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She storms out of the room, and I can’t do anything. I know I should. In any other instance, I’d know what to do. Catch her. Apologize to her. Scream from the rooftops that I love her. Something. Anything. But I don’t do anything except stand there and shake.
I have never been so absolutely broken in my life.
I love Addison Adelaide, and she’s leaving me.
Fifty-One
ADDISON
“Fuck that son of a bitch,”Trish says from beside me. The appletinis in our hands are cold, but my insides feel colder. Everything feels colder right now.
Someone’s singing a terrible rendition of Britney Spears, and I don’t care. Victoria’s polishing up her resume, and Sera’s working overtime, so Trish and I are sitting at the bar together. Alone.
“And don’t worry about anything, Addison. I’ve got more friends in publishing than you’d believe. I’ve already had three offers, and I’ll have you hooked up with a new job by the end of the week.”
I just nod. I’m strangely unworried about the money. For the first time in my life, the fact that I’m unemployed as of this morning doesn’t seem to matter at all. It should. I should be terrified since I just sent my mom the last bit of savings I’d put together.
But I just can’t let myself care about that.
It’s the solitude that presses against me, that makes me terrified. That and the knowledge that Phillip wasn’t wrong. I should be at home sending my resume out to every place that’s hiring, but every time I sit down at the computer, I can’t help but pull up the edited manuscript that Phillip covered in red marks.
It was that or sit with Trish at a karaoke bar.
She doesn’t seem to be in a singing mood, though, so we’ve been sipping appletinis. “Thank you,” I say softly, wishing the drink was a weird raspberry and coffee beer and that the chair was a dining room chair in front of an ornate table. Food that’s slightly dried out from the warming oven in front of me.
And Phillip across from me, smiling like always.
That ship has sailed, though.
“When you and John fight, do you scream at each other? Do you say things you regret?”
Trish cocks her head. “Have you met me? Of course I do. John doesn’t very often, but that’s what fights are for. It’s for saying all that shit that’s been building up. It’s getting it all out and both of you understanding that none of it is as bad as you’re making it sound. Then you fuck like you hate each other, and after that, it’s all better.”
“What? I can’t imagine a more toxic way to deal with your emotions.”
Trish grins. “Maybe me and John just like hatefucking a little more than normal? But really, fights are going to happen. It’s the talk afterward that matters. Honesty once neither one of you is mad anymore. And you can’t be mad after screaming and fucking like that. I don’t know if you should be listening to me since I’m not a therapist or anything, and as my husband says, I’m not exactly a wonderful role model. But it works for us.”
I guess that makes some sense. It still seems a little insane, but I guess that’s Trish for you. We watch as the next person gets on stage and starts singingBohemian Rhapsody, a song that I’ve realized always makes the entire crowd light up. This time, Trish and I don’t join in the group singing.
“I don’t know what to do, Trish,” I say. “I loved… no, I think I still love him. But he’s just like his father and doesn’t realize it. If he acts like this right now, while we’re still new at this whole relationship thing, what will it be like when he gets comfortable? Will he just forget about me? He’s talked about his father so many times, and I can’t remember a single good thing he’s said about the man.”
Trish shrugs. “He was right on one thing,” she says. “I don’t know about him as a boyfriend or husband. He seems like a nice enough guy, but if he really is just forgetting about you, if he’s putting work ahead of you, then fuck that guy. If it’s temporary, then maybe you’re overreacting? I don’t know. Like I said, that’s between you two. But you should publish that book.”
I arch an eyebrow and look at her. “You haven’t even read it. Why would you say that?”
“I’ve read the stuff you’ve done in editing, and it’s all solid, especially your hooks. You say you’ve read romance books your whole life. Phillip Loughton, the literal King of Publishing, says you should publish it. It’ll do great. You’re surrounded by people who know how to make a book sell, and you have more contacts in the publishing industry than nearly any other unknown author. If you throw it in the dumpster, you really are running from success because you’re already done with the hard part. You wrote a book. Polish it up, and turn that effort into a big fat paycheck.”
I frown. Maybe they’re right. I did write the book, and I think it’s actually really good. I don’t even know why I said that I didn’t want to publish it. Probably because I was so stressed about me and Phillip.
“Okay. Maybe I will.”
“Good. When you’re done editing it, don’t you dare throw it into some agent’s slush pile. Let me call a few people and find you an agent.”
I frown. I’d pushed back when Phillip had said something similar. But something he said bites at me, demanding my attention. “At least your mother isn’t afraid to go after it.”
Is it really so wrong to let a friend help me? I mean, no agent or publisher would sign me if they were going to lose money, right? Plus, it’s different when an editor friend is trying to help me instead of someone who owns a publishing house. She may get me in contact with someone, but the rest is up to me.
“I’d appreciate that,” I say.
