“Wait, he did?”
“Sure he did. When they went to get the groceries from him on Wednesday.”
Addison shrugs like this is no big thing.
Jeremy has been our knight in shining disposable face mask and latex gloves this week, doing supermarket runs for us and bringing us several bags of food—once on Sunday afternoon, when he also brought clothes for Kim and Lucy, and again on Wednesday.
Our savior—or so I’d thought. I’m willing to bet that whatever he said to Kim contributed to last night’s meltdown.
“Nobody told me he said anything about calling off the wedding,”
I say now, barely daring to whisper it out loud.
“Oh, I mean, calling it off is a little strong. She was a little weird when she and Lucy got back, so when she was in the bathroom I made Lucy tell me what happened. Apparently, he just said maybe with all of this going on, they might have to end up postponing it.
Which is exactly what you said last night. Lucy said not to mention it to you, or let Kim know she’d said anything. She said she didn’t want to bring the mood down.”
“Kim managed that all by herself,” I mutter.
Addison leans toward me, looking serious for once. The usual quick smile and gleam in her blue eyes has vanished, her face earnest, and she reaches over to squeeze my arm. The contact sends an electric shock through me. “For the record, I think it’s totally fair, what you were saying. You were just being realistic. She was way outta line.”
“Would’ve been nice to have a little of that support last night,” I snap, jerking my arm back, forgetting to keep my voice down this time. I check myself, whispering, “Instead of just cuddling her and telling her you were sure it wouldn’t come to that.”
“What did you want me to do, tell her you were right and that the whole thing would get canceled and yes, actually, she has been a complete bitch for the last few months? She hurled a bottle at the wall, for Christ’s sake, Livvy.”
“It’s just Liv,” I say, scowling. It’s a reflex now, after an entire week.
Addison seems faintly amused by my insistence over her not using that name for me, but tosses her hair and carries on, “If the two or three of us had ganged up on her she’d have probably thrown herself off the damn balcony. And you know as well as I do, if you’re not with Kim on something, you’re against her. There’s no being Switzerland with her. Sor-reee for trying to make things a little better and defuse the tension.”
I huff, but know she’s got a point.
After all, isn’t that exactly what I’ve been doing with Kim for the last year? Except this time, Addison was me, and I was the Evil Bringer of Wedding Tragedies she had to apologize to while Kim lost her shit.
“Plus,” Addison goes on, looking downright angry now, “she had no right to say any of that stuff about you.”
My cheeks flush. I sort of assumed (hoped) she wasn’t going to bring it up. “Oh. Well, I mean . . . ”
“Talk about a low blow,” she says, and then cracks half a smile and winks at me to say, “Like, bringing your commitment issues into it?
Wow.”
Some of the pressure in my chest seems to ease, and I find myself smiling back.
“Seriously, though,” she says, touching my arm again, “if you—”
Oh God, she’s going to say, “If you want to talk about it,” and I really do not. It’s too early in the morning for a serious heart-to-heart with a cute girl.
“You’re right,” I say instead, interrupting her, “she really lost it last night. If it does all get canceled, it might be a blessing in disguise. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. You know, part of me is sorry I ever got involved in this whole damn thing in the first place.”
And then there’s a gasp, and both our heads snap to the doorway, Addison jumping away from me, and Kim stands there, her hair a tangled, greasy mess and her face still streaked with yesterday’s mascara. My heart plummets to somewhere in the pit of my stomach and Addison whispers, “Shit,” under her breath.
Kim’s face contorts and I think she’s going to start bawling again, but instead, her eyes flash and she spits out words like poison.
“If that’s what you think, Olivia, maybe I made a mistake in making you my maid of honor. Maybe I made a mistake in making you my best friend.”
apartment #14 – imogen
Chapter Twenty-five
It’s drizzling outside. Rain pitter-patters against the balcony and the double glass doors, and pale-gray clouds linger across the sky; they seem to muffle the noise of traffic and people, like cotton wool.
Nate is nursing a hangover, the poor lamb. I had to make him some bacon and eggs this morning to help get him back on his feet.
He looked at me with narrow, bloodshot eyes and asked how I could be so perky after drinking even more than he did, and how much schnapps did I put in those drinks, exactly—no, you know what, don’t tell him.
Poor lamb.
Meanwhile, I’ve got only the barest of headaches, and I am so deeply, horribly bored, that I have spent my day trying to catch up on a little work. I persuaded Nate to let me have free reign over his iPad this morning and have been using it to catch up on some emails, even joining a staff meeting where the headmistress talked us through a detailed plan for preparations for moving to remote lessons.
I hope this all blows over. I really, really do.
Especially because I don’t trust myself to work from home.
I’ll be leading classes over Zoom wearing a blouse and my pajama trousers. I’ll be sending emails from bed. At least I won’t need to struggle through a commute if I’m hungover, I guess. (Not that there’s going to be anywhere to go, but when has that ever stopped me?)
Nate has been incredibly disciplined with his work this whole week. I’ve been woken up by him sneaking into the bedroom for clean clothes in the morning after he’s taken a shower; he’s been nice enough to make me a cup of coffee in the mornings when he makes himself one for breakfast. Usually, by the time I’ve got bored of scrolling social media and am hungry enough for breakfast, he’s already thinking about lunch.
I have no idea how he does it.
I know I will never be able to do that when— if—it’s my turn to work from home.
Right now, I’m starting to run out of the motivation that had me doing some work. It might be time to call it a day and abandon my lesson plan. Even Nate has clocked off early because it’s Friday, his work things packed neatly into a backpack he leaves under the coat hooks in the hallway.
He’s sat at the other end of the sofa, and he’s staring at me.
I can feel his eyes boring into me; I’m just not sure if it’s a “let’s go to bed” look or a more scathing one. Judging by the cautious approach of “let’s pretend we didn’t sleep together and we’re just friends” that he’s taken this week, I can’t imagine it’s the former.
Neither of us has mentioned him kissing my cheek goodnight. I don’t know if he even remembers it. I do, but I obviously also don’t think anything of it. It was just a peck on the cheek. It was no big deal.