Page 70 of Seven Summer Weekends

“Next time, put a little olive oil in the water—my mom used to do that.”

Both of them ate greedily, and Ben suggested they leave the dishes and take their wine down to the Bay Beach area to watch the sunset. A bunch of teenagers were there, taking selfies and a zillion pictures of the sun’s red haze as it sank into the Great South Bay. Addison and Ben sat down on one of the swinging benches that hung from wooden pagodas, sipped their wine, and watched the sun paint the sky. Ben reached down and took her hand in his, seemingly not caring if anyone saw the subtle intimacy. The bliss of it all made Addison smile for so long that her cheeks grew tired.

At home, they bypassed the dishes and headed for the bedroom, where they made love slowly, as if it were the first time. Ben’s eyes locked onto Addison’s with an expression of utter amazement. At least that’s how Addison read it. When they were through, she lay on top of him for a long time, her head buried in his chest, their breath rising and falling in synchronicity.

They heard Sally getting into trouble at the table, and Ben realized he had forgotten to feed her. They threw on clothes and bolted to the kitchen to do so, and to wash the dishes. It all felt very domestic and comfortable. Ben stopped and wrapped his arms around her.

“I can’t believe this,” he said.

She didn’t ask for clarification. She couldn’t believe it either.

That night they made love one more time, and as she drifted off to sleep in his arms, she felt something she never had before. She felt anchored.

Chapter Thirty-two

Addison opened her eyes as the first hint of sun peeked through the bedroom window, and reached out her hand to feel for Ben. The bed was empty. She sat up and called out his name, trying to make sense of her feelings as she realized she already missed him, missed his skin and his smell and the safe feeling she had lying in his arms. He stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt.

“I have to head back to the city,” he said, without even a hint of regret. “My editor summoned me.”

When?Addison thought, but thought best not to ask it out loud.

He hurried around his bedroom, getting his stuff together like the house was on fire, and Addison suddenly felt very out of place.

“I’ll get out of your way,” she said, grabbing her clothes from the floor and slipping them back on under the covers.

“No rush,” he said. “Shep will come to fetch Sally around ten—so you may want to be out of here before then.”

“I could have taken Sally,” she said.

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Impose, she thought. All he ever did with Sally was impose.

And with that, he kissed her quickly on the cheek, quipped, “Have to make the boat,” and left.

She convinced herself that he was just stressed about work. She gave and received a bit of love from Sally and headed out through the front porch.

Julia’s sun hat was sitting right back on its hook.

Addison sat down on her meditation rug. She felt awful, heartbroken, and guilty. Why had she brought those boxes over so flippantly? And why was she being so flippant with her own heart? Ben’s wife’s things were all over that house. Her books were clearly still sitting on her nightstand. Her clothes still hung in her closet. Ben had shown her how much pain he was in over and over again, and yet she’d ignored it. Anyone in their right mind would have left right after dinner, feigned a migraine, saved themselves. A month ago, she was someone who wouldn’t even go in the ocean, and now she had ignored every red flag. She was angry—with herself.

She went back inside the house, determined to make “those fucking scones” as she was now referring to them in her head.

Addison floured her work surface, pulled out the leftover scone mixture from the fridge, and ran it through her hands, kneading and squishing, forgoing the round cookie cutter and forming the dough into random shapes—a circle, a triangle, a square—placing each haphazardly on the baking sheet. She had gone rogue. She stared at the pan for a minute, when inspiration hit and she ran back out to the studio.

Uncovering her creation from the day before, Addison puther hands through her scalp, her clay scalp, and opened it up like the crater of a volcano. She molded a piece of fresh clay into an abstract shape—as she had with the scones, and slowly and meticulously attached it by wetting the clay with a small brush and using her thumbs to seamlessly mold the pieces together. She stood back and looked at it. She was onto something. Hours later, the sculpture resembled Medusa, except instead of snakes, she had abstract shapes jutting from her skull. It looked like she felt.

Utter confusion.

Her phone buzzed, and she hoped it was Ben, but it was Nan with an offer. A very good offer. Addison texted her back.Should I counter?

If Addison had been keen on selling, she wouldn’t even have thought to counter; she would have just said yes. But she wasn’t doing so for the money—the offer already felt like she would be winning the lottery. She was countering for the time the negotiation would afford her. In her heart, she was sure that what she felt happening between her and Ben was real, but a few seconds later, she was equally sure that it wasn’t.

Again, she needed time. They needed time.

She walked down to the lifeguard stand and took a dip in the ocean without even hesitating at the break. She hoped the confidence it inspired would give her a good dose of fortitude. It didn’t.

That night, she wrote and erased six different iterations of “just checking in,” ranging from the literal,Just checking in, toHow did it go with your editor?toTomorrow is recycling day. I can bring your cans out too if you want, toI understand that things went very quickly with us. We can slow down if it makes you feel better, toWhat the hell Ben? Come back, to the crowd favorite,the hi emoji. (Yes, she had consulted her posse on the group chat for more texting material.) She decided to send nothing. She would have to give him the space he clearly needed.

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