison's family is rich-rich—like, staggeringly wealthy—but the Sloans fall into the "rich" category as well. Definitely rich enough to imply public transportation is not a necessity. But the bus was a necessity sometimes for Mark. Once he was old enough to function independently, his parents took advantage of that, which meant his choices were to either walk or take the bus.
He cannot imagine Addison on a bus. Her mom and dad—but he now knows she calls them Bizzy and Captain—would not want her to be surrounded by bus people. He gives her a lot of credit though, because in spite of her privilege, and expensive-looking wardrobe, Addison is thoughtful, and generous with her support and her time. She has also helped open Mark's eyes more. Not everyone at Yale, it turns out, is a prim, bubble-surrounded elitist who is intellectual but also a product of mommy and daddy's generous donation to the sociology building. There are a lot of great people here who are genuinely friendly, and many of whom come from more humble origins.
At any rate, today has nothing to do with a distaste for public transportation. It is simply too hot to be stuck on a bus after a fierce tennis match. Amber-toned leaves have begun to fall in the recent October days, and although there is a light breeze, Mark's skin is summer-sticky. He goes to the Payne Whitney Gym regularly to work out, and shoots hoops with some buddies on the court in the basement of Davenport, but playing tennis with Addison this afternoon has produced a different type of exhaustion. She was a more than worthy opponent. Her serves did not produce much speed, but her shot placement was executed well enough to consistently make Mark give chase, and she played with all the intensity of Boris Becker on Wimbledon's Centre Court in July. In comparison, he does not have the technical training Addison does—there's no way she didn't have a tennis instructor or two when she was a kid—but he has raw athleticism that makes him fearless at the net, and he is coordinated enough to get a racket on the ball when a backhand swing is necessary. They ended up not finishing their last game; they were stuck at 30-30 for what felt like forever and decided to call it.
Fumes cough out of the bus's exhaust pipe when it starts moving again.
Neither makes an effort to catch up to it.
"Let's see if we can call a cab," Addison decides. It sounds more promising than waiting around to see if the next bus is less packed. And the campus is too far of a walk from here, too. She gestures back toward Cullman Courts, and they begin to retrace their steps.
"There's a pay phone across from the sign-in desk." She can remember this from playing here a few times when she and her brother tagged along with the Captain to the university. "The one closest to the first court was donated by my dad." She shoots Mark a sideways grin as she explains, "Archer yanked the phone off the cord when we were little. So, not so much 'donated' as paid to replace it."
"I think I'd really like your brother."
"Maybe. He's an acquired taste."
"Archer and I have that in common." Mark smirks. "Do you think he'll go to med school here?" He is just curious. He knows Addison's brother was first to break tradition by choosing Princeton over Yale for his undergrad. It seems like a bold move, given what Mark knows about her parents now. She talks fairly openly about them.
"Yes," Addison responds. "He wants to. I mean…he can go against the grain for college, but Princeton doesn't have a medical school, so. Yale isn't my first choice for med school though. My dad isn't here anymore, but…still."
She has told Mark about her dad's career path before. The Captain was a resident at Yale New Haven, and eventually went the teaching route before transitioning into the private sector three years ago. He is now a medical consultant—not that he actually needs to work—and he also sits on the board at Greenwich Hospital.
"I know he's no longer faculty here," she expands, "but I don't want to have any medical ties to Yale, because his shadow still looms large. If that makes sense."
"It does."
Even if Addison did not share some details about her parents, Mark got a clear picture of what they were like when they didn't come this weekend for parents' weekend. That told him all he needed to know.
He knows what Addison's parents are like because his parents did not come either.
He has never felt so similar and so different from someone at the same time; it is like they are forever oscillating between the two. But he certainly understands just as well as Addison does what it is like to feel unloved and alone and dismissed.
"You should think about Columbia too," she tells him, voice brimming with hopefulness when they return outside to wait for the cab they called.
Duke University School of Medicine has always been Mark's preference—even though he is not one to give the future much thought—but Columbia is a school he would give consideration to as well, since Derek once said that the Vagelos College of Physicians and Surgeons is "probably one of the places" he will want to apply for med school. Mark loves Derek like a brother, and it would be great to go to school with him again, but something about Columbia now seems a lot more exciting when Addison talks about it.
He nods beside her, rubbing at the back of his neck. Addison watches, sure he still has beads of sweat where his hair ends. At one point during the match, Mark had raised his shirt to mop at his face, and from the other side of the court, she had noticed his stomach muscles. And while the black shorts he is wearing are not McEnroe short—for example—they are still high enough that she can see the definition in his legs and give some thought to how powerful his thighs probably are.
She finds herself comparing his body—what she has seen of it—to Topper's. Lanky, rangy Topper, who she still has not told about her friendship with Mark. It is not like one body is necessarily better than the other. There is plenty to appreciate about both.
The distance between New Haven and Swarthmore has never felt further than it has lately though. She and Topper are still together and they call each other every other day, but he already feels like a vague memory, in some ways.
The boy standing beside Addison is far more real.
"You've never been this quiet before," Addison observes.
Her fingers are moving nimbly as she tugs the wider end of Mark's tie through the space between the collar and the other part of the tie. She does not need to keep her eyes on her work as she fashions a Half Windsor around his neck—she learned how to tie a tie roughly around the same time she learned to mix the Captain's drinks—but the material remains the source of her attention all the same. She and Mark have stood close to one another before, but something about helping him with his tie, and perhaps raising her head and finding herself locking eyes with him, feels too intimate.
"I wasn't sure if talking would distract you," Mark says. "I don't want to mess up your process."
"I can do more than one thing at a time. Don't." Addison recognizes the double entendre she has served to him on a silver platter. She tries to fight off a smile as she warns, "Don't say it."
"Okay."
He heard it, but he also nearly missed it. Addison's hand had briefly brushed against his chest as she threaded the tie through again. It is hard to focus. Mark noticed that when the swish of the fabric brought her knuckles in touch with him, her expression did not change. There was no accompanying blush, no flutter of her long lashes.
Maybe this is one-sided after all.
"Good boy."
He is quiet, searching for words. She meant this mockingly. But…hearing those two words on her lips…there is something incredibly arousing about it. The words are just as tantalizing as the tennis whites Addison wore back in October, which was his first time seeing her long legs sans denim or khaki. The tennis skirt she had on offered a great view of the sinewy muscles of her calves and thighs.
(He is relieved that he is this age, and not a newly-minted teenager who for a solid year felt like he had no control over how—and when—his body responded to certain things. But even so, he disgusts himself sometimes.)
"Thanks for doing this." Mark's voice is gravelly-sounding when it returns to him. "I guess," he acknowledges, "I should learn how to do this."
"I don't mind."
He really should have learned to tie a tie years ago, but who was going to teach him? This is the sort of thing one learns from their parents, but his were not around often enough.
Funny how they have no problem telling him when to be around though.
He is meeting his parents at Risette tonight—a glitzy new French restaurant in the city. His mom called and invited him. No particular reason. Everett and Laura are frustratingly like this sometimes. And yet, Mark does not experience the pressure he senses Addison does when it comes to her parents asking things of her. For him, it is more like, "Fine, whatever." His egg and sperm donor do not ask much of him, and he does not ask much of them in return. The least he can do is take the train into Manhattan. And this time he has an excuse to not spend the night in the city: all the festivities in the lead-up to the Harvard-Yale game start early tomorrow. A bunch of his friends, and some of Savvy's friends—who are also now Addison's friends—are going together. He did not get the smile he hoped for when Addison's fingers made contact with him, but in general he is seeing her smile a lot lately, which makes him happy. She finally seems more comfortable here.
"And let me know how much I owe you for the tie."
"Don't worry about it."
"Ad—"
"Seriously," she cuts him off. It was not an inconvenience to purchase a tie for Mark, and to have him come over so she could help him put it on. "Savvy and I were going shopping anyway."
A tie is the least she can do, really. Addison feels that she and Savvy (Savannah is fine, but Savvy is preferred, Addison now knows) would have become friends eventually anyway, but Mark assisted in speeding the process along.
"Although the mixtape you brought as a 'thanks,'" she adds, "would be a gift if it didn't come with ulterior motives."
"What ulterior motives?"
"It's propaganda. You're determined to turn me into a Clash fan."
"I will have you know," Mark says, "I only put two Clash songs on there. But it wasn't any trouble." The last part is apropos of nothing, since Addison did not tell him you shouldn't have or anything. "I like making mixtapes," he continues. "It's fun. And it's not all punk rock."
There is always pressure to downplay his actions. Including how much time he spent selecting and recording songs for her.
Stay Free. Train in Vain. Good Good Things. The Seeker. Dig a Pony. Holidays in the Sun. Tangled Up in Blue. Girl from the North Country. Peaches. I Don't Mind. Ten Years Gone. The Ocean.
Some of these songs felt more meaningful than others when Mark picked them.
"They don't believe me when I say we're just friends," Addison reports with a whisper-low voice when the sound of a faint giggle is heard from one of the closed doors on the left side of the suite. "They're convinced we're dating."
She has no proof that the laughter is because Charlene and Esmé are gossiping about her. They probably aren't—Addison does not register deeply enough in their minds to dedicate any part of a conversation to her. But, she is certain the girls will want to talk to her later, as they have become intrigued by Mark's presence.
He looks like he jumped right off the cover of Bop or Teen Beat, Esmé—whom Addison has always hypothesized is the kinder of the two girls and tends to mirror how Charlene behaves—told her a few days ago. She had pried for more information, asking if Mark was Addison's boyfriend, and then quirked a disbelieving brow when Addison said that they were friends, nothing more.
Mark is attractive though—the girls' interest is understandable. Addison cannot reflect on the day when they played tennis, when he raised his shirt enough for her to spot the toned muscles lining his abdomen, without her face getting warm. And it is so many other things, too. His smile—two and-a-half years of braces for Addison, but she is not sure she has ever seen teeth as straight as Mark's. His eyes. The way he talks, with that gruff voice, but a voice that sometimes softens when he is being more considerate. The ears she cannot find another word for other than cute. His strong, tapered jawline, and while he tends to be clean-shaven, and looks great that way, Addison secretly likes the days where he skips a shave and has a little stubble breaking through. This last thing is different than anything she is used to. All the boys she grew up with—Topper included—seem to have the same Camelot-cut hair and the same smooth, unbristled faces.
And Mark looks especially attractive tonight, in gray dress pants, a light blue button down, and the tie she got for him.
He is careful to match her volume when he inquires further about her suitemates. "Things seem like they're going well with Tiny Dancer though?"
She rolls her eyes indulgently. It's Hannah, not an A-side, but Mark is being Mark. Three months of being his friend has taught Addison that he is prone to mockery, but she knows that he does care. He looks happy that little by little, she is flourishing here. And for whatever less admirable qualities he might display around other people—especially women he flirts with—Addison has always found him to be loyal, dependable, and reassuring with her. That is precisely what makes this thing with Mark all the more difficult.
It is not just a crush. He hears her. He sees her. He understands her. There is no physical intimacy between them, but there is certainly an emotional connection.
Anyone could have sat beside her that first day in Classic Mythologies. Anyone could have chosen to engage her in conversation that day, and could have chosen to be her friend. Life is a series of chances and variables, but some things do happen for a reason. And in Addison's opinion, Mark claiming a vacant seat next to her is one of them.
"Yes," she confirms. "It's going well with Hannah."
It truly is, because it turned out that Hannah was shy, very shy—not unfriendly—and found more security in spending time when she wasn't in classes or at dance with a cousin who is a second year here. But, Addison has slowly broken through some of the walls, and they have gotten closer. She has even brought Hannah into Savvy's circle of friends, in the same way Savvy brought her into that circle of friends. It is worth making this connection with Hannah—even though Addison views herself as closer with Savvy—because come next year, the first years living in Old Campus will move into their respective colleges, and it would be great to room with Hannah again. By virtue of Addison being a Saybrugian and Savvy a Morsel—things Addison knows that Mark—a Jonathan Edwards "Spider," when it comes to assigned affiliations—will forever find ridiculous—the two women will not have the opportunity to live together on campus.
"Not to fuel your roommates' rumors," Mark says, "but what if you were my date tonight? My platonic, best friend date."
"Are you asking because we're friends or because you don't want to be alone with your parents?"
"I don't see why it can't be both, Addison."
"It won't be that bad, will it?" She asks tentatively. Mark was trying to make a joke, but she can see his expression. Worry and sadness balloon inside her at the thought of him hurting.
"Probably not."
She is not convinced. "If I went with you—"
"You wouldn't be imposing." Mark is certain that was what she was going to say. He can sometimes predict her thoughts, even though they have not known each other that long, in the grand scheme of things. Is this normal? He is not sure. "And I'll make sure my parents know we aren't, like, a couple. There's no pressure to come, but you definitely don't get to use the excuse of having nothing to wear." He smirks. "Because that would be a lie."
"I thought I was the bossy one in this friendship."
"Trust me: you are."
Addison decides—or talks herself into deciding, really—that there is no particular reason she cannot accompany Mark. She excuses herself to go get ready, promising she will be quick. She wishes she had time to use her heated rollers, but wearing her hair straight will have to do. She also wishes she had time to consult with Savvy. Not for the going-to-dinner-with-Mark component—which Savvy definitely would want to comment on—but to pick through a few different options Addison has in her closet for a nice dinner like this, and vote on which is best.
In the end, Addison chooses a blue, long-sleeved cocktail dress. She does not realize until after she has pulled the dress over her head that she has accidentally matched Mark's tie, in the way she and her Lawrence peers who had dates to dances would make sure the dress complemented the tie, the corsage, and the boutonniere.
But this is not prep school. The grownup world—and the line between friendship and something else, something more—often feels as intricate to navigate as the labyrinth of steam tunnels she has heard about that connect some of the blocks underneath Yale's central campus.
She spoke with Topper last night. He will not be home for Thanksgiving. He will be traveling, as usual for this upcoming holiday, to a relative's home in Charleston.
They will plan to see each other back in Greenwich when fall term ends in December. This is about four weeks away, give or take, so it is not that much longer. Addison is conflicted though. She talked about it with Savvy recently. It felt good to have someone to talk to, because while she can talk to Kit and Celia and Isabelle about her relationship, it has been more comforting to have an in-person discussion.
"It's okay to pull the plug," Savvy advised her, gentle-toned. "Long-distance is tough, Addie. He might even be feeling conflicted, too. But if he's not, then yeah, he'll be sad if you break up with him, but he'll move on. Don't hang on to the relationship just for the sake of hanging on. Topper will be okay."
It is not so much the hanging on for Addison, but the letting go. The what comes next part, because ending things with Topper means there is nothing preventing her from exploring something new. And that is a bit scary. There is a palpable connection with Mark, with still-present mutual affection and mutual attraction. She hopes he feels the same way, at least. He asked her out once, so at one point there was something there for him, but she is not sure if Mark still feels that way, if the flame has kept on burning. There has been no shortage of female Yalies for him to flirt with—she has seen him in action—and he does more than flirt, too, but Addison purposely avoids asking him about that part of his life.
She forces herself not to think about it anymore tonight. Mark is patient while she plucks a sheet of paper from the notepad on the table, and writes a note for Hannah to let her know where she is going.
Charlene and Esmé appear in the common area halfway through the note. Addison's hand stills as she looks at them, but out of curiosity, not dread. She does not suspect they will ever be close—and she sure has many an opinion now about Dalton School girls—but it is not any different than getting stuck talking to a patron at one of Bizzy's garden parties. As in: make polite small talk, and then extricate yourself as soon as you can.
Charlene is wearing an animal print metallic jumpsuit with ruched detailing—something Addison would never want to wear, but it looks great on her suitemate. And Esmé has on a dress made of silk, with cream-colored trim, accompanied by a silk-beaded evening jacket. The floral scent of Estée Lauder trails after the girls. They might be headed to dinner, too, albeit not a New York-based one. Or a party, maybe—earlier this week, Addison caught snippets of their conversation, something about an upcoming gathering at Delta Kappa Epsilon. Charlene and Esmé are the type who could dress too fancy or too casually for a setting, but it would still work somehow.
Charlene's gaze is approving as she stares back at Addison. "You look nice," she says.
Mark busies himself with his wallet, opening it up and pretending he is double-checking to make sure he has enough cash for train tickets. You look nice is exactly what he told Addison, too. She looks better than that though. And more than the go-to, suddenly much too juvenile adjective of "hot," she looks beautiful. But he needs to be careful.
Esmé is more enthusiastic with her compliment. "I love that dress," she says to Addison. "Do you know what earrings you're going to wear?" There is a quick tilt of her head as she studies Addison's empty lobes. "I have this pair of chunky gold studs you should borrow. They're like the kind Princess Diana always wears. They'd be perfect with your dress."
The offer makes Addison smile. She accepts, finishes her note for Hannah, grabs her wool coat in anticipation of the dip in temperature later tonight, and then they are off.
"You survived" is the first thing she tells Mark when they board the train after dinner. It is as sincere as anything she has ever said.
"We survived." He glances over at her. Addison is seated closer to the window. It is too dark to see anything outside now, to watch the trees and grass blur in the distance. "Thanks for coming with me," he says. "I hope that wasn't too painful for you."
"No, it was fine." She has many thoughts about Mark's parents—too many to process right now—but chief among them is that they are probably people who are easier to be around when you are not in fact their offspring.
"The last Clash song…" Addison says next. She brought a slightly bigger handbag tonight—one that Bizzy grew weary of and passed on to her—so that her Walkman could fit inside. She and Mark had listened to the songs on their ride into the city, each holding onto an earphone as best they could. "What was it called?"
"Oh. It's called 'Stay Free.'"
Some of its lyrics were not of interest to Addison—a bit too aggressive and crude—but the song opened with "we met when we were in school." And the theme of the song is centered around friendship, she is pretty sure.
"I liked that one," she says.
Mark's face is half-shaded in the dark. She is tempted to reach out and stroke a hand over the light side. She will not touch him though. She will not.
"What?" He prompts when she opens her mouth to say something else.
"Earlier, before we left…you referred to me as your 'best friend.'"
"Oh, yeah." Mark shrugs. "Is that weird? It felt…automatic. Like I didn't give it a second thought as I said it. I guess it's pretty fast to say that, maybe. But when you know, you know, right?" She offers a small nod in response. "Derek is still my best friend, too." He has told her plenty about Derek by this point, how they met when Mark's family relocated from the city to Harrison. "It was fast with him too though, actually. I came home after my first day of second grade and told my mom he was my best friend. So…sometimes you just know."
"Yeah. I think…I think you're my best friend, too." Addison smiles shyly. "Your parents," she says after that, her mind whirling and unable to stay on one topic for long. "You look like both of them. I could see both their features in you."
"I have my dad's hair color," Mark replies. "Well, a hair color I only remember from pictures of him. His salt and pepper thing kicked in kinda early. So I guess I have that to look forward to."
"It's not a bad thing. It's a handsome look. Distinguished." Addison yawns before she can blush over calling attention to Mark's looks. Her head is so heavy, all of a sudden. "Sorry," she apologizes. "We were up too late last night studying."
"Yeah. We'll feel differently though when we get our exams back."
Addison does not hear Mark when he says something else. Her head dips forward, causing her to jerk at the motion as she fights off sleep.
"Am I boring you?" He teases.
"No. I'm awake."
She is not though. Exhaustion is settling in. She is able to resume chatting with Mark, but eventually nods off again, falling asleep on his shoulder. Hard, solid muscle greets Addison when she first leans into him, but his body still feels soft against her, still somehow yields to her. The occasional whistle from the train and the coarseness of the track below prevents her sleep from being consistent. But, each time her eyes flutter open, and she remembers she is resting on Mark's shoulder, it feels more like she is dreaming than waking.
Addison keeps herself still each time it happens.
She wants to enjoy every moment of this before they reach New Haven.
End Notes
References/nods to canon:
Grey's 2x27. Addison: "This whole thing brings back very traumatic memories of being a band geek with braces and the lisp…spending the whole evening with Skippy Gold talking about Star Wars."
Grey's 3x12. Addison to Mark: "That last woman you slept with before I left New York…Charlene, the Peds nurse. Did you think that she was the only one I knew about?" My fics are pretty name-heavy (and very long and detailed, I know), but you probably caught that one of Addison's suitemates is named Charlene. So…keep that nugget in the back of your head.
PP 2x14. Addison to Archer: "And when I needed someone to make Phil Davidson pay for leaving me out at the lake, that was great." — a parenthetical remark about Phil was made in the second scene. There will be more about this next chapter.