The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,170
help her in. She doesn’t take it.
He does not give the driver an address.
The driver does not ask for one.
And when Addie asks where they are going, Luc does not answer.
Soon they are on the Manhattan Bridge.
The silence between them should be awkward. The halting conversation of exes too long apart, and still not long enough to have forgiven anything.
What is forty years against three hundred?
But this is a silence born of strategy.
This is the silence of a chess game being played.
And this time, Addie has to win.
Los Angeles, California
April 7, 1952
IX
“God, you’re beautiful,” says Max, lifting his glass.
Addie blushes, eyes dropping to her martini.
They met on the street outside the Wilshire that morning, the creases from his bedsheets still pressed into her skin. She was lingering on the curb in his favorite wine-colored dress, and when he came out for his morning stroll, he stopped and asked if he could be so bold as to walk with her, wherever she was going, and when they got there, to a pretty building picked at random, he kissed her hand, and said good-bye, but he didn’t leave, and neither did she. They spent the whole day together, strolling from a tea shop to a park to the art museum, finding excuses to continue in each other’s company.
And when she told him that it was the best birthday she’d had in years, he blinked at her in horror, shocked at the idea a girl like her would find herself alone, and here they are, drinking martinis at the Roosevelt.
(It is not her birthday, of course, and she’s not sure why she told him it was. Perhaps to see what he would do. Perhaps because even she is getting bored of living the same night over again.)
“Have you ever met someone,” he says, “and felt like you’ve known them for ages?”
Addie smiles.
He always says the same things, but he means them every time. She toys with the silver thread at her throat, the wooden ring tucked into the neckline of her dress. A habit she cannot seem to break.
A server appears at her elbow with a bottle of Champagne.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“For the birthday girl on this special evening,” says Max brightly. “And the lucky gentleman who gets to spend it with her.”
She admires the tiny bubbles rising through the flute, knows even before she takes a sip that it’s the real thing; old, expensive. Knows, too, that Max can easily afford the luxury.
He is a sculptor—Addie has always had a weakness for the fine arts—and talented, yes, but far from starving. Unlike so many of the artists Addie has been with, he comes from money, the family funds sturdy enough to weather the wars, and the lean years between them.
He raises his glass, just as a shadow falls across the table.
She assumes it’s their server, but then Max looks up, and frowns a little. “Can I help you?”
And Addie hears a voice like silk and smoke. “I do believe you can.”
There is Luc, dressed in an elegant black suit. He is beautiful. He is always beautiful. “Hello, my dear.”
Max’s frown deepens. “Do you two know each other?”
“No,” she says at the same time Luc says, “Yes,” and it’s not fair, the way his voice carries and hers does not.
“He’s an old friend,” she says, a biting edge in her tone. “But—”
Again, he cuts her off. “But we haven’t seen each other in a while, so if you’d be so kind…”
Max bristles. “That’s quite impertinent—”
“Go.”
It is just one word, but the air ripples with the force of it, the syllable wrapping like gauze around her date. The fight drops out of Max’s face. The annoyance smooths, and his eyes go glassy as he rises from the table, and walks away. He never even looks back.
“Dammit,” she swears, sinking in her seat. “Why must you be such an ass?”
Luc lowers himself into the vacant chair, and lifts the bottle of Champagne, refilling their glasses. “Your birthday is in March.”
“When you get to be my age,” she says, “you celebrate as often as you like.”
“How long have you been with him?”
“Two months. It’s not so bad,” she says, sipping her drink. “He falls for me every day.”
“And forgets you every night.”
The words bite, but not as deeply as they used to.
“At least he keeps me company.”
Those emerald eyes trail over her skin. “So would I,” he says, “if you wanted it.”