Chapter 26
Abigail lets herself into her apartment using the spare set of keys she keeps at the office.
She drops her bag on the entryway table and heads straight for the kitchen, where she can hear the noise Erin is making as she cooks dinner.
She has forced herself to leave work early so she wouldn’t end up arguing with her, and she didn’t really mind, because ever since Taylor left, concentrating has been hard.
She feels like a tyrant, a despicable person who hurts someone who doesn’t deserve it, and if she’s honest with herself, someone who makes her chest tighten every time she thinks about her.
"Hello," she says, lingering in the doorway as if the apartment weren’t hers and she were an intruder in her own home.
Erin has changed into something comfortable. She’s wearing sweatpants, a basic T-shirt, and she’s barefoot, just the way Abigail likes to be at home.
"You kept your word," her sister says, lifting her eyebrows as she smiles warmly. "Go shower and get comfy; this still needs a little longer."
Abigail nods and turns toward her bedroom.
Curiosity takes her to the end of the hallway, to the guest room that’s really more Erin’s room, since her things are always in there.
Abigail is surprised to see two huge suitcases, which is unusual, because Erin usually travels light when she visits—she already has stuff here and only needs a small suitcase.
She turns around and heads to her room to shower. Fifteen minutes later, Abigail comes out dressed in shorts and a tank top, barefoot like her sister.
"Just in time," Erin says. "I made pasta salad and a variety of fruit," she adds as she sets everything on the table.
"I saw the suitcases," Abigail blurts, grabbing a fork and stabbing at the salad without much appetite.
"That’s all you can think to say?" Erin snaps. "Fuck, Abby, dealing with you sometimes is..."
"What?" Abigail asks.
"Nothing, forget it," Erin says, focusing on the food.
"You don’t have to put up with me just because we share a parent."
Erin drops the cutlery on the table so hard the water glasses slosh, and Abigail startles.
"Stop saying that shit already, for fuck’s sake," Erin demands, tired of hearing that line out of her sister’s mouth.
Sometimes Abigail wishes she could rip out her own tongue, swallow it, and keep from taking her anger out on the one person she knows she shouldn’t.
"Sorry," she murmurs, pushing the salad around, unable to lift even a bite to her mouth.
Erin watches her. Most of the time she knows how to handle her, but not always. Sometimes Abigail is so closed off she’s unreachable, like now.
"How’s work?" Erin asks, reaching for a neutral topic she knows relaxes her, because work is the one arena where Abigail always knows exactly what to do.
"Good, same as always, I guess. We signed a new singer who shows a lot of promise," she explains, and she sighs, but it comes out ragged.
Abigail spears a piece of pasta while she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
"The girl from the office?" Erin asks.
"What?"
"The brunette who was sitting next to Liam."
The brunette. A warmth, sudden and tingling, floods Abigail’s chest when she thinks of Taylor sitting across from her in her office.
Those big, always-alert brown eyes, her full lips, her relaxed posture.
The tingling grows and spreads under her ribs when she thinks of the warmth of her body and the strange sense of safety she feels when Taylor holds her. ..
"Abby?"
Abigail blinks, but she doesn’t lift her gaze from her plate.
"Uh, yeah. Her," she answers, feeling an invisible force close around her throat when she thinks about how much she misses Taylor. "And how are things at the museum?" she asks, changing the subject.
Erin is an art conservator at a museum in Philadelphia, the city where she grew up with her father after he moved there, leaving Abigail and her mother in New York.
"Good, though I quit," Erin says. "That’s why I’m here."
Abigail looks her sister in the eye for the first time. Few things can surprise the executive, but this does.
"And that’s why I’ve been calling you for weeks," Erin clarifies. "They offered me a job here in New York as head conservator for high-profile private collections at an auction house. And I accepted."
"Does that mean you’re moving here?" Abigail asks, dazed.
Erin tilts her head and bites the inside of her lip until she almost draws blood.
"Much to your dismay, I suppose, but don’t worry, I’ve already put down a deposit on an apartment. They’re handing it over in a couple of weeks—that’s how long the renovation I asked for will take. As soon as it’s ready, I’m moving out."
Abigail tries to think fast; she knows she needs to say more than she has, that if Liam were here he’d have jabbed her in the ribs hard enough to knock the wind out of her and stepped in to save the moment.
Erin is her sister, Abigail’s only family—at least the only one who cares about her—and she doesn’t understand why it’s so hard to show her support.
"Are you finished? I’m going to clear the table," Erin says, pointing at her plate.
Abigail can’t even respond; she’s still searching her head, trying to think what Liam—or any normal person—would say. Erin clicks her tongue and gets up to grab the plates.
"Wait," Abigail says, catching her by the arm.
Erin stops and looks at her sister, who seems to be waging an all-out war with herself as she looks back at her.
"It’s okay. I know deep down you’re happy about my promotion," Erin says. Abigail sighs. "Although I’m not sure you’re happy I’m moving close to you."
Abigail lets her go, and Erin loads the plates into the dishwasher, then turns back to her sister, bracing her hands on the counter behind her.
"You’ve never come to see me in Philadelphia," she blurts, and Abigail’s neck tightens again. "Not once since you became an adult and Dad couldn’t force you to keep visiting at Christmas."
"He’s not my father," Abigail spits.
"For God’s sake, Abby..." Erin murmurs.
Abigail gives a bitter smile.
"I’m not talking about this now, Erin."
"You’re not the one talking; I am," her sister roars. Sometimes her temper is just as bad as Abigail’s.
"In twenty years you haven’t come to see me even once, and I always wonder what the fuck would’ve happened between us if I weren’t the one coming to see you.
Do you think we’d keep in touch?" Erin asks.
"Sure we would, because you love to call," Abigail snaps, her tone sharp.
She regrets what she said before she even finishes the sentence, but she doesn’t take it back.
Erin stares at her, as ready to smash a glass over her head as to hug her and scream at her to talk to her already.
This scene—or something like it—repeats every time they see each other.
Erin goads her somehow, trying to get her to open up, to talk, to tell her why she’s so furious, so contained that one day she’ll explode and shatter.
She can guess why Abby wants nothing to do with her father, but she doesn’t know why she isn’t speaking to her mother, and it hurts to see her only sister so alone.
"I’m not leaving your life no matter how hard you try to push me away, Abby. I’m going to bed," Erin says, walking out of the kitchen.
Abigail stays there for a while, dazed, needing several minutes before her muscles respond. Then she gets up, fills a glass with ice, and pours a splash of whiskey before sitting down again and losing herself once more in the fog in her head.