Chapter 1
Twenty years ago
The music arrives before anything else, the way it always does at these parties — a dull pulse that works its way into your chest and convinces you the night holds more possibilities than it actually does.
Abigail is two beers in and already feels that buzz behind her eyes telling her she should stop, but she doesn't stop.
She grabs another from the edge of some stranger's kitchen counter and lets herself drift toward the living room, where too many people are dancing in every direction.
Graduation was six hours ago. Her parents probably still have that bright look they get on special days, the one Abigail has learned to recognize and avoid, because it reminds her that Richard and Carol built something real while she and Eleanor have spent three years building a war.
Her dad marrying Eleanor's mom was good for him, but bad for her — or for both of them.
Despite being the same age, they can't stand each other, incapable of sharing a space without ending up at each other's throats, and yet they seem to seek each other out, as if they need the other's presence just to prove the hatred they carry.
That's how Abigail defines it: hatred. Though she isn't sure it's the right word, because hating someone means never wanting to see them again, and Abigail keeps catching herself watching Eleanor when Eleanor seems unaware — and she keeps catching Eleanor watching her.
She can't define what happens to her where Eleanor is concerned, but there's always something vibrating in the air when they're too close.
She lingers in the doorway of the living room, scanning the crowd without looking for Eleanor — that's what she tells herself, anyway — because her eyes lock onto her the moment she spots her across the room, leaning against the wall with a drink in her hand and that posture of hers that drives Abigail crazy, the posture of someone who seems to believe every space belongs to her just by virtue of being in it.
Her hair is down tonight, something she almost never does, and the dark shirt frames her shoulders in a way Abigail can't stop staring at.
Eleanor isn't looking at her, and somehow that bothers Abigail almost as much as if she were. Abigail looks away when she sees a guy walk up to Eleanor, whisper something in her ear, and Eleanor nod.
The night moves with that drunk logic graduation parties have, where everyone celebrates something that's really just the end of the only world they've ever known.
Abigail dances for a while, talks to people, laughs.
She's good at that — at looking present when she's really scanning the room for her stepsister Eleanor, who, as it happens, has been doing the same to Abigail since they arrived.
She slips through the crowd toward the bathroom, and just as she's about to go in, Eleanor comes out, and their shoulders collide in a hallway that suddenly feels way too narrow.
"Sorry," Eleanor says, though she doesn't mean it — pure courtesy because there are too many people around.
"It's fine," Abigail says, but she doesn't mean it either; something is definitely happening, because the contact with Eleanor's shoulder sent a current through her body that Abigail blames on the alcohol in her system.
Logic says they should move immediately — one keep going, the other step into the bathroom — but they stand still for a few seconds, looking each other in the eyes, something they almost never do because they can't stand each other, and yet Eleanor feels heat flood her whole body as if Abigail had fire behind her eyes.
"Move," Abigail snaps, feeling like she can't breathe.
"You move," Eleanor shoots back, flat and dry.
Someone pushes from behind and Abigail's body slams into Eleanor's again — not a shoulder graze this time, but a full chest-to-chest impact with their mouths way too close, and Abigail is glad she stumbles sideways, but she doesn't expect Eleanor to grab her by the arm to steady her.
Eleanor doesn't let go right away, as if her fingers have fused to Abigail's skin.
"Let go of me," Abigail says, using the sharp tone they use with each other at home.
Eleanor releases her with a jerk of anger, and Abigail steps into the bathroom, slides the lock, and leans back against the door with her heart slamming against her ribs like she's been running.
She decides to avoid Eleanor for the rest of the night, but forty minutes later she steps out into the backyard for some air and finds Eleanor sitting on the steps that lead down to the grass, her almost-empty drink between her hands.
She doesn't know what she's doing there, but her feet — which seem to be operating independently of her brain — carry her over.
"What do you want?" Eleanor asks without looking up, though she knows it's her because Abigail's perfume reached her first, and Eleanor could pick out that scent anywhere.
"Nothing," Abigail says, but she sits down beside her, because they both know that isn't true.
The noise from the party filters out muffled from inside, and the backyard is nearly empty — just a couple at the far end who aren't paying any attention because their mouths are busy.
Eleanor takes a sip from her drink and offers what's left to Abigail, who accepts it, careful not to brush their fingers.
"I leave for Boston on Tuesday — it's far," Abigail says, eyes straight ahead.
"I know," Eleanor says. "I leave for Chicago on Thursday. That's far too."
"I know."
Abigail nods. The conversation is completely absurd and they both know it.
Three years of speaking as little as possible, and yet they both know exactly where the other is going — the university each chose, the major, what can only be called an escape plan, because that's what it is: the only way they've found to put distance between themselves.
When Abigail turns to look at her, she finds Eleanor already looking back, and there's too much alcohol in both of them, too many years of enduring this, too many moments of holding back, and the backyard is nearly empty.
"Stop looking at me," Abigail says.
"You're the one who came out here to bother me. If you don't like it, leave," Eleanor snaps, and Abigail stands up.
"I'm going to get another drink."
"I'll come with you," Eleanor says, getting to her feet.
They look at each other for a second without really understanding what they're doing — and instead of walking back inside, Eleanor heads toward the street and Abigail follows her, two blocks to Abigail's car.
It's an old Honda her dad gave her when she turned sixteen, and Abigail can't quite remember how they ended up here, because this is her car, not Eleanor's, which is parked in the driveway of the house where the party is, but she will remember for the rest of her life the moment when Eleanor took her hand somewhere along the way and pulled her here.
She'll also remember the cold air of the street against the heat of the party, and the moment Eleanor opens the back door and gestures for her to get in.
There's no tenderness in what happens after that. There never has been between them and there won't be now — not with three years of built-up anger, the alcohol running through them both, and the awareness that Tuesday Abigail leaves and Thursday Eleanor does. Whatever this is, it ends here.
"God," Abigail mutters when Eleanor yanks her shirt and pops a couple of buttons.
"Shut up," Eleanor says.
And Abigail does, because Eleanor is right — because if either of them speaks now, this becomes something they have to name, and neither of them wants that.
Eleanor's hands don't shake. That's what Abigail hates most right now: that steadiness, the way she moves as if she's done this before, or as if she's not afraid of anything.
Abigail is afraid. She's shaking and furious because she can't tell whether the trembling is fear or the desire burning through her.
"Stay still," Eleanor orders when Abigail tries to shift position.
"Don't tell me what to do."
Eleanor slides her hand under Abigail's skirt by way of answer and Abigail shuts up instantly. The car ceiling is low and the windows fog fast, and even though they're away from the house, they can hear people passing on the sidewalk, but neither of them cares.
"Another," Abigail gasps when Eleanor pushes a finger inside her. She feels out of her mind, unable to describe what she's experiencing even though she's imagined this exact moment a thousand times.
Eleanor obeys and bites her lip when she feels how tight Abigail is. She's thought about this too — about everything she'd do to her if they ever worked up the nerve.
"Fuck," Abigail gasps, feeling her own wetness sliding down her thighs. "Faster," she whispers, her face buried in Eleanor's neck.
Again, Eleanor gives in, because she'll always give her what she asks for — even if she'll never admit it.
Abigail slips her hand between their bodies and finds what she's looking for as they both shift so Eleanor can push her skirt up. When she touches her, Eleanor exhales sharply through her nose and clenches her jaw, head falling back.
They don't kiss — not once, not even close.
It's not a pact they made or a conscious decision, but their mouths do find other places: the neck, the collarbone, the shoulder, the jaw.
There's a moment when their faces are pressed together and it would take almost nothing to close the distance, but they both pull back from it, because a kiss would turn this into something more than just raw and messy — the way they've decided to think of it — it would mean there might be something beyond the physical pull they've finally given in to after three years.
Abigail comes first, her back pressed against the front seat, one hand clamped over her mouth because the sound that wants to escape is obscene enough that she needs to stop it.
Eleanor follows right behind her, without warning, with a sharp shudder and Abigail's fingers still inside her, clenching around them in waves until it's over.
They don't even wait to catch their breath.
Abigail pulls her hand back and Eleanor does the same, and then they straighten their clothes in silence, trying not to touch or look at each other while they do.
When they're ready, Eleanor gets out first without a word, closes the door behind her, and starts walking down the street, not quite sure her legs will stop shaking before she reaches her own car.
Abigail hasn't gotten out. She stays sitting, legs slightly apart, the cool slickness of her own body still between her thighs.
The next morning, the house smells like coffee and fresh toast, the way it always does on Saturdays when Carol cooks.
Abigail comes downstairs with her hair still damp from the shower and finds her dad reading the paper at the table and Carol setting out the plates.
Everything looks exactly like any other Saturday of the past three years, but Abigail realizes it isn't when she sees that Eleanor is already sitting at the table too.
Their eyes meet for a second, and both of them feel that drop in the stomach that comes with remembering what happened just hours ago in Abigail's car.
"Good morning," Abigail says to the room, but she only looks at Richard and Carol.
"Good morning," Eleanor answers, without lifting her eyes from her toast.
Carol pours the coffee while Richard makes a comment about the weather.
Abigail barely eats. Eleanor doesn't either. After breakfast, they each go upstairs to their own rooms to pack their bags and get ready for the trip.
One is leaving for Boston, the other for Chicago, and neither of them knows yet that not even the distance they've decided to put between themselves will be enough to stop what started in Abigail's car.