“I used to.” Thinking of the stack of paperwork and emails and invitations waiting for me at City Hall, I sigh, knowing the sound will get swallowed by the abundance of noise. “Used to sneak in for free praline samples when I was young. Haven’t been in a while, though.”
“Running for mayor is time consuming. That’s why I’ve never done it.”
My laugh sneaks up on me. “Oh, is that why?”
Her lips twitch. “My grandmother had a coveted vendor permit at the market. She’s been selling Christmas ornaments there since I can remember. The booth is aptly named Jingle Balls.” The floorboards move under our feet as she shifts. “She left me that, too. Added my name to the license and never told me.”
“Are you going to run from the room again before I can offer condolences?”
Her arms drop, mouth opening and closing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“No explanation needed. But I am very sorry, Addison.” I take pity on her by changing the subject. “Are you going to work at the booth?”
It takes her a few beats to answer. “I wasn’t going to. I was going back to New York as soon as I tied up her loose ends,” she says, sounding somewhat dazed. “But when I went to collect her things…I figured, maybe one more day? And now I’ve been selling Christmas ornaments for two weeks. In freaking March.”
“You like it.”
“Yeah. I like it.” She turns to me with a far-off expression. “My grandmother raised me. She was really good to me, even when things got hard. It doesn’t seem right to abandon her life’s work quite so fast.”
Underneath the glow of Christmas lights, something is becoming very hard to ignore, though I’ve been doing a good job until now. Addison is a beautiful woman. That’s an understatement, actually. When I was a young boy, I overheard my grandfather describe a woman, saying, “That one could end friendships, start wars and make a glutton suck in his gut.”
Seems to me a woman shouldn’t be blamed for wars, simply because of her appearance, but I understand the sentiment. Long story short, Addison is a complete knockout.
What the hell am I doing here? My relationship just ended without preamble. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be headline fodder. What happened today might even affect the campaign. I’ve probably got a search party looking for me by now. Hell, I’ve somehow offended my fiancé enough that she jilted me. The last thing I should be doing is standing in another woman’s apartment, noticing she’s gorgeous.
“You’re freaking out on me,” Addison says. “Is it the dancing Frostys?”
“No.” I press two fingers to my eye socket. “I’m sorry. Impulsive decisions aren’t like me. I should be back at the church saying goodbye to everyone. Denying southerners their chance to give condolences is a sin. They’ll want to hear me say I’m fine.”
Maybe I should be trying to find Naomi. Weird how I’m only thinking of that now.
“Are you fine?”
“I don’t know,” I say on an exhale. “That’s why I got in your car. I needed somewhere to go figure that out.”
She hesitates before asking her next question. “What did the note say?”
I dig it out of my pocket, unfolding the pink, scented stationary, complete with a glitter border. “I’m sorry, Elijah. I couldn’t do it.” Just like the first time I read the note, I’m somewhat alarmed by my reaction. There’s surprise. Confusion. But not the kind of pain I would expect from a man being stood up by his bride. “I didn’t want to end it this way, but it’s for the best.”
There’s only a flash of sympathy on Addison’s face, before she nods and leaves the room. A second later, Christmas powers down and I’m back to standing in the cool, hazy apartment in the muted afternoon light. Before and after. Full speed straight into stagnancy, just like my day leading up to the note being delivered mid-aisle. Bootsteps signal Addison’s return and I put the note back in my pocket.
She takes my arm as she passes through the living room. “Come on.”
“Now, hold on, Goose…”
We come to a halt halfway down the hallway. “Goose?”
“You greeted me with a bottle of the stuff.”
“Thank God you won’t be around long enough to make that stick.” With a decisive nod, she keeps going, leading me into a bedroom. It’s big, sparse and clean, not much more than a queen-sized bed and an antique bureau. Any suspicion I have that she’s going to invite me to join her in the bed fades with the wide berth she gives me. “If you don’t want to go home right away, you can stay here for the night. But I’m not cooking for you.”
A reprieve from the responsibilities that face me sounds like heaven. My father is probably dying to strategize a way to spin today’s events into getting votes. Reporters are more than likely already camped outside my…my what?