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❛ 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 . . . ❜ 006. a good degree of grief ━━━━━━━━━━━
NEW YORK
Addison and Derek always kept their PDA, strictly, to hands held across dimly lit dinner tables and smiles across town car partitions.
Beth watched each and every exchange in the reflection of her glass. (She only ordered it when they covered the bill, all too aware that she was in a too expensive part of town, renting a too expensive apartment going to too expensive restaurants on the insistence of her sister.)
It was because of this that their every movement was patterned with red: the slight touch of a hand against hand, the rise of blush in Addison's cheeks and the secret smile flashing across Derek's lips.
That's how she would remember most of New York: Red.
She would also remember the beginning of it in the innate loneliness that came with a new city. Big streets, much bigger than suburban Connecticut, and bigger buildings too. For a few months, she'd felt small, like the sort of small that could be easily lost down a stray crack in the sidewalk.
Acclimatising to Manhattan was like that, you got stuck on street corners and gripped by vertigo whenever you looked above shoulder height–– it was so different to everything she'd ever known. For a girl who had spent her small hometown life feeling formidable, Manhattan threatened to make her plain.
And then Addison would invite her to dinner.
She would invite Beth everywhere, to galas, to brunches, to dinners and to lunch. Addison Forbes Montgomery headed the Manhattan social calendar at every chance, dragging Beth along with her.
They chased the social season like winter following fall, despite how reluctant Beth was to make an appearance. Wherever Addison went, Beth followed, close, awkwardly close, as if Addison's shadow had graduated into a living breathing human with a name––
"Beth."
Her head turned, eyes squinting through the gloom of Gramercy Tavern on a Saturday night, and she saw her brother, appearing behind her in the doorway. Archer shot her a wry smile as he peeled gloves off his hands, his coat dusted from the late November snow.
"Arch," Beth said and she sounded slightly out of breath. She clutched her own gloves in her hands, fingers still slightly frost-bitten from the beginning of the Manhattan winter. "You're late."
She watched him pause, mid-way through dusting down his sleeper coat. A low laugh fell past his lips and he rolled his eyes, nodding over at Beth as she pulled at the sleeves of her dress; it was a loan from Addison, a red dress that was supposed to prelude the holiday season, although Beth had never been the festive type. As the host took their coats and Beth tried not to let the floor swallow her whole, he clapped a hand on her shoulder.
