Every step closer brings Addison into better view. Her wet hair falls down around her shoulders, and from what I can tell, she’s not wearing any makeup.
The path ends, dropping us off onto the lawn of the main house. Addison stops and looks up at me.
“That path will take you to your cabin,” she says, pointing.
“I remember from earlier. The coffee,” I remind her.
She nods. “Right.”
We stand there awkwardly.
Addison slips her hands into her back pockets. “Okay, well, I’m going inside now.” She turns and walks a few feet, then looks back at me. “You can stop envisioning my nearly naked backside.”
Her words make the image spring to life in my mind. “What about your nearly naked front side?”
Her eyes squint and she gives me a mean look, but I think it’s playful.
She turns back around, and I start for my cabin. It isn’t until I’m stepping under the hot spray of the shower that I realize I didn’t ask Addison why she came to Oregon.
Something tells me she’s not just here to recreate the summers of her childhood.
6
Addison
I haveno idea how my grandma drives this Jeep. The steering wheel requires all my arm-strength to turn, and I’m certain I could beat this beast in a five second race starting from zero.
Despite my complaints, I needed her car this morning. My oldest friend lives twenty minutes away, and I’m visiting her.
I need a dose of reality. I need to slip into the old me, into the person I was before I settled in Chicago. I need the wild girl who ran around barefoot and slept in the same clothes she wore that day.
And I need the person who makes me feel like that girl again.
The Jeep cranks to a stop in front of a low-slung house. I peer out at the silver metallic house number affixed to the front of the garage, making sure I’m in the right place. I haven’t seen Charlie since her wedding three years ago. I’d gone alone, and a week later I met Warren in the produce section of Whole Foods. We were both looking for the ripest Cara Cara oranges.
I push back the memory just as the front door opens and Charlie steps out. She waves excitedly and I return the wave, a grin pulling up both corners of my mouth, my sadness at the thought of Warren vanished. I grab my purse and hurry from the car, using a considerable amount of my strength to slam the door shut.
“Charlie!” I call out as I round the back end of the Jeep. She’s coming down the porch steps with her arms out.
I stop where I am, my mouth dropping open. “You’re pregnant!”
Charlie puts her hands on her hips and turns to the side so I can see her profile.
“Really pregnant,” I add, staring at her huge belly. Guilt blooms inside me. I haven’t been an attentive friend since I went back to Chicago. Warren took over my life, first with the headiness of being in love, then with the daily struggle of his absence. I’d called Charlie during that time, listening to her gush about the joys of married life and adding my own anecdotes about my newfound love. And, right after the accident, it was Charlie I called. But in the past eight months, I’d pulled away. For me, there was nothing happy to talk about, and I didn’t want to bring my dark storm cloud to our conversation. Charlie’s phone calls went unanswered and unreturned.
But now, in the bright Oregon morning sun, my Chicago storm clouds have faded into a memory. Charlie beams, her hands lifting into the air. “Surprise! This little guy will be here in a few months.” Her hands come down to her stomach, rubbing it lovingly. “My belly button popped this morning.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say cheerfully, closing the distance between us and wrapping her in a hug. It’s an off-center hug, to make room for her middle.
I feel Charlie’s laugh in the space where our chests meet. She steps back but keeps a hand on my forearm. “It means my innie is now an outie.”
Her hand moves off my arm only to reach down and grip my own. “Come inside.”
She leads the way as if we’re kids again, her brown hair falling down her back like it did when we were twelve. I bet she still has a little mole on her right shoulder.
I follow her up the steps and through the front door. The house is small but decorated beautifully. The walls are painted cream, and the couches are teal suede. A white brick mantel over a fireplace holds a large framed wedding portrait.
Running my fingertips along the soft couch, I tell her, “I love how you chose a bright color.”
