I kissed her. I left her apartment. I went back home, showered, took a nap, went on a bike ride. I was feeling good, hopeful. When I drove up to Briarcliff, at about eight, I saw Addison standing outside. She was in a long white dress against the deep green lawn. She looked beautiful but deeply frightened. She’d lost some of the serenity of the afternoon. I didn’t know why. Not at the time. It was, of course, because she knew I’d see the painting.
“Stay out here,” she said when I reached her. Her voice was strained and overly chirpy. “The food and music is out here.”
“Why, what’s inside?”
“Nothing.”
“Something.”
“No, nothing. Stay out here with me.”
“Why do you want me to stay out here?”
“Just because!” She was tugging at my arm. Gripping it. “I want to dance with you is why.”
Addison was always a terrible liar.
Eventually, I shook her off. I could feel her watching me, as I left her.
In the shock of seeing it—the painting was hanging right in the foyer so you couldn’t miss it as you walked into the house—I had this scrambled idea that I’d been brought to this party just for the express purpose of seeing it. My next thought was that it was such an incredible painting. And then I also saw it as the proof of all those nights that Ads had worked on it in her studio, but never copped to it. How it had become more important than me.
I couldn’t decide which was worse; the way portrait-Sophie stared me down, or the way real Addison was looking at me when I came back outside. Her eyes unblinking and filled with unspilled tears.
But I didn’t say anything. I just left.
MARIE-CLAIRE BROYARD: My heart was pounding fear. I knew this was bad. Alexandre Norton did, too. Which only upset me more, because I’d mentioned to him earlier that I thought Addison and Lincoln might be getting together again. Every cell in my body was willing Addison to try to stay in control of herself, after Lincoln left.
That’s when Alexandre came up to me, smiling like a Cheshire cat. “See that?” he said. “See Lincoln? He was so pissed. The proverbial nail in the coffin.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Over one stupid painting? You don’t know what you’re talking about, Alex,” I said.
ZACH FRATEPIETRO: I got a call from Alexandre. He told me that Lincoln finally saw Bloody Sophie and that he had just taken off. And so had Addison. But not together.
Honestly, I had no idea. No idea that my mother had purchased this painting. I was in the city at P.J. Clarke’s, having beers and burgers with some friends.
“Go to her,” Alexandre told me. “She needs you. It’s always been you and Addison. This is it. You’ve got to be there for her.”
“Let me think about it.”
I’ll admit, I was shaky about it. Seeing Addison wasn’t what I’d planned to do that night. I finished my burger. Had another beer, and then chased it with a bourbon. Alexandre sent me a text. Go to her.
So I did. When I got all the way downtown, it was pretty late. I stood outside Addison’s apartment building thinking, The f**k am I here? I wasn’t sure if she’d let me in. But she did.
“I wasn’t sure I should have come,” I said. I was kind of overwhelmed to see her again. Plus I was maybe slightly drunk. Not in fighting shape. I was just so glad to see her. So, so glad, her presence overwhelmed me in waves. She was wearing this long white dress, and she looked like an angel. But when I leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, it was ice-cold, like a corpse.
“Shh. Ida’s here,” she said, like that explained something. I didn’t know if she meant that Ida was inhabiting her or what.
“Oh, yeah? Well, she picked a bad time.” I said. Joking, kind of. I didn’t want to get into her Ida world. Freaked me out.
“Your mom either has a terrible sense of humor, or she is clueless,” she whispered, sort of laughing, but sort of strange and disconnected and unhappy, too.
“Aw, Addison, it’s only a painting. You made it, and you sold it. My mother’s a fan. That’s always been her worst crime.”
“Yeah, I know.” She smiled at me. My heart, damn. Just looking at her again.
I’d always believed that we’d find a way back to each other. We’d just gotten ourselves into a really bad patch. Addison had been mine, and then we were forced apart, and we played it out in the press because we both have that kick for drama. It was never as bad as everyone made it out to be.
“Listen, Addison,” I said, “maybe we should give us another shot. Isn’t Zach-and-Addison what everyone wants, anyway? We’re the couple who sells the magazines. Sometimes there’s wisdom in the majority.”
But I could tell she wasn’t really listening to me. She was lost in other thoughts. She’d crawled deep inside her own head. I couldn’t have the conversation I wanted to have with her. But she invited me in, and we sat together at her kitchen bar, and it was friendly. She let me poke around, look at her paints and her paintings. She reminded me of other days, better days, when I’d watch her standing at the sink in her Chelsea studio, washing her brushes.
I pretended not to notice that it looked like a tornado had hit her apartment. We’d been angry with each other for so many months. It was amazing to be hanging out with her in a decent, pure way.
Addison’s paints/Addison painting, courtesy of Zach Fratepietro.
Except that she wasn’t normal, obviously. Something was off. It was the Ida factor, I figured. I’d never bought any of that bullshit, the haunted-girl stuff. But that night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Addison was gripped by something so forceful that, yeah, it almost felt like another presence in the room.
We hung out for a while, she brewed us some tea, and then she tried to ease me out. “Zach, I’m glad you came to see me. But now you’ve got to go. I need to get my measurements, I need to get all the measurements, I need to finish Bridge Kiss, and I need to listen to Ida. I never should have left the apartment tonight.”
“Imaginary Ida who tried to make you kill yourself? You need to go back to listening to her? Don’t be insane, Addison.”
“Don’t be insane,” she repeated. Then she laughed. “The problem is, Ida is the only person who knows me,” she said. “She hears me, she speaks to me. She reminds me that the work is the only thing. The work is all that matters. So I’ve got to get up there. Bridge Kiss is an installation, and it has to go up tonight.”