Chapter 35 #2
"You don't seem very surprised," she murmurs, feeling wrung out.
And Abigail isn't. Ethan has always been a manipulator with his sister, so it doesn't surprise her that he'd resort to something this terrible.
"Ethan isn't my favorite person," Abigail admits, "but I'm not glad about this. I'm sorry for you and for him, and I hope he finds the help he needs."
"Yeah, me too," Taylor says before getting out of the car.
Now it's Abigail who follows her. She doesn't feel comfortable staying at Taylor's house—she'd have preferred to go to Harold's B it's a constant reminder of her presence, of what she'd had and let slip through her fingers because she didn't know how to value it.
"There are clean towels in the hall closet," Taylor says without crossing the threshold. "The bathroom's at the end. If you need anything…"
"I'll be fine," Abigail cuts her off; she needs to be alone.
Taylor closes the door and leaves her there, in the most intimate space there is of the singer's for Abigail.
The executive stands motionless for several minutes, taking in every detail.
Taylor has the typical corkboard crammed with photos pinned with tacks—some of her alone, some with her siblings, and others with people Abigail doesn't know.
In all of them she's smiling, and her dark gaze shines with that force that defines her, with the light Abigail has snuffed out over the last few days.
There are trophies on a shelf and more family photos.
Books stacked on another, and two acoustic guitars at the foot of the bed, both covered in dedications from various people, likely family and friends.
Abigail can barely breathe; everything in that room speaks of a normal life—warm, and above all, family—the kind she's never had, and she feels suffocated.
She goes to the window and cracks it open so the late-September air can help steady her.
From there she can see the backyard lit with little solar lights.
Everything is so different from her Manhattan apartment that, for a moment, she feels like she's on another planet.
She doesn't know how long she stays like that, but two knocks at the door pull her out of it.
It's like going back to the past, to those three weeks Abigail spent in the apartment Patricia rented her.
Taylor used to knock like that every time she came to see her, and her body would tremble with anticipation just like now because she knew it was her.
"Abby, can I come in?" Taylor asks from the other side.
"Yes," she answers, unable to move.
Taylor opens the door, and the first thing she sees is the suitcase still unpacked, then Abigail by the window, both rigid and somehow shrunken in on herself.
"I wanted to know if you needed anything," Taylor says.
"I'm fine," Abigail repeats, which seems to be the only thing she knows how to say lately.
The singer shakes her head slowly, disapproving.
"You don't want to be here," Taylor says—and she isn't asking.
Abigail is getting tired of everyone speaking for her, as if they were inside her head and knew what she felt better than she did.
"I'm fine," she insists, not moving.
"That's not true. You're uncomfortable," Taylor says.
Abigail doesn't answer because she doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know how to explain that she feels out of place in that warm room full of family memories, that she doesn't know how to be human in a space not designed for work machines like her.
"You have no right to be angry with me," Taylor snaps suddenly.
There's something entirely different in her eyes.
Taylor no longer looks like the abandoned puppy she seemed this morning.
She's straight-backed and her dark eyes blaze with an unfamiliar fury; it's as if what happened with her brother burned something inside her, as if the crushing disappointment she felt, instead of sinking her, made her stronger.
"I know," Abigail admits, to Taylor's surprise, "but I can't help it."
"Then try harder, for fuck's sake," Taylor growls.
Abigail's eyes darken, as if about to unleash a devastating storm, but she doesn't open her mouth because she knows Taylor is right.
She has no right—she was the one who pushed her away, and sleeping with that woman was one of several consequences, and she has to accept it. So yes, she has to try harder.
"And tell Patricia to book tickets for tomorrow," Taylor finishes, turning toward the door. "I want to go back."
The singer slams the door on her way out, hard enough to rattle the windowpanes. Abigail doesn't flinch, but the corner of her mouth curves at the thought of Taylor refusing to be cowed by anyone—least of all by her, or by her brother.