Last night, I didn’t go back to Addison’s apartment. Didn’t go to the hotel, either. In fact, I sat on the couch in my office so long, the sun started to come up before I knew a minute had passed. What the hell happened? In the space of an evening, I was elected mayor of Charleston, had the hottest—filthiest—sex of my life. And I think I lost my best friend.
That last one is what has a wrench stuck in my throat.
Somehow this is my fault, but I can’t for the life of me figure out where I took a misstep. Yes, I was an active participant in fucking Addison on my desk. There are consequences for what happened. But I’m not seeing the full picture. Something is hanging out right in the periphery of my consciousness and it won’t become clear. No matter how much bourbon I drink. No matter how many times I replay Addison’s mouth under mine…her breasts in my hands. How uninhibited she was. Those satisfied whimpers.
“Not helping,” I mutter, taking a swig of my own lukewarm coffee. “Idiot.”
A whole night of thinking and here is what I came up with: Addison can’t just stay in my home without furniture. As well as I can remember, there’s nothing but a couple twin beds in some of the guest rooms and a handful of rolled up carpets. I’m the owner of the home where she’s staying and in the south, there are laws against guests being uncomfortable. Which is why I’ve moved my furniture out of storage at the crack of dawn and delivered it here, instead of showing up at City Hall the day after the election. There’s probably a cake and a banner in the lobby, all manner of folks waiting to slap me on the back, but I’m in last night’s clothes trying to see the outline of Addison through the windows. Has she already left for work?
“Hey, boss.” That muffled greeting is followed by a knock on the window. “You have the key to the front door?”
“No. We’ll have to knock.” I open the driver’s side door and climb out, my mouth tasting like sludge. “Let’s go find out if the lady of the house is present, shall we?”
“Yes, sir.” A trio of men follow me up the steps, two of them carrying bubble-wrapped side tables. “I’m glad to hear everything worked out.”
My hand pauses in the act of knocking. “I’m sorry?”
“With your fiancée.” He taps the side of his head. “I’m glad she came to her senses.”
Is he talking about…Naomi? The notion of her coming back and moving into this house, like nothing ever happened, is so absurd, I can’t help but laugh. During last night’s Epic Evening of Thought, Naomi made an appearance once or twice, but only in the capacity of what came after the wedding. Walking out of the church and feeling like an abject failure. A disappointment to someone who’d once believed in me enough to accept a marriage proposal. It’s something I try not to think about, but last night it continued to jump out and bite me. I’m not sure why. “No, this is a different woman who came to her senses.”
The mover’s face falls. “I’m sorry, boss, I didn’t realize.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Everyone still seems uncomfortable, so I give them each a nod. “I appreciate you coming out so early. Lunch is on me later.”
“Can I help you?”
Addison’s voice comes from the bottom of the stairs and I sidestep the men to get a look. Ignoring the odd ripple in my gut, I see that she’s sweating from a run, one earbud dangling from her right ear. Her cheeks are chapped from the wind and wispy black hairs are coming loose from her ponytail. I’m usually at work by the time she returns from her run, so it’s rare that I see her like this. But it feels like the first time. Probably because we’re miles away from her apartment and nothing looks or sounds or feels the same.
Also probably because I came inside her last night.
“Elijah?” she says, tilting her head and prompting me. “What’s up?”
“Come unlock the door. You’re getting furniture.”
She’s just as surprised by my irritated tone of voice as I am. “I…no. I don’t need it. There’s running water and a bed. A couple pots and pans. I was going to go grab sheets and towels at my place later.”
“What about a couch, television, dining table…”
“I’m not planning on staying forever.”
Why that rushed statement is a right cross to my face, I can’t say. But it serves to make me even more determined to deck out the house like a palace. “Unlock the door or I’ll call a locksmith. You’re going to be comfortable in my home, goddammit.”
Her mouth wobbles and she breaks into a laugh. “What is this? Aggressive southerning?”