A/N: Hiiiii. Sorry for the, uh, massive delay. I've had a terrible combination of Writer's Block and Very Lazy Block for months now, so good times all around. Hopefully if you're here, you're still along for the ride. There are a couple show-related references in this chapter, but I just want to get this chapter UP, so I will plan to add those in the end notes another day. :)
Chapter 2. Walk across the diamonds
Fall and Winter 1985
"Barbaresco." Mark scrutinizes the flourishing script on the bottle's label. "Fancy," he intones when Addison passes him an amber-casted tumbler. She previously apologized for not having proper wine glasses (of course she did), but Mark waved it off. All he has are paper cups pilfered from a nearby dining hall.
He sneaks a look at what she is wearing while he downs the first mouthful of a new-to-him wine. Addison's Yale sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms match their plans: drinking and watching TV as the last of her suitemates packs for November recess. The outfit is also a sharp disruption from the off-the-shoulder top and mini skirt Addison wore to a party last night. She is getting bolder, Mark has noticed, more experimental with her wardrobe, even though the average day for her still features argyle patterns and tailored coats and other country club, napkin-lapped outfits.
Noticing has always been Mark's thing. Sometimes he wishes it wasn't though.
"So, this wine…" he says. "This is the bottle that was for Savvy's parents?"
Addison nods. She had told Bizzy—with a finger plucking nervously at the phone's cord—that she was planning to spend Thanksgiving with Savvy's family so the girls could study for a Global Affairs exam scheduled the day classes resume. This close to finals? Bizzy asked, but the question stemmed from mild academic curiosity, not hurt or frustration that Addison, like Archer, did not intend to be a dutiful Montgomery child and return for the holiday.
Bizzy does not particularly care about Thanksgiving, but Addison knows her mother does care about presentation, which is why Susan had arrived in New Haven earlier this week with a bottle of wine Addison was instructed to bring to Savvy's.
"You really don't regret not going home? Or even actually going to Savvy's?" Mark has been curious if she is staying at Yale because he is, that perhaps Addison feels sorry for him. When they had dinner with his parents, Laura and Everett revealed they were going to Key West the week of Thanksgiving…but there was no mention of a third plane ticket. "Although I guess it's not exactly 'home' for you," he muses. "Where are your parents gonna be again?"
"The Vineyard." Addison brings her tumbler to her lips. "Well, Edgartown, but it's—"
"The Vineyard. You're sounding extra WASP-y tonight."
"I guess so," she concludes with a good-natured smile. Edgartown holds a special place in her heart; it feels like every childhood memory she has there involves her brother. She cannot help but talk to Mark about some of these Archer-featured memories as tonight's drinking continues: riding bikes, walking along the waterfront with Murdick's fudge muddying their hands, swimming, leaping off Jaws Bridge (even though the Captain told them they were not to do this), and playing tag near the East Chop Lighthouse with other kids summering on the Vineyard.
Bizzy and the Captain are more bearable when Archer is around (instead he is at a ski resort in Colorado with some Princeton friends), so skipping Thanksgiving was tempting to Addison anyway, but when Mark said he was not going to Harrison, that sealed it. She has remained intrigued by his upbringing, especially after that night at Risette. Mark's life just seems very separate from his parents'. He is so independent, so steady, so confident, and to Addison this either means the Sloans did something right, or Mark is who he is in spite of them.
She sits up straighter when Hannah emerges from her bedroom, suitcase in hand.
"Do you want us to walk you there?" Addison has just reached her second glass of wine, and is pleasantly warm as a result. The idea of going outside—or frankly, even getting off the couch—has zero appeal, but Addison would do anything for Hannah.
"No, it's okay," her friend assures. "Bridget is waiting downstairs, and a few of her friends are also parked off York, so there'll be a group of us heading that way. We'll be fine." A knowing look billows between the women. "You've met Bridget," Hannah continues with a grin.
"True." Addison then explains to Mark, "Hannah's cousin was all-state in fencing."
One night when Addison, Hannah, Bridget, and a few Sillimanders were together, Bridget taught them basic fencing techniques, with each opponent grasping onto spatulas borrowed from the student kitchen in lieu of proper foils. Everyone's footwork became increasingly clumsy as more peach schnapps was consumed, and none of them could stop laughing. Addison knows this is not a thing that would seem like much to anyone not present that night, but for her it was a meaningful experience. An I have friends here experience.
Warmth separate from the wine lurks through her as she watches Hannah adjust a starting-to-flop bun, tightening tufts of blonde hair brought together like spun sugar. The action is encouraging, because it seems like a sign Hannah is relaxed. Addison has observed that her friend often blushes when Mark is in the same room.
"So, is your cousin walking around with one of those flimsy swords?" Mark's lips curl up playfully. As expected, he clocked Hannah's blushing tendencies weeks ago, and will go out of his way to make her laugh. "Is that actually going to help if—"
"Fencing is a combat sport," Hannah breaks in, equally playful. "Bridget can defend herself. And the rest of us."
"A division three baseball fan"—Mark's eyes briefly drift toward Addison, in reference to her boyfriend—"and a fencing fan. We really need to raise the bar here, ladies."
"Well, I better get going," Hannah announces once her eruption of giggles following this remark subside. "Bye, Addie. Have a nice Thanksgiving. Make sure you drink water tonight. And you too, Mark."
A muffled, slow dueling guitar sound squeezes through a room down the hall when Hannah opens the door. Addison recognizes it: "Careless Whisper." Silence then follows as the door is coaxed back shut.
It is only the two of them again.
"You know what I just realized?" Addison supposes the topic she is itching to explore is because Mark's childhood was occupying her mind earlier. Or, though she does not want this to be true, because she wants his attention on her. Not Hannah. "There's so much I don't know about you. You're talkative and you're honest—if not a little too blunt in your honesty"—this triggers a smirk from Mark—"and you're fun to be around." She pauses to catch her breath. Alcohol has her thoughts coming out rushed. And louder. "But you also keep things close to the vest. Tell me some stuff about you," she insists. "Real things."
Mark considers this request as he pours them both more wine.
"Okay. Let's see…I've never had a crêpe before." It is stupid, but while he could never deny Addison anything, that does not mean he must broadcast vulnerability. "I've seen them on menus, but I always end up ordering something else instead. I rented Taxi Driver last year, and it's now tied with The Godfather for my favorite movie. I was almost named David, but my mom said when I was born I 'looked like a Mark.' My birthday is July twelfth—I turned nineteen this summer. My parents had me start kindergarten a year late, but I don't think it was because they were worried about me not being able to hold my own with letters; I think they genuinely forgot to sign me up on time."
"What else?" She leans closer. "Just a couple more things. Please."
"Okay, drunky. Hm, what else…I don't like chicken parmesan. Something about the texture grosses me out. My first girlfriend—well, first real girlfriend—was named Cassidy. We went to high school together." Mark pauses, contemplating what to share after this. "When I was a few years into playing football, one of my coaches moved me from quarterback; he said I was too good of a blocker and cutter, so my hands were being wasted as a QB. I liked being a tight end, but sometimes I wish I'd pushed back…I think I would have liked to lead the offense. And…" he takes another hearty sip of wine. "It turns out I like Barbaresco."
"You know what sucks? We wouldn't have been friends in high school."
"Sure we would have." He understands what Addison is getting at. "I was friends with Derek."
Mark has provided enough details about his best friend—well, his other best friend—for Addison to know that Derek was like her in high school. There was a wilted measure to their aliveness, to how they carried themselves—not that Mark would ever describe it this way aloud. It is just that they were both so serious. Quiet. Afraid of making mistakes.
"That's different. You've known him since you were little." Addison's lips flatten into a thin line, a look Mark considers a "classic Addison" one. "If I were new to your school," she theorizes, still frowning, "you wouldn't have noticed me. At least not until class rankings came out and you were wondering who on earth is the girl who bested you."
"Yeah, I would have." He is being sincere, but he always wonders, at times like this, if he sounds sincere. It is strange, Mark has realized this fall, how caring what people think about you is a prison. Or just caring in general, maybe. "Even if I was a football player, and even if you were a quiet band geek, I still would have noticed you, Red. But as far as rankings, I would have noticed the girl who came in second." He smiles, which makes Addison smile, too. He enjoys how quick-witted she is, but he knows how to swing the same blade. "There's no way you were besting me."
The Barbaresco is gone. The bottom of Mark's tumbler is stained red. He is drunk. Not as drunk as Addison, but more than he would usually allow himself to be, and it has left him with a powerful urge to kiss her. There is something about Addison's mouth. All those different smiles and expressions. Her shoulders and collarbones, too—those spots are equally as inviting to put his lips on. When she was wearing that black off-the-shoulder top at the sticky-floored frat house, Mark had pondered if, due to the style, Addison had gone without a bra, or if something simply less fabric-ish was supporting her breasts.
It was juvenile to consider then, and even more juvenile now, since Addison has transitioned to chatting about school. Three sheets to the wind though she may be, grades will always be on her mind. She lied to her mom when she said she was staying with Savvy for studying purposes—it's just easier to have an excuse, she explained to Mark—but he knows she has no intention of not getting a jumpstart on remaining assignments.
"Tomorrow, we'll study." Her words encourage him to focus, to stop thinking about things he should not be thinking about. "And you'll look at my Lit paper, right? God, I'll be so glad when I'm done with it. I couldn't get into The Age of Innocence. I assumed I'd like it—I liked The House of Mirth—and I thought the love triangle aspect would be interesting, but it ended up being…boring." She gives Mark a sideways glance as she folds her legs onto the couch. Some of the lines in the novel were lovely, but they could not conquer the aristocratic minutiae that seemed to stretch on and on. "I expected more, I guess."
"It was boring and you expected more. So Topper is a disappointing lay?" Mark chuckles. "Sorry. Had to. Oh, come on." He shrugs defensively when she does not try for an indulgent smile. "You set me up. Are you seriously mad?"
"No. No, I'm not. It's not that. It's just…please don't be flirty with Hannah, or pursue anything with her. She's finally come out of her shell and she means a lot to me, so if it's just fun you're after, if you're not capable of being serious—"
"I can be serious."
Addison raises a disbelieving brow. "Yeah? Who have you been serious with—or even gone on a proper date with—this semester?"
"You're just jealous because I'm having all kinds of great sex, and meanwhile your boyfriend is two-hundred miles away," Mark jokes. "But I promise I'll leave Hannah alone."
"Really?"
"Well, you asked." It is that simple for him. And that complicated too, somehow. "I'll always listen to you. I'm an easy 'mark' for evil redheads."
This makes her laugh. "Oh, so I'm evil now?"
"No. Just bossy. But, I love the bossing." He is aware this sounds flirty, but he is doing his best. He truly feels that he is. "Boss more."
"Just like our New England ancestors intended, right?" Addison announces cheerily while she and Mark unpack containers from a to-go bag. "Natives and Puritans gathered 'round, twirling linguine carbonara with forks."
Mark laughs. It is not like they had many options; campus dining halls are closed this week. It was either find a restaurant open Thanksgiving Day or subsist, he told Addison, on his three remaining Carnation breakfast bars and a Hostess Fruit Pie. So this means what they are most thankful for this Thanksgiving is a takeout order from Paolo's.
"Who are we rooting for?"
The question makes Mark grin. Addison had barely been able to summon interest at the rowdy Harvard-Yale game (Yale won 17-6), so he did not have the impression she would care about the NFL games being played today. He even took mercy on her when she told him last night, "Just call me when you want to walk over to get our food," and he had waited to do so until the Lions and Jets game was nearing the end of the fourth quarter.
He knows Addison would rather be watching Cheers reruns. They have been doing that a lot. Cheers and Family Ties. And studying. And taking breaks to get food at the nearest market or one of the restaurants within walking distance. (Mark is not sure why Addison does not have a car here. It might be impractical for a first year to have one, but her family is the kind of wealthy that would not care if something is practical. He assumes it is only a matter of time before her parents let her bring a car to Yale.)
His gaze traces alongside Addison's to the TV set. Announcers are engaging in pre-game commentary. The TV in Mark's suite is a cheap Magnavox a grad student sold to him. It is decent, but nowhere near as nice as the RCA that Addison and her suitemates have, which is larger and has a sleek wood finish. However, when it comes to spending time together this week, the two of them have fallen into a pattern of alternating between Vanderbilt and Farnam.
"Well," Mark answers, "we are Giants fans, Addison. Never forget that. But, since they're not on the field today, we'll be rooting for the Cardinals in the second game. Mostly because there's no better feeling than when someone runs the table on the Cowboys."
"Got it. Hey…can I see your room before the game starts?" She winces when he glances at her with faintly raised eyebrows. Can I see your room? probably means something different to Mark. "Sorry. Is that okay?" He hasn't answered yet. "I'm just curious what it looks like. That's all."
"Sure. Come on."
Mark leads the way. The door is already open, so this makes Addison feel less awkward, less intrusive. His tone had been nonchalant when he confirmed she could see his room, but she could not tell if the nonchalance was forced.
"That's Russell's." Mark indicates the twin-sized bed against the opposite wall, nearer to the window. He does not mind sharing a room, but it was not by choice—it is just the way it works for some of the incoming Yalies. He and Russell, and Patrick and Jay—who share the other room in the suite—just were not as lucky as someone like Addison, who has a room all to herself. "And this"—he points back to his side of the room—"is mine. Russ is the neat one."
Addison cracks a grin. Russell's side does appear more organized, but Mark's area is pretty neat, too. Mark has a blue and gray plaid comforter (half pulled down, and with sheets rumpled from last night's sleep), matching pillows, and then a smaller, circular pillow in a different shade of gray that Addison guesses his mom purchased to add something "extra." There are a few pictures lazily taped to the wall. And Mark has the same two pieces of Yale-provided furniture she has. On the night stand is a gooseneck lamp, cassette tapes, balled-up receipts, an alarm clock, and some loose change. The desk on the other side of Mark's bed also has items on it—textbooks, pocket folders, another bendy-tubed lamp. Addison spots her essay there, too. She is sure Mark was merely skimming it as a form of review once she handed him the second and third versions grabbed off her floppy disk, but she wonders if any details in her writing stuck out to him. Like if he felt the novel was a tragedy, as she did, or simply…life. If he felt any way about the line Addison included regarding the preservation of memories. And the part about different forms of courage when facing societal pressure. And the part where she wrote about the love triangle (of sorts) being passed along through the perspective of a narrator who is deeply flawed.
She is so lost in her thoughts that she has not noticed Mark is eyeing her closely. His teeth momentarily clamp around his inner cheek. What was he supposed to say when Addison asked to see his room? That it's not okay? That would be stupid. Of course it's okay. But it still feels…weird, for some reason.
He watches her touch the blue fleece blanket at the end of his bed (Derek's mom gave it to him as an "off to college" present, and it meant a lot to Mark). The motion of Addison's hand traveling toward and away from the bedding reveals a slender wrist that has otherwise been hidden by an Oxford button down that is too big for her. Mark wonders if it belongs to her boyfriend.
She siddles closer to the wall to get a better view of the pictures. Mark sees her linger on a creased-edged photo of him and Derek, taken a couple months ago. They are grasping fishing rods. The mirrored surface of Tivoli Lake is behind them. It is a nice picture of them, Mark thinks. Especially of Derek, because by July, the acne pitting his cheeks and chin had cleared up (thanks to a prescription). And his hair was cut shorter, and was also no longer out of control, thanks to Janice, a friend of Mark's mom's, who happens to be a hairdresser. Janice had been over at Mark's house one day at the same time the guys were there. She had offered Derek a gentle smile—the sort of motherly smile that was much more natural on her face than it was on the face of Mark's own mother—and then said, "You have such nice, thick hair. I've got just the product for those waves. Mark, honey, bring your friend by my salon tomorrow so we can get him all set up in time for college. I'll give you both cuts."
Mark is cognizant of the fact that he should call Derek more, but friendship goes both ways. It is okay though—this is just who they are, and when they spend time together over winter break, they will pick up where they left off. But, the last time they did speak, it was obvious to Mark that Derek is doing well at Bowdoin, and not just because of clearer skin and non-Afro hair. He suspected this would eventually be the case; his friend is one of those kids who, like Addison, needed to get out of high school to flourish.
"Is this Derek?" Addison looks at Mark to make sure. "He's cute."
"Yeah. A total dreamboat." Mark rolls his eyes at her observation, feigning amusement, but unexpected jealousy lights through him.
"I didn't know you fished."
"I would say it's more that I 'tolerate it' than 'do it," he says. The Shepherds camp in the Albany preserve every year, and have kept the tradition going even after Christopher's death. If anything, the tradition mattered more after his death. Especially to Derek. "I go camping upstate with Derek's family for a week each summer. I hate it." Mark's smile is rueful. "Both the camping and the fishing. Especially the fishing."
At this point his friendship with Derek is more about familiarity than commonality. Maybe it always has been. Derek had a handful of other friends in high school: band members, one or two guys from the science club, a few hockey teammates before he got cut sophomore year because he just wasn't strong enough to compete with other players on the ice. But none of those friends had the consistent, through-thick-and-thin presence Mark has. There isn't anything he wouldn't do for Derek. Including sleeping on the fucking ground and easing a hook out of the mouth of a thrashing, freshly-caught bass.
"Derek always invited me, and it felt like it would have been rude to say no," Mark goes on. He will tell Addison the story, but not everything. Not the haunting parts. Not yet. "And even though I hated it, I wanted to be there for him. Derek is the only boy in his family. He has four sisters. So I'm kind of like his brother. His dad died when he was twelve, so he kind of…well. I don't know if Derek needed me, but it felt like maybe he needed me more after that."
Mark can sense the question: Addison wants to ask how. He also senses she will not ask about Mr. Shepherd's death. She would probably feel it was rude, for one—and she is nothing if not unfailingly polite—but she also respects Mark's boundaries. He appreciates that about her; she understands he needs to share things on his own terms.
"That was kind of you to keep going," Addison says softly. "You're a good friend, Mark."
"Thanks. We should probably head back out there. Before the food gets cold."
"Wait. Can I…can I tell you something?"
Addison can be herself with him. The most herself she has ever gotten to be, for reasons she cannot explain. But wanting to confess something in Mark's room makes everything seem…charged. She can hear the lazy whir of warm air sputtering out of the vent while she waits for a response.
"Yeah." The strum of his voice is encouraging. "Go ahead."
Mark's gaze is so intense, so unflinching. She twists her fingers, unsure if she should have brought this up. It is like Addison is in high school again, afraid to not be seen, but sometimes even more afraid to be seen.
"I'm thinking about breaking up with Topper." She coaxes the words out. "The long distance thing is just too much," she explains. "As much as I want it to work…well…"
Discomfort at this revelation has her trailing off, and she considers some of the things she knows about her boyfriend. Topper is not sure yet if he wants to major in Political Science or Econ. He has two older sisters, Margot and Helena. He has been raised by very warm parents, who always give Addison a hug when they see her. He rattles off baseball stats at an alarming rate. He has never pressured her when it comes to the physical aspect of their relationship. He never forgets to call.
And Topper is kind. Too kind, honestly, to be the one to initiate a breakup. At least not over the phone. They will see each other at Christmastime, but it does not feel right to Addison to drag this conversation out several weeks. Yes, Topper will be hurt, but she knows he will also be okay.
"Whatever you decide to do," Mark says, "I'm here for you."
This is the truth. And another truth that cuts through Mark is this: he feels bad for Addison. He thought maybe upon hearing this news that he would feel hopeful, because maybe now he has a chance, but such an emotion does not arrive. Addison's well-being is all that matters to him.
The single tear she released in September when she admitted she was struggling to make friends here is something Mark continues to remember clearly. Her hurt had felt like his hurt then.
And it does now, too.
He wonders if this is what it means to be in love with someone.
Addison closes her eyes as the brush pinched between Savvy's fingers lands on her cheek. Savvy loves doing makeup. And she is good at it. Addison has witnessed plenty of nights where the girls who live in Durfee seem to run in Savvy's direction when they want their matte eyeliner to have more of a smudged look, or a second opinion on which shade of lipstick to wear.
The light touch being applied to Addison's face isn't anything she couldn't do herself though. She is simply appeasing her friend before they grab a quick meal at the Spot with a few peers, and then hole up in the library. Exams begin next Monday. Come over and get ready here, Savvy pleaded. I'll do your makeup; I need to do something else with my hands besides flipping through my lecture notes. And I want to hear about your phone call while we're still alone.
"So how did Topper take it?" Savvy asks quietly.
"Better than I thought." Addison distracts herself by smoothing out a bunched wave of fabric on the sleeve of her sweater. She had spoken to Topper earlier this afternoon. "I mean, he was sad, but he said he understands. Long distance has been tough on him, too."
"Are you going to tell Mark when you see him tonight?"
She tries to picture herself giving the update to Mark. Specifically how he will react. He has a way of always looking relaxed, unbothered. Addison can envision the change in his expression when she tells him though. Mark will care. He is a good listener and she can tell that he does not like to see anyone upset.
"Probably," she decides. "Why?"
"You think I'm just doing your makeup for fun?" Savvy grins at the suspicion in Addison's tone. "Not that you need any makeup. You're gorgeous. Buuuut, I want you looking your absolute cutest when you tell Mark you're single again." She pauses when Addison jerks back. "Don't worry. I'm just cleaning them up a bit. I promise." Savvy wiggles the tweezers Addison is regarding warily. "I can't stand that over-plucked thing that I'm seeing some girls do lately. Eyebrows should not be as thin as a cotton swab."
"Fine," Addison relents. She trusts Savvy. And, having someone else attend to her brows isn't entirely what she is fretting about, anyway. "But, Savvy…I like being Mark's friend. Girls and guys can just be friends, you know."
Savvy places the tweezers down on the bathroom counter. "They can," she agrees. "It's harder when said friends are attracted to each other though, and it's obvious you two are. Now that Topper isn't—"
"Breaking up with Topper has nothing to do with Mark," Addison interrupts. "I really cared about him. It just wasn't working anymore. And besides…" she hesitates. "Mark is kind of a player." She and Mark do not discuss how he spends his time when they are not together. But she knows anyway. And he knows that she knows.
"Well, get in the game. Sometimes playing is fun."
Her mouth opens, but she cannot conjure any words. It is not surprising Savvy has gone on a number of dates since coming to Yale, or done her fair share of playing. Her hair is the color of sunshine, and she has a personality and self-confidence that are equally as bright.
"Addie." Savvy settles a hand on her shoulder. A comforting squeeze is offered. "Sorry. I was just giving you some food for thought. My mom tells me I'm too nosey." She rolls her eyes, but it is done with affection. Addison knows Savvy is close with her mom, Catherine. And her dad, too. "Interesting"—Savvy beams—"since the matchmaker and nosiness traits are definitely inherited from her. Anyway, it's okay—more than okay—to not pursue anything with Mark. I just want you to be happy. But also, to not be scared to take a chance, if there's someone you're crushing on."
Addison returns her friend's warm look. "Thanks, Sav."
A gravelly, muted oh rises from Mark when he opens the door to his suite. Addison is standing in the hallway, bouncing a little on her toes.
"Expecting someone else?" She says with a faltering smile, undoubtedly concerned about the reaction her arrival has produced. Her arms cross tighter around her coat, as if she is trying to protect herself.
"No," he replies. The question is reasonable, but also disheartening: how pathetic, that it would not be unusual if a female—probably a substance-lacking one—were here. "I just didn't expect to see you."
He gestures for her to come inside. Her hair looks wind-teased, which makes sense. Branford—the dorm Addison and Savvy and some other women whose names he is blanking on were going to congregate for the night—is in the quadrangle on the other side of Old Campus.
"I thought you had plans," Mark offers next. He did not think he would see Addison again until the new year. Most students left today, or are departing tomorrow for winter break. His suitemates took off this morning—cool guys, but also mama's boys, each and every one of them, Mark is sure, so naturally all three had early flights out of Bradley.
"I did. Well"—Addison hastily corrects herself—"I do."
"So your girls' night—"
"It's still in progress. I just wanted to come over for a sec."
"Did you leave mid-pillow fight?"
She holds back laughter. "You're never going to get tired of that joke, are you?"
"Nope." It is then Mark notices she has not tightened her arms because she is cold, or because she had felt uncomfortable when he initially opened the door. Addison is clutching a folded sweatshirt against her stomach. A light gray crewneck, from the looks of it. "What have you got there?"
"A Christmas present for you," she says, loosening her grip. "Sorry—I didn't have time to wrap it. And I wasn't sure what time you were leaving tomorrow, so I figured I would bring it by tonight."
"Oh." Mark's stomach drops. "I…I didn't—"
"It's okay. I wasn't expecting anything." Addison feels as bad as he does when she sees the look on his face. Like by admitting she has not expected anything, she has wounded him. "I just mean that we never talked about it. And it's not anything big—it was fun picking it out. Here." She unfolds the sweatshirt and holds it out for Mark. His eyes wander over the Yale crest on the front. "I know this wasn't your first choice"—her voice is quieter now—"but I'm glad it's where you ended up."
"Thanks." Mark smiles his appreciation as he takes the sweatshirt. "It's great. Thank you, Addie." He carefully folds it, then puts it on the arm of the couch. "After Christmas, when we get back to campus…" he chuckles awkwardly. "I guess I'm not sure what to get you."
He is a complete idiot. They are best friends. Of course he should have gotten Addison something for Christmas, because there is not a single universe in which she wouldn't have gotten him a present. Mark will beat himself up over this as he tries to fall asleep tonight. But, did he honestly forget? Or did he just pretend to forget because he did not want to be the one to hand over something first?
"Well, there is one thing you could…you could give me."
Addison wants to be bold. She should be able to, because she has never been dependent upon being someone else around Mark. She has never had to. This, she knows. But, being herself in this moment still feels like it requires cobbling together everything she is.
She wants to be bold.
Like a character in a book. Maybe she needs to channel one. Reading often eased her pervading sense of loneliness. And, as such, she understands the very serious business of annuities, what Phoebe's ride on the carousel meant to Holden, and that only an angel can plant the seeds of a red fern. She knows of the light at the end of the dock, the two mutes who were always together, hearts opening like flowers, and the law of club and fang. And to be something every minute of every hour—Francie Nolan had always been one of her favorite characters.
"Addison?" Mark urges. "What were you going to say?"
She takes a breath. And then finds her voice. Her boldness. Her need to be something. To be, and then to do.
"You could kiss me," Addison tells him. "I…I would like that. But only if you want to. Otherwise your gift for me is going to be forgetting I said that."
The look Mark gives her is long. Searching. "Are you drunk?"
She knows he does not think this though. There is no way. He knows what she is like when she is drunk.
"Just a little tipsy." She manages a clipped, self-deprecating giggle as she explains, "Liquid courage." And then she approaches, not stopping until she is directly in front of Mark, gazing up at him; a few inches split their respective heights. "But," Addison assures, "not tipsy enough that when I wake up tomorrow I'll think this was a mistake."
Mark frames her face in his hands. His touch is gentle. Addison gave him permission, but he still moves a little quicker than she thought he might. She tries to focus on him, but his features are blurred because of how close together they are standing. And then his lips are on hers. He kisses her softly. His lips are like silk and honey.
It lasts no more than a few seconds. And then he eases back.
Addison's eyes are at half-mast. They had slipped shut when he leaned in to kiss her. There is something so sweet about that, to Mark. Her eyes open a little more. Their color appears greener in the weakened light of the suite. Mark is glad he did not wait, that he did not pause to think when Addison assured him she wanted to be kissed. For once, it felt like the right decision not to think something all the way through.
His hands are still on her cheeks. He can feel the twitch of her smile beneath his palms. "Like that?" He asks.
"Yes."
She closes her eyes again when his lips return to hers. There is more to it now. He is kissing her so deeply, so intensely. And she is being and being and being, and doing and doing and doing. Her mouth opens, perhaps instinctively, and Mark slips his tongue inside. It feels good. Addison tries to imagine just how good it would feel if he were to touch other parts of her, and if his mouth were to discover more places to kiss.
When Mark pulls back again, she immediately misses the contact. It felt like that last kiss lasted forever. Suspended moments pass as they study one another lustfully. Then Mark lowers his head and kisses her a third time. Or she kisses him. It does not matter—it only matters that they are.
She was not sure what it would be like, to have his lips move against hers. The wondering, that question of it all, has been shearing Addison in half for weeks—months, even. She wondered if it would feel taboo, and even gross. She can remember when Mark made the comment about there being heat between them, but she still wasn't sure if it would be weird and uncomfortable to go from Just Friends to friends who are feverishly making out. He is still cradling her face between his hands. Hers are resting primly on his shoulders, because she is not really sure what else to do with them. It is comfortable though. And Mark's hands on her feel comfortable, too.
Addison speaks first when they break apart.
"Wow." That is all she can say as they try to catch their breath. She has never been kissed like this before. It was not like this with Topper. Or with Skippy (a quick kiss on the lips after prom), or his equally awkward, uninspiring predecessor—Michael Eberhardt—whom Addison kissed once behind the GBYC clubhouse. And it is not like it was with Phil, who arguably knew what he was doing just as well as Mark knows what he is doing, but that was different, because that isn't this, and Addison does not want to think about Phil Davidson at all. Ever again.
"I was worried it might be weird," she admits nervously. Her eyes shift away from Mark. "But it's not." Her voice vaults up at the end, making it sound more like a question that ends with right? She hopes he feels the same way.
"It's not," Mark agrees. "I thought…" his words dissolve in favor of another kiss. Addison makes a low-throated humming noise that has him fighting not to rock his hips against hers. But she kisses him back just as eagerly, as though she is savoring him.
She cocks her head. "Thought what?"
The embrace has altered the pace of their breathing again. And Addison's already husky voice sounds even huskier. It is such a turn on for Mark. Even so, his hands slacken. He lets them fall off her, and then elaborates. "I thought you just wanted to be friends."
They have not actually had this discussion. Addison had a boyfriend when he first tried to initiate something—so any possibility was dead in the water. It is just that they have always been friends. Good friends. But why would she have asked for him to kiss her, then?
The observation is one Mark wishes he could take back as soon as he shares it. What if it causes Addison to reconsider?
He is afraid that it will all be over before it has even begun.
"I do want to just be friends. We can't date. If we didn't work out, it would change everything." Addison is thinking of her brother as she responds. And of Emmeline. "We wouldn't be able to be friends. Or, it wouldn't be the same, at least."
She is not Archer—she gets this. But, Archer and Emmeline had been friends for such a long time before they were anything else, so the idea of going from friends-to-more is unsustainable to Addison. It ended horribly with Archer and Emmeline. So horribly that even though the Montgomerys and Abbotts reconnected in Paris this summer (rather than getting Addison back to Yale on time for orientation), the friendship is not the same anymore. It never will be. And while Addison doesn't think she would catch Mark cheating on her—like poor, heartbroken Emmeline had with Archer—it is not worth the risk to put a finger near the pin of a grenade. Of all the times Addison has thought about something happening with Mark, it has always just been physical. She values their friendship too much to think about what a proper "relationship" could even be like. And if her time at Yale has been any indication, Mark Sloan is not a "relationship" guy anyway.
"Addison—"
"I was thinking that maybe we could just have fun together. You know…enjoy each other sometimes?" She blushes at the suggestion. It would have sounded effortless and cool if it was coming from someone like Savvy, but Addison feels like she sounds inauthentic. "And make sure our feelings stay out of it."
"Yeah." Mark keeps his voice steady. "We can do that."
He never would have believed a few months ago that he would feel this way about someone. As in, actually feel. There is no way he can experience a level of detachment with Addison. But he thinks it will be difficult for her, too, even if she does not recognize it right now. She is sensitive. She feels things just as strongly as he does, and unlike him, she will not be able to tamp down the visible signs; her heart and brain do not function that way.
But he would rather have this than nothing. That he knows for sure.
Addison cups a hand around his cheek—her first time touching his face. Her thumb brushes over the surface of his cheekbone. She arcs up, and gives him a chaste kiss.
"I really wish I could stay," she murmurs. "But I told the girls I'd come back."
"Let me walk you there."
The sky is fastened with stars. Cold air turns their breath into plumes that spread in front of them as they tread over the cobblestone pathway leading out of Old Campus. Along the way, Mark takes her hand in his. She looks at him when he does, smiling, and he notes that her eyes are back to blue. Addison has honestly never looked more stunning than she does tonight. There could also never be enough adjectives to describe her. He should tell her this. He does not though.
He also does not kiss her when they reach the front doors of Branford. It is not like Mark, to not take the lead, but he decides he will let Addison determine what comes next.
"Have a good Christmas," she says.
"You too."
Addison's head tilts, and then she kisses him on the cheek. Quickly, but tenderly. She gives him one last smile before she heads inside.
"Bye, Mark."
He feels like he is floating as he returns to his room.