Chapter 8
Three months ago. Pittsburgh. Halloween.
The garage smells like oil, damp cardboard, and all the things Richard hoards without ever throwing away.
Abigail has Eleanor pressed against the back wall; the congresswoman's right leg is propped up on one of the boxes, and Abigail moves inside her with a rhythm Eleanor feels through her whole body, from her hips to her throat.
They're face to face, and that's what's different tonight, because neither of them can help it; there's no neck to hide behind, no pillow to bury a face in—only Abigail's eyes six inches from hers and the thin light filtering through the garage's small window, drawing shadows across her face.
Both of Eleanor's hands are wrapped around Abigail's neck. She's not squeezing, just holding them there, fingers resting over the lawyer's racing pulse, feeling it beat, and she watches Abigail with such intensity that the lawyer has to close her eyes to keep herself together.
"Slower," Eleanor says, and it's a command that only disguises the plea she won't let herself say out loud—but they both know it means I don't want this to be over yet.
Surprisingly, Abigail obeys. She shifts to another rhythm, and Eleanor forces herself to keep her eyes open, because tonight she doesn't want to close them. Tonight she wants to see, even though that's the most dangerous thing they can do.
"Eleanor," Abigail says, and her name in the lawyer's mouth sounds different—a tone that only comes out in moments like this, when it's not a greeting or a warning but simply her name spoken at the peak of pleasure.
"Shut up," Eleanor says, but without any edge, and she bites down hard on her own lip.
Abigail starts driving harder and the heat climbs into Eleanor's chest, and she has to tighten her fingers around the lawyer's neck to keep from falling apart too fast.
Kissing on the mouth is off-limits, and tonight Eleanor has to draw on every ounce of willpower she has to keep from biting those lips that are inches away.
Instead, she lowers her head and kisses Abigail's jaw.
It's a gesture that isn't in the catalog of what they allow themselves, and she knows it the moment she does it, but she doesn't care because it's Halloween and it's been three months since the birthday and too many since the guest room.
Abigail stops for a second when she feels Eleanor's lips on her jaw, and as if driven by something visceral, she kisses Eleanor's neck and then the edge of her neckline.
"Don't stop"—and Eleanor's voice comes out soaked in need.
When she gets close to the edge, Eleanor feels it in the tension of her thighs, in the way her fingers around Abigail's neck close tighter on their own, and in the way the room starts to shrink until it's only this—only this garage that smells like oil, this body pressed against hers, and this face inches from her own.
"Abigail," she says, and it's a warning.
She comes saying the name out loud. It's a mistake; it came out too loud, and Abigail covers her mouth with her hand at the last second.
Abigail holds her up with her body while Eleanor finishes.
Her hand is still over Eleanor's mouth, and the congresswoman breathes against that palm with her eyes closed, and when she opens them, Abigail is looking at her with an expression Eleanor has never seen on her before—or has never let herself see before.
What comes next is Abigail against that same wall, with Eleanor on her knees on a folded jacket she's placed on the floor because it's a concrete garage floor and Eleanor is forty and her knees ache.
The lawyer has her head tipped back and one hand at the nape of Eleanor's neck, not pressing this time—just resting there, as if she needs that point of contact to keep from floating away.
Five minutes later, they both straighten their clothes slowly, as if tonight neither of them is in any hurry to go back to being what they are when they're not here.
Eleanor checks her updo in the dark reflection of her mother's car window.
Abigail adjusts the straps beneath her clothes and buttons her pants.
Eleanor takes a step toward the door, but—as always—Abigail takes her hand.
This time it's not to fix anything. Not to straighten her necklace or her shirt collar or a loose strand of hair.
She just takes her hand, and when Eleanor turns around, Abigail laces their fingers together.
They don't say anything, they don't look at each other right away, because they're lost in that gesture longer than they've ever let themselves be this close without sex between them.
Then they look at each other, holding a silence that screams too many things, and Abigail lets go of her hand so Eleanor can walk out of the garage.
Nineteen years ago. Pittsburgh. Halloween.
Eleanor's first Halloween with a costume bought at a dollar store was when she was eight.
Since then it had evolved into what it is now—a tradition Carol organizes every year because she considers it a deeply family occasion: hideous secondhand costumes, the four of them together, the burger place on Main Street, trick-or-treating through the neighborhood, and the party at the neighbor across the street, who puts up decorations visible from two blocks away.
Eleanor's first Halloween with Abigail was the year after.
The lawyer wore the most ridiculous costume Eleanor had ever seen—something that was supposed to be a ghost but, with the sheet cut all wrong, looked more like a tablecloth with holes.
Eleanor told her so at full volume, in that sharp way she had back then, and Abigail shot back that her witch costume was a cliché only people with no imagination would choose.
Richard had to step between them before it got physical.
That year it didn't get physical. This year it doesn't get physical either. Not exactly.
Sixteen months have passed since the night in the car.
Sixteen months in which Abigail has done everything possible to avoid being anywhere Eleanor might be.
The first Thanksgiving, she stayed in Boston with the excuse of a friend.
Christmas, with another group of friends—a trip she'd organized three weeks in advance just to have the alibi ready.
Richard's birthday in March, a nonexistent flu that her father accepted without question; there was no reason in the world to doubt what his daughter told him.
Eleanor had done exactly the same on her end.
The result is that they've gone more than a year without seeing each other, and when Carol calls in October and says she won't accept excuses this year—it's Halloween, everyone's wearing a costume or they'll regret it—both of them say yes through gritted teeth, unable to come up with a good excuse.
So here they are, in the family home that smells like jasmine and the memories of so many things.
Abigail arrives on October thirty-first in a last-minute noir detective costume—a wide-brimmed hat, a gray overcoat, and a tie—and when she walks through the door and sees Eleanor at the far end of the living room in a nurse costume with a guarded expression on her face, as if she'd been calculating for weeks how she was going to handle this moment, something in Abigail's chest tightens in a way that feels very different from the dread she'd planned on feeling.
They don't greet each other directly; they barely look at each other, and they ignore each other as much as they can when Carol pulls everyone together in the living room for the obligatory photo, because their mother has been documenting every Halloween since Eleanor was eight.
"Come on, girls, smile," Carol says, adjusting the camera and noticing those very serious faces.
Abigail is at one end, Eleanor at the other, and Richard in the middle wearing that cowboy hat he's been using for ten years—the one Carol thinks is hideous but that he considers his best costume.
At the burger place, the same dynamic plays out: Abigail sits on the opposite side of the table while Eleanor studies the menu with intense focus so no one will bother her, and also to avoid looking at her.
They go trick-or-treating for an hour, all four of them through the neighborhood.
Both of them find it awkward and uncomfortable, but there are moments that aren't—like when Richard's hat gets knocked off and the wind carries it down the street, and all four of them run after it for half a block, laughing the whole way.
These are moments they both store in their minds without meaning to, moments that will stay with them for as many years as the tattoos they'll each get someday and don't know about yet.
When Carol and Richard head across the street to the neighbor's party, Abigail and Eleanor go back to the house with the excuse of being tired and having early flights the next day to get back to their respective universities.
Then Abigail goes to the hallway bathroom and Eleanor waits outside without quite knowing why.
When Abigail comes out and almost stumbles over her in the dark, the collision is inevitable and neither of them steps back.
"Sorry," Abigail says, but she doesn't look at her—she just wants to get to her room.
"Watch where you're going," Eleanor snaps, then clicks her tongue.
Abigail turns, frowning, though she doesn't move closer.
"I was watching," she says. "You were the one standing in the middle of the hallway."
"The hallway belongs to both of us," Eleanor shoots back, like she's five years old.
"Then move."
"You move."
It's the same conversation as always, the same language as always, and they're too close in that dark hallway with their costumes still on and too many months of distance built up between two bodies that are now less than two feet apart.
"Leave me alone," Eleanor says, and takes a step back.
Abigail takes a step forward and their eyes lock.
"I've been leaving you alone for a long time," Abigail says.
"Then keep doing it."
"Eleanor."
"Don't say my name like that."
"Like what?" Abigail asks, knowing perfectly well what she means.
"Like that," Eleanor says, and without being able to stop herself, she bites her lip.
Abigail takes another step. Eleanor steps back and her shoulders meet the hallway wall and there's nowhere left to go. They're pressed together, exactly like in the hallway at that party where it all began—or rather, where everything that had been growing between them finally exploded.
"Sixteen months," Abigail says quietly. "I've spent over a year avoiding you."
"Nobody asked you to."
"Are you sure?" Abigail asks, holding her gaze.
Eleanor opens her mouth. Abigail looks at her. And then there are no words, because there aren't any in this language—the only one they both truly speak.
Afterward, Eleanor is sitting on the edge of Abigail's bed with the sheet around her waist and the nurse costume on the floor, next to the gray overcoat and the wide-brimmed hat.
Abigail's room smells the same as it always has—the lotion she's used since high school and the books on the shelf above her desk.
Eleanor gets up without looking at her, picks her dress up off the floor, and it's Abigail's hand on her wrist that makes her stop.
Abigail doesn't say anything. She takes her hand and laces their fingers together, just as she will in the garage nineteen years later—because Halloween will stay in both their minds as the date that marks their first time with each other with no alcohol involved and a warm bed.
They look at each other for a moment that carries too much meaning for either of them to let it stretch any longer.
Eleanor looks at their joined hands, then looks at Abigail. She lets go and walks out of the room.