by Haley Pierce
Dazed, I remember going into the college bookstore, wanting anything else this man had written. The woman there told me he’d committed suicide, right before the book had been published. The Steinbeck prize he’d received had been awarded posthumously. I think of Addison’s autobiography page of visiting her father’s grave.
She’s looking at me, vaguely concerned, so I jump to standing and smooth my pants. I can hardly believe it, even as I say the words, “Is your father Hayden Eco?”
She nods. “So you have heard of him?”
Holy fuck. I run a hand through my hair. Her expression transforms and now she looks as if she’s contemplating my mental health, so I explain. “You could say that. He’s the reason I’m a writer, actually.”
She blinks. “Really?”
“Well, yes. Have you read it? It’s utter brilliance.”
She shakes her head, tossing her blonde ponytail from side to side in a way that makes her look younger. “There hasn’t been much room in my house for literature since my father left.”
I stare at her, incredulous. Then I remember just who her mother is, and it makes sense. Her mother calls the shots, and knowing the way she felt about creative writing, it’s clear why she doesn’t have a copy of Eco’s book in the house. Their relationship couldn’t have been an easy one. If gentle, sweet Addison, couldn’t escape that woman unscathed, then I doubt anyone could.
When she jumps up from the edge of the desk and checks her phone, a worried look on her face, I know she’s thinking of her, too. “I’ve got to go,” she says with a smile, hoisting her backpack onto her shoulders.
“Wait,” I say, cornering her. I come up close to her, and damned if my cock doesn’t respond, wanting her again. With her, once is never enough. And she’s . . . fucking Hayden Eco’s daughter. “You said my book was good?”
She bursts out laughing. “Oh, so the literary opinion of Addison McBride means nothing, but the literary opinion of the daughter of Hayden Eco means something?”
I scoff. Then I realize that, yes. That’s exactly why I was asking her. It makes no difference, and yet it does. Everything I find out about her only makes me want to know more, to get closer. And I need to stop it, the way I stop it with other women. I need to stop before she’s entwined her web around me and I can’t escape.
But why the fuck is it so hard, with her? Maybe because she’s pulling every chord inside me expertly, as if she knows exactly which one will leave the biggest impression. Or maybe this is what is called fate, serendipity, things aligning so perfectly, pointing me in the exact direction I need to take. She’s looking at me with those wide, puppy-dog eyes, and damned if I don’t want to fuck her again, to take her home to my apartment and spend all night there.
Instead, I settle for the next best thing. “Friday night? Same time and place?”
Her top button is still undone, something I know her mother wouldn’t approve of. I reach over and button it.
She nods. “Same time and place.”
Addison
The weeks go by in a blur. Every Friday, I meet Cain under the staircase in the library. It feels like my reward for putting in a good week of work at school, studying, acing tests, getting the grades I have to get for med school. Once all that is done, I can put away the books, let my hair down, and just be free.
I’ve gotten better at my assignments, so much so that, though I’m not the A-student my mother expects me to be, we start to wonder if she’s even going to go through with the meeting. It’s been weeks since we’ve heard anything from the Dean about the “meeting”, and over a month since my mother laid a hand on me. Things are, generally, good.
No, they’re better than that, I think as I straddle him, still impaled on his cock after we’ve both come. He’s slumped back in the chair, absently stroking his hands up and down my spine, my hair veiling his face as our breathing returns to normal. I rest my forehead on his shoulder. Things are perfect.
Then we return to the real world and I remember that if I don’t get home before ten, my mother will call out the guards. I tense, but he senses it and holds me there, tighter. “Just wait,” he says, and for the first time, I notice he seems upset. I’d thought it’d just been lust when he’d ripped at my clothes and pulled me atop him. But no, there’s something wrong.
I blink, surprised. “What?”
“Got a message from Anna. If I don’t get the book to her by next Monday, they’re pulling the plug. Game over.” He sighs, laces his hands around my backside, and settles me deeper on his cock, so that I can almost feel it hardening inside me again. “No problem. I just have to whip out the next two-hundred pages in, what? Nine days?”
“Can’t you ask for another extension?” The question is out before I remember what his agent’s extensions usually entail. Why did I ask it? No, I don’t think he’s being exclusive with me—after all, we’re just fucking— but something about him sleeping with Anna again makes me cold inside.
To my relief, he shakes his head glumly.
“Well, why don’t you show them what you have already?” I fight the urge to tell him how amazing it is, since he always seems uncomfortable when I gush. “They can’t possibly pull the plug after they read it.”
He glowers. “No. I’ve fucked them around too long. They’re livid. They need to clear the way for the Next Big Thing, and apparently, I’m no longer it.”
I know he needs the encouragement, so I give him the bright cheerleader act. “But you could be. Just write it! You still have nine days. How many words a day would you have to write?”
He doesn’t even pause before answering. It’s likely he’s been running over the figures all day long. “Twelve thousand, at least.”
I wince. That sounds terrible. But I try to keep the cheer in my voice. “You shouldn’t be here with me,” I say, lifting myself off him. “You have words to write.”
He nods and takes the briefcase I hand to him, his head still down. He looks anything but motivated.
I give him a little punch on the shoulder. “Come on, up and at em. I provided the inspiration. Go write up a storm. You have all weekend.”
A small smile breaks on his face like the sun after a storm. Then he starts to stand and pull up his pants. “All right.” He checks his watch as I push him toward the door. “It’s only eight-thirty. What will you do?”
I smile. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll actually get some studying done.”
After he leaves, only a minute passes before I want him back. For some reason, though this place had been my refuge alone for the first three years of college, without him, it doesn’t feel comfortable anymore.
After about fifteen minutes of struggling through my Statistics homework, I pack everything up and drive home, still thinking about Cain. What’s wrong with me? All the things that I normally do so well alone, I can’t seem to handle without him there. I’d told him that once things were over between us, likely at the end of the year when I went to med school, or even before that, when class ended this December, I’d go off and find other men.
But I don’t want to find anyone else.
When I step inside, the house is dark. Carol is always off on the weekends, and my mother is probably on another date with Saul. I haven’t been invited to dinner with them since I missed the last one, not that I mind. I drop my backpack in the foyer, turning on lights as I go, since I hate being alone in this creepy giant house by myself. At the kitchen, I grab a bottle of spring water from the refrigerator and turn to see an envelope on the granite center island counter. I’m not sure why Carol would leave that there; there’s a sorting tray in the coat room for her mail, and my mother absolutely hates for anything to be left on the counters.
Then it hits me.
I walk, very cautiously, toward it, squinting to make out the name in the upper left hand corner. When I get close enough, one word in delicate block print comes into view: HARVARD.
Oh, my god.
I lunge for it at once, stoppi
ng before I come into actual contact with it, as if I’m afraid it’ll burst into flames or go poof into the air. When I do touch the stiff, creamy white envelope, I lift it up, hearing my pulse in my ears. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Mother said the application was just a formality. I’m in.
But something doesn’t seem right, and when I slide a finger underneath the flap, I know what it is.
The envelope is far too light. There’s probably only one sheet of paper inside.
It’s a rejection, a voice inside whispers as I unfold the paper. I read:
Dear Ms. McBride:
Thank you for submitting your online application to Harvard Medical School.
However, as we have not received all the items to complete your submission package, your application has been closed. Missing items are listed below.
Should you have any questions, please contact us at the number above.
What? That can’t be right. I’d submitted everything—terrible MCAT scores, twice. College transcripts, twice. Statement of intent. I’d gone over the checklist until I could recite it from memory.
I read the letter again, my eyes trailing down the list. There is a check next to the line that says Three professional letters of recommendation from professors or employers.
No. That’s wrong. I’d contacted four professors from last year, and they’d all agreed to send in recommendations for me. My mother was upset when she found out that I’d told all of them where to send the letter. She thought I should collect them from the professors and mail them myself, to ensure that they arrived. But I told her it was fine; I only needed three recommendations, so if one failed to act, it would be okay.
Now, though? It’s not okay.
Frantic, I check my phone. No one will be at the administration office in Harvard at nine on a Friday night.
But I can make this right. I know I can.
Before my mother finds out.
I have to.
Quickly, I rush up to my room and log onto my computer. Sure enough, the deadline for applying for next year’s medical school class at Harvard has passed. I open an email to my professors helplessly, wondering what I should say. Did you fuck up my chances of getting into med school? This seems ungrateful. And what if they don’t respond right away?
I need answers. Now.
Fingers trembling, I open up a chat window to Cain. I know he’s likely at his computer, but I only pray he’s not too involved in his book to answer me. I type in: Dr. Hill? Are you there?
A second later: Yes, Addison. What do you need?
Him. I just need him, here, holding me. Could you wrte me a lettr of recomendation? Quilcky?
I don’t even notice the typos in my sentence until he replies with: What’s wrong? Are you ok?
What can I say? My heart is in my throat. If my mother sees this letter, she will kill me. Not in a figurative sense, either. Really, really kill me. She warned me that this would happen, and she’s right. I’m stupid, pathetic, unable to do anything right. I can’t breathe.
I just type in: Please.
I copy down the number for administration, then take the letter and envelope and rip them into the smallest of pieces, until they’re just confetti. I place them into a sheet of graph paper, fold it into a package, and slide it under my mattress. After I do, I look up and realize he’s written back: Of course. I can have it for you on Monday.
It doesn’t make me feel any better. Even if I can send them the missing letter, the application period is over. They have thousands of applicants and only a few openings. One of those openings had been reserved for me, according to my mother. But what are the chances that they’d hold it for me now?
Oh, god. Oh, my fucking god, I’ve ruined everything.
I’m staring into space, fighting back tears when a new message pops up on the screen: Addison? You okay?
No, I think. No, I’m not.
But I have nowhere to go. I’m trapped.
Cain
Though I’m on the computer for the rest of the weekend, Addison doesn’t sign on again. I end up writing like a madman, cutting the number of words I need to write by half. For once, the deadline seems almost doable. But I haven’t told that to Anna. I haven’t told Emil, my editor, or anyone else. They don’t give a shit about me; they just want to make money. In fact, from Anna’s dismissive tone during our last phone conversation, I could tell she’d already moved on to the next big thing. No, I dream of dropping the manuscript on the desk of that big NYC publisher and telling them to go fuck themselves.
The only person I really want to tell, the person I know will be proud of me? Addison.
When she arrives that afternoon, she’s late. She has dark rings around her eyes, and no make-up. Her hair is messed and she’s wearing leggings and a shapeless sweater, like she rolled out of bed. She seems to be staring at the ground as I lecture, half-asleep, and she barely takes any notes. When class ends, I call her over and hand her the recommendation.
“Thank you,” she says, taking it. “I—“
“Why do you need it, Addison? I thought you said your application was already submitted?”
“Yeah, well.” She lets out a nervous giggle and looks away. Finally, she wipes at one of her eyes and stuffs the recommendation into her bag. “You never can have too many recommendations.”
“Are you okay, Addison?” she asks.
She nods, looking anything but, which makes me think she must’ve heard the news I got this morning. Yes, this morning, I’d gotten a call that we’re all meeting at Dean Armstrong’s office, where I’m sure they’ll try to hand me my ass. I need to prepare, which wouldn’t be a problem if I didn’t have the Monday deadline for my novel looming over me.
“You probably already know that I got a call from the dean,” I tell her. “Your mother didn’t forget. The meeting is this Friday.”
“Really?” It’s news to her. Her worried expression gets even deeper. So this isn’t what was bothering her before. She lets out a long, deep sigh. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Hill. Maybe you were right. Maybe you should’ve just let her get her way.”
What? That doesn’t sound like her. “No. You were right. She doesn’t deserve to win this.”
Her eyes trail to her sneakers. “But she always wins. Somehow.”
I knew it was something with her mother, who seems to be at the core of all her problems. And though she wouldn’t let me intrude, I know she wants to, needs to get away. I haven’t seen bruises on her body in the past three weeks, but I find myself looking for them now. “Look,” I start, thinking of how to phrase it so she won’t shut me down, which I know she’s going to do. “If you’re in trouble—“
“I’m not,” she mutters bluntly. “I told you, I’m a McBride. I’ve got to go.”
She turns on her heel and stalks out the door even before I can say another word.
When I sit myself down in front of the computer that evening to write my next chapter, I find myself going to the module to see if she’s online. She’s not.
I have the strong coffee. I have a nice, rainy night. I have the notes to guide me in my next scene. I have soft classical music playing in the background.
But I don’t have her. And it’s not just the sex that inspires me. From her, I want something else. Something I’ve never wanted from another woman in my life. Her smile, her gentle encouragement, her presence.
Fuck it, forget her, I tell myself, again and again until I’m begging myself to listen.
She doesn’t want me interfering in the rest of her life, trying to play hero. She wants me for the sexual education, and that’s it. Besides, in another few months, she’ll be states away, in med school. And who knows, after Friday, I might not even have a job. I need to concentrate on my manuscript, my future.
But damned if every time I try to, she intrudes.
Hungry. I’m probably just hungry. I find a Chinese take-out menu and order some Chicken and Broccoli, then decide I need something stronger than co
ffee and pour myself a Guinness.
But it doesn’t help.
Finally, I tear off my glasses, toss them on the desk, and yawn. As I do, I hear a slight rapping on the door. I don’t get many visitors, especially at nine in the evening, so I assume Choi’s having an on-night and my dinner’s being delivered at lightning-quick speed.
When I answer the door, I’m surprised to see Addison standing there. She looks like she walked here in the rain, her hair wet and stringy and clinging to her pale face. She’s not wearing a coat, despite the icy weather, and her shirt is nearly see-through, clinging to her tits, outlining the nipples. My first instinct is a purely primal, lustful one—to grab her and get those wet things off her, but then she looks up, and I see the blood trickling from her nose, down to her chin. There’s a red welt on her cheek, too.
“What the fuck.” I take her by the wrist and lead her into my living room.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her lower lip trembling. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Addison, of course you’re welcome here. I told you.” I reach for a paper towel from the kitchen, kneel in front of her and bring it to her nose. “Your mother did this. You can’t keep denying it.”
“I made a huge mistake,” she says, voice trembling. “I forgot to make sure I had the right number of recommendations for med school, and my application was incomplete. I called them today and they told me I could still send it in, but that admission decisions were already made for this year. My mother must have been checking my phone calls, because she found out. And she . . .”
“She hits you.” I finish.
She nods, fresh tears pouring down her cheeks. “I kept thinking just a few more months. All I had to do was get through graduation, and then I could be on my own and do what I wanted. But I found out that she’s been looking at apartments for herself in Boston. She’s going to move there to be near me while I go to medical school. And once I graduate, she’ll probably make me live with her again. I’ll never get away from her.”
