by Lili Valente
Maybe they did that so they could have the freedom to scream at each other whenever they want without other people sticking their noses in. In any case, it seems best to forget about the weird and enjoy the rest of our trip.
The next day we get up early, head to the lake, and swim until we’re too exhausted to do anything but lay like snakes, basking in the sun. Addie falls asleep, and soon I do, too. When I wake up, the beach is deserted and Addie has slipped off her top and is lying next to me with a wickedly cute, slightly nervous look on her face. She’s so fucking sexy I can’t resist grabbing my phone and snapping a picture.
At first, she insists I delete it, but then I show her the shot, and how beautiful she is, and she lets me pull out my real camera and take a few more. She’s so magical, so breathtaking and sexy, just like the first time I kissed her on the beach, except now she has tan lines because we’ve had the most amazing first summer together.
But it won’t be the last.
“Next summer, we’ll go to the Grand Canyon.” I kiss her, cupping her breast in my hand. “You and me, epic road trip.”
“I won’t be eighteen yet.” She bites her lip as I tease her nipple between my fingers. “And I can’t keep lying to my parents. I want you to meet them.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“It’s a great idea. You’re wonderful, and they’ll love you—as long as they don’t think we’re having premarital sex.”
“That may be a problem.” I slip my hand down the front of her bikini bottoms, finding her clit. “Because I’m pretty sure it’s written all over my face how much I love fucking you, Einstein.”
She smiles as she arches into my touch. “It is. It’s one of the things I love best about you, P.D.”
“I love you, too,” I murmur into the soft skin at her neck as I rub her clit in firm circles. “I love you so much, Addie.”
“Me, too.” She tugs at the top of my swim trunks. “Now. Please.”
“What if someone shows up?” I ask, but I’m already reaching for a condom.
“Everyone’s gone except us.” She lifts her hips, letting me pull her bottoms down her legs. “And I need you. So much.”
I slide the condom on and then I slide inside Adeline, making love to her on the beach in broad daylight, but no one sees her come but me. No one hears her call my name like I’m all she needs in the whole world. It’s like the universe was made for the two of us and nothing else dares to intrude when we’re together.
Everything is…perfect.
My guard is so fucking down it’s like I never had one to begin with. Like I never had the sense to worry about all the shit that could, and so often does, go wrong.
***
The next morning, I drop Addie at the end of her street to walk home—and pretend that she’s spent the past two nights chaperoning at a church camp—and head for the highway. I’m pulling onto the 895 when my phone rings. It’s my dad, telling me to get my ass home, do not pass go, do not pretend to be practicing football in New Jersey like a “lying little bastard,” do not collect a single damn dollar because he’s emptied out my checking account.
I know the game is up, but I have no clue how bad it’s going to be.
I’ve been so drunk on Addie and high on love that I’ve forgotten how much my father hates to lose.
***
It isn’t until a month later, as I’m standing outside my English 101 class, the only course in my entire damned schedule that I look forward to, that I realize it isn’t worth it.
Survival isn’t worth it.
I don’t want to survive, I want to live, and I want to do it with Addie, even if we only have a few days together before it all falls apart.
An hour later, everything I own is shoved in my trunk and I’m headed north, bound for Adeline. But when I get to her house, she’s gone. Vanished without a trace, at least not one her irate mother is willing to share with me.
I spend the next three days tracking down Addie’s friends and her piano teacher and her math tutor, but no one knows where she’s gone. The trail is cold, and by the time I’ve slept in my car for three nights, so am I.
I hate myself for what’s happened, and for leaving Addie the way I did, but it’s time to make a plan, and to get the hell out of the country in case Dad decides to make good on his threats. My grandmother buys me a ticket to London, where my cousin lets me crash in his spare room while I apply to creative writing programs. I get accepted for the winter term in Manchester, find a job, and spend the next few years making sure I’m so busy I don’t have time to think about the things—or the people—I’ve left behind.
Eventually I land my first big article, my second, my third, and then, by the grace of the journalistic gods, my piece on social media detox is picked up by Time magazine.
Suddenly, I’ve got a genuine career on my hands and even less time to think.
***
The years go by, one adventure spiraling into another, and I feel like I’m awake, alive, living the dream. But I might as well be in a fucking coma. At least as far as my heart is concerned.
No matter how many girls I date, how many women I sleep with, how often I try to get past the fifth week of a relationship and into the sixth, it never works. Because none of those women are the girl with the wire glasses and crooked smile, who made me feel like summer would never end.
None of them are Adeline, the person I was once so fucking sure was meant for me.
CHAPTER TWO
Present Day
From the text archives of Adeline “Addie” Klein
and Shane Willoughby Falcone
Adeline: Shane? Are you awake?
Shane: Of course, it’s five a.m.
Adeline: Oh crap, it is! I’m sorry!
Forget I texted. Go back to sleep.
you’re getting very sleepy
Shane: I am not! LOL! I wasn’t sleeping, I promise.
Adeline: Sometimes it’s hard to tell if someone is being sarcastic via text…
Shane: I’m never sarcastic about getting up early.
Four a.m. to seven a.m. are the best hours of the day. I’ve already done yoga, fed the orchids, booked a pregnancy massage, organized the recycling, and contemplated the effect of climate change on coastal property in Southeast Asia.
Adeline: You’re moving to Southeast Asia?!
Shane: No. I’ve just been reading too many Discovery magazine articles about coastal erosion, mutating viruses, and the dangers inherent in making DNA editing something any kid with a CRISPR can do in his home lab.
Turns out, the world is a lot scarier once you’ve committed to bringing an innocent life into it. So it’s good that you texted to take my mind off of my troubles ☺.
What’s up?
Adeline: Nothing really. It’s not a big deal.
Let’s talk about you!
How are you feeling? Still having afternoon sickness?
Shane: Don’t you dare, Adeline! Tell me what’s flipping around in your squirrel brain. What has you up and fretting at five a.m.?
Adeline: But you already sound stressed…
Shane: I am not stressed, but I will be if you don’t spill the goods.
Don’t make me come down there and knock on the door while Miss Eloise is still in her pajamas.
Adeline: God, no! She’ll skin me alive for having someone over without asking!
Shane: Then someone better start typing…
Tick, tick, tick…
walks to the door
contemplates bringing some of those prunes Miss Eloise likes so that she can serenade you later when they start to take effect
Adeline: Jesus, anything but the prunes! I’ll talk! I’ll talk!
Shane: I’m listening…
Adeline: heavy sigh
I didn’t want to bother you while you and Jake were on your honeymoon, but it occurred to me a few days ago that I hadn’t asked you not to mention me to the man we saw in the park with Aidan. You,
know, the one’s who training to work for Magnificent Bastard Consulting? Nate?
Shane: You mean Nate of the killer cheekbones, whiskey and honey voice, and sinfully broad shoulders, who you had wild and crazy sexy times with all summer long before he went away to college. That Nate?
Adeline: Um. Yes. That one.
Please tell me you haven’t said anything to him about me living in the city…
Shane: Of course not. I’ve been too busy to make it to Bash and Penny’s place for poker night, but I wouldn’t have said anything anyway.
You clearly aren’t a fan of Mr. Casey, Addie, and I’m not a fan of introducing unnecessary stress into a friend’s life. Your secret is safe with me.
Adeline: Oh good. melts into a relief-puddle
Thank you so much!
Shane: You’re welcome. Though I still say you should let me talk to Bash and get Nate fired. If he’s got you this spooked, he’s not the sort of person who’s cut out for helping the unlucky in love get back at their evil exes.
Bash would be better off cutting him loose and looking for someone else to play the sexy businessman type.
Adeline: No, Nate will do a fine job. A great job, probably.
Like I said before, he’s good at pretending to feel things he doesn’t really feel.
And I don’t want to mess up his life. I just have no interest in seeing him again. I have better things to do with my time. Like fetch Eloise more gourmet laxatives or shine all the silver with a cotton swab or watch light brown paint dry.
Shane: Light brown paint is the worst.
Why does the HOA insist on redoing the hallways in cardboard box brown every few years, Addie? It vexes me.
Adeline: Brown is the color of despair.
Shane: I agree, and for what it’s worth…
Well, I know I only talked to Nate briefly, but I’m still comfortable saying that you’re too good for him. You’ve got a one-in-a-million heart, Adeline Klein. Anyone who would take that for granted is a putz not worthy to lick your penny loafers. Breaking up with you was the stupidest thing he’s ever done.
Adeline: Aw, well… Thank you.
It was a little more complicated than that, but…thank you.
Shane: It’s always complicated when it comes to men we used to love, sweets.
But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve someone who will appreciate how very special you are.
Adeline: I love you, but you have to stop before you make me cry.
Shane: Stopping right now.
Here, have an emoji rendition of Let it Go.
It makes everything better.
Adeline: LOL. Why do you have this on your phone?
Shane: The power went out at our cabin while Jake and I were on our honeymoon. Writing songs in emoji format helped pass the time when I got tired of Text Twist and Candy Crush.
Adeline: I would think you guys could have come up with more entertaining things to do in the dark…
Shane: Two people can only bang so much, Addie. Especially when one person has morning sickness and the other is recovering from surgery.
Adeline: Good point.
Shane: All right, I’m off to make tea and toast.
Want to come up and share my marmalade?
Adeline: I have to get Eloise’s bag packed for her doctor’s appointment. But thanks for the talk.
Shane: We didn’t talk. I promised NOT to talk.
But if you ever actually want to do a post mortem on old Nate and give me lots of good reasons to hate him, I’m here.
Adeline: Thank you. But I won’t.
I put the Nate baggage away a long time ago.
Some things are better off six feet under.
Shane: Assuming they’ll stay buried…
Adeline: I don’t believe in zombies.
Shane: But you believe in vampires, right?
Since you live with one?
Adeline: Omg, you made me laugh out loud. Loudly out loud. Now Eloise will want to know what’s so funny and you know I’m the worst liar.
Shane: Seriously though, Eloise being a vampire really would explain a lot, wouldn’t it? The paleness, the aversion to sunlight and happiness, the way her eyes get all feverish when she’s making someone squirm in misery.
Maybe she’s one of those emotional vampires who feed on misery…
Adeline: You have to stop!
Shane: At least we know she’s not a succubus, you know the kind of vampires who—
Adeline: Oh God. Yes! I mean, no! Stop, my stomach is starting to hurt.
Shane: So you know what a succubus is?
Adeline: I know exactly what a succubus is.
Thanks for making me picture Eloise naked.
Shane: Naked and getting biz-zay…
Adeline: You really do take things too far sometimes.
Shane: All part of my charm
Say hello to Eloise for me.
Adeline: I will, you wicked thing.
Shane: Well, you know what they say—
If you can’t be good, be good at it. devil emoji
See you later, sweet Addie. And as always, your secrets are safe with me.
CHAPTER THREE
Adeline
I stare at the devil emoji on my screen for longer than I should, thinking about pretty devils and how naïve I used to be. Just a stupid kid pretending to be grown up for the summer.
I think about that girl a lot. Sixteen-year-old Addie with her smart mouth and big dreams, so sure of herself and the love of a boy who touched her like she was the only thing that mattered. Sometimes I hate her confidence and those happy memories of the past that float around inside me, making me aware of my not-so-happy present. Other times I want to reach back through time, give teen me a big hug, and thank her for giving me that beautiful summer.
One summer of being wild and loved and oh-so-brave before my pretty devil proved he wasn’t so pretty after all, not in the ways that count, and left without even saying goodbye.
“Adeline!” Eloise screeches my name from somewhere deeper in the apartment and I jump to attention, quickly deleting my text conversation with Shane, just in case Eloise decides to “borrow” my phone again to paw through my personal messages.
“Coming!” I tuck the phone into my cleavage—one area I can be reasonably certain Eloise will leave unmolested—and hurry to tidy my room and get dressed, feeling strangely at odds with myself. But maybe it’s not so strange, really. It’s not just knowing Nate’s in my city that’s making me crazy. Eloise does her share to tighten the screws.
The pressure has been building for months, years, even.
On this morning in early February, with the city outside my twelfth-story window covered in white and the Central Park trees shaggy with fresh snow, I have been the faithful live-in companion to widow Eloise Rosewell-Du Pont for nearly seven years.
Seven years of getting up at five a.m. to fix her tea so that it could cool to the ideal temperature of 62.8 degrees and be ready in the sitting room when her maid, Mina, finishes helping her bathe and dress. Seven years of reading the New York Times aloud while Eloise bemoans every modern development since 1964. Seven years of wheeling her to her weekly PT appointments while she finds fault with my speed, no matter how fast or slow I roll her, and then sitting on the stoop outside the therapist’s office because Eloise doesn’t want anyone in the waiting room to mistake me for her granddaughter, Sylvia Elizabeth Louise Rosewell-Du Pont.
Sylvia, who is getting her doctorate in cellular biology, is engaged to the son of the banker who owns half the upper east side, is accomplished, poised, and attractive—different from me in every way, except for an unfortunate gene for curly hair that responds equally poorly to New York City humidity.
“That hair,” Eloise is fond of saying, the thin skin around her mouth puckering as she surveys my dark mane of fuzz. “You really should wear a scarf, Adeline. In my day, women knew when to cover their heads. Not to mention the rest of themselves.”
/> For years, I have worn nothing but long skirts, modest button-ups, and formless sweaters. I have a closet full of what my friend Shane calls “dour librarian casual,” and still Eloise seems to think that I’m dressing to seduce the helpless men of New York City. The occasional catcalls from construction workers are due to the siren’s song of my wide-leg, pleated khakis—“women in pants give men ideas, Adeline”—and Kevin, the homeless man who bows and mutters poetry every time I walk by his corner is doe-eyed because I’ve encouraged him with my feminine wiles.
And maybe I do encourage him. Just the tiniest bit.
It’s nice to be told you’re beautiful every once in a while, even by someone with only a handful of teeth and a smell like he’s been sleeping in the same clothes since last Valentine’s Day.
I should have looked for another position two years ago when Eloise broke her hip getting out of the bath and started insinuating the accident was my fault, even though she was the one who decided to get out of the tub without ringing for help. Or maybe a year ago, when she started sending me on increasingly wild scavenger hunts for obscure food items found only in the most dangerous and/or isolated corners of the city.
Satisfying my employer’s cravings has become increasingly risky, and I’ve come to suspect that there’s more motivating my missions than a hankering for lemon-misted prunes or black market caviar. Either Eloise craves the entertainment of my survival stories—I’ve spent two hours trapped in the cellar of a Chinatown fish monger, was frisked during a raid of a Jamaican fruit market, and ended up blindfolded in the meat-packing district, all for the sad carcass of an exotic French bird Eloise took two bites of and declared “too crunchy”—or the old bat is trying to kill me.
It’s like Shane said one afternoon, right after I’d finished relating the tale of a harrowing search for an exotic Sardinian cheese:
“I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, Addie. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that some people actually enjoy poisoning the well.”
I laugh, tossing my taco wrapper into a bin as we turn onto the path leading past the Central Park Zoo. “Well, thankfully, no one was poisoned. I didn’t end up finding the Casu Marzu. And even if I had, I was going to strongly encourage Eloise to skip it. I read up on it on my way to the cheese monger. Apparently the maggots that are introduced to soften the cheese with their digestive enzymes are left inside the wheel when it’s shipped out for sale. They’re still alive when it’s served and can jump up to six inches when disturbed by a fork or spoon.”
