32. Will
WILL
The pounding starts as a dull throb in my dreams, then sharpens into reality.
I’m sprawled on the couch. Someone’s at the door, hitting it hard enough to shake the frame. My skull pulses in time with every knock.
Has to be Saturday. My alarm didn’t go off. The stale bite of last night’s whiskey still clings to the back of my throat. Sunlight slices through the half-drawn blinds. Too bright. I didn’t sleep in the bed again. It’s too cold without Abigail.
The banging grows louder.
Christ.
I drag myself up, stumble to the door, and yank it open.
Henry.
He takes one look at me, and sighs with theatrical disappointment, the kind only he can get away with. I glance down at myself: basketball shorts, a T-shirt stained with whiskey.
“Why are you wearing a suit this time of the morning?” I ask.
“It’s almost three in the afternoon. This has to stop,” he says, stepping inside like he owns the place.
He starts tidying the couch cushions with that irritating, fastidious neatness of his. Then he perches on the edge like some disappointed therapist, fingers steepled, eyes sharp.
I sink into the armchair across from him, already bracing for whatever lecture he’s wound up to give.
It’s been a week since I proposed.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.
I was going to take her to our home. The place I toured with Max. He needed the sale, and the moment I stepped inside…it felt like her. Like us.
She wouldn’t have wanted to rush, so I was waiting for the right moment. I was going to take her there. Show her. Tell her I bought it for us.
Then ask her to marry me.
She would’ve said yes.
Because she loved me. I know she did.
Now?
Nothing. No call. No text. Not even a “go to hell.”
I thought if she saw how serious I was, she’d understand and give me a chance to explain. But she’s gone, and I blew it. I have no one to blame but myself.
“Women are a dime a dozen,” Henry begins.
I tune him out. I’ve heard it all before. Move on. Plenty of fish. Find someone new.
But the thought of anyone else makes me sick. I don’t want someone new. I want her.
He finally stops talking, and the silence lets everything I’ve been avoiding flood back in.
“I don’t know what else I can do,” I say.
Henry stares at me. “Did you even hear a word I said?”
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
Because he can’t. Not really. He’s never needed anyone the way I need her.
I sink deeper into the chair. If I could disappear, I would.
Henry studies me, the sarcasm fading from his face. He sinks back into the couch, like even he’s starting to lose hope.
“I was thinking,” he says slowly, “she gave the car back. Walked away without a second thought. Maybe it was never about your wallet.”
“Glad that finally clicked for you.”
She did walk away without a second thought. She switched off whatever she felt for me, like it was nothing.
And she looks good. Too good. Like she’s thriving without me.
Mom seemed to approve of her. Tentatively, anyway.
She didn’t insult her, which is as close to affection as it gets.
She must’ve actually liked her. It makes me smile, in spite of everything.
Of course Abigail won her over. She wins everyone over.
She’s impossible not to love. I’ve been dodging Mom’s calls since the event.
Told her Abigail had a stomach bug and left early.
Mom wanted to organize a dinner. I thought things would be fixed by now.
I was wrong.
Henry taps his leg a few times.
“So, what’s the plan then?”
I stare at the ceiling like it might offer answers. “There is no plan.”
“Right,” he says. “That’s working out great.”
He stands and starts pacing. Like he’s the one who lost something.
“You’re not going to win her back with moping and whiskey stains,” he says. “You need to put some skin in the game.”
“I proposed. Gave her a three-and-a-half million dollar ring—”
“You said she doesn’t care about that stuff.” He stops, turns to face me. “So what does she care about?”
We both know the answer.
The truth.
Silence stretches between us.
He’s right.
I haven’t told her the truth. Not the real truth.
Because it wasn’t just about protecting her.
And it sure as hell wasn’t just about winning.
Henry lowers himself back onto the couch, more measured now. “So?”
“How do I get her to listen to me?”
A wicked grin spreads across his face. One I’ve seen too many times before.
And before he even says it, I know it’s a terrible idea.
He lays it out, smooth and smug, and finishes with: “What woman can say no to that?”
I drag my hands down my face.
This is the last thing I want to do.
But it might work.
And if there’s even the smallest chance of getting her back…
I’d do anything.