Chapter Two
Abbott
It’s a clinic day, so there are no surgeries on my schedule.
I start my morning at the hospital doing early-morning rounds and checking on patients.
“Good morning, Doctor Abbott. You’re always the first one here in the morning,” Amelia, the charge nurse, says.
I don’t tell her it’s because I don’t have much of a life outside of my career as a general surgeon.
Thirty-eight years old, never married, no kids.
My last boyfriend cheated on me for six months before I found out, and he acted like it had been my fault for not noticing, for not giving him the time and attention he deserved.
I’m not saying I’m perfect, that I was even a very good boyfriend since I’m married to my job, but Hector wasn’t the only man I’ve seen blame the victim for their cheating.
Only, the other person wasn’t someone I dated.
He was my father.
Like always, that thought sits heavy in my stomach, but I try to brush it aside. I don’t have time for that. If I just keep busy, then I can keep unwanted thoughts out of my head.
“I’m a morning person,” I finally say as an excuse to Amelia. It’s true in some ways, but in others, I’m here because I have nowhere else to be.
“Well, we sure do appreciate you around here. You’re a great doctor. The patients love you, and the staff appreciates you.”
I give her a smile—one that’s appreciative, yes, but also slightly uncomfortable with the praise because all she’s telling me is I do my job.
I do what we should all be doing. It’s probably a little easier on me to show up on time, to spend more time here, and to pick up more shifts because I don’t have anyone waiting for me at home.
This is all I have.
I’m not sure how I feel about that. Some days, it’s safe. People just tend to let you down, but when I let myself admit it, I can acknowledge how lonely it is.
“Thanks, Amelia. None of us could do our jobs if it weren’t for you and the rest of the nursing staff.
We’re lucky to have you all.” Nurses save our asses more times than people realize.
They’re the cornerstone of patient care, and it’s important to me that I make sure the nurses I work with know that.
“Thanks, Doctor Abbott.” She beams, and I go on my way, checking patients and stopping to talk to other nurses and a phlebotomist. About two hours later, I’m heading to the office.
“One of the drug reps brought donuts,” Heather, my receptionist, says.
“Nice,” I reply. “We got a busy day today?”
“All booked up!” Heather smiles, then says, “Um…so tomorrow…my son has a play. For some reason, it’s in the afternoon and—”
“Absolutely,” I say. “We’ll figure it out here.”
“I only need to leave about an hour early. I can probably push it to forty-five minutes to help cover as long as possible.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell her again. “An hour is fine. It’s important to be there for your kids.”
“I didn’t have that growing up, so it’s important for me to be there for Isaac,” she says.
This is where I could connect with her—tell her that I did have it before my mom died, but not afterward, that I have never been important to my father.
Though, no one is important to him other than himself and the people who can help him get where he wants to be.
But even then, he only gives a fuck about them until he gets what he wants. After that, he’s done with them.
You can’t really say that about the governor of your state, though. Well, I guess I could, but not without it getting out and becoming some kind of media frenzy where the vultures swoop in looking for their next scoop.
I remember that well from when my mom died. The only time I ever saw him shed tears was in front of the cameras. At home, behind closed doors, it had been like she was forgotten.
“I’m always going to support family time,” I say. I would have loved for my father to have cared that much about me. “I’m going to go grab a donut before my first patient.”
“They’re stuffed and delicious.”
I tell her thanks and then go into the breakroom, where there is, in fact, a huge box of stuffed donuts on the table. I pick one that looks to be lemon and take it to my office. “Happy birthday to me,” I say to myself, before taking a bite—alone.
*
It’s not every day that you turn thirty-eight and realize how lonely you are.
I have two birthday messages—one from my ex, who I’m sure just feels sorry for me. I assume he messaged from his new house with his new boyfriend, where they spend a lot more time together than Hector and I did.
Hector: Happy Birthday, A. I hope you went out and did something fun. You deserve it.
Hector isn’t a bad guy. Not that I’m excusing him for cheating on me, because for the year and a half we were together, he was fucking another man for six months of it, and then tried to make me believe he didn’t break up with me, for me.
As though he did me some kind of favor by stringing me along while he not only stuck his dick in someone else, but fell in love.
“You don’t get out enough, Abbott. You don’t have friends. I didn’t want you to be alone.”
Okay, so clearly Hector isn’t perfect, but I do think there is a part of him that cares about me, that really did think he was doing his best to try not to hurt me by telling me he’d found someone else. And as a whole, he hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true.
And hey, at least he cares enough to message me himself because the only other Happy Birthday note I have is an email from my father’s assistant.
Preston,
Your father asked that I send you a message wishing you a Happy Birthday. He loves and misses you and hopes the two of you can get together soon.
Thank you,
Alexandria Mason
He does not, in fact, love me, and I’m sure it’s Alexandria who remembered it’s my birthday in the first place.
This is why I’m half-deep in a bottle of bourbon, when I rarely ever drink, and why the world looks fuzzier than usual. Why I can sit here, on the balcony off my bedroom, and acknowledge the fact that I’m alone. And that I miss my mom…so fucking much. And that in a way, I’m no better than Hector.
Because even though I was a child, I knew about the women my father had. That I kept his secret. That I let him hurt her.
If there is one thing my father loves, it’s power—professionally and personally. He likes being important to women, likes getting what he wants from them, fucking them, and then walking away, because in reality, they mean nothing to him.
Just like my mother hadn’t.
It’s my loneliness, coupled with the fact that maybe if I had told my mom the things I’d seen, she would have left him. She would have left him, and then maybe she wouldn’t have been waiting on my father that night when a guy crossed her path and decided her money was more important than her life.
I flip my cell over in my hands a few times, and when it’s face up, I stare at the email from Governor Abbott’s assistant—the man who couldn’t be bothered to message me himself.
I don’t know why it’s bothering me tonight. I don’t want to hear from him. There’s nothing we have to say to each other. If we never spoke another word, I would be okay, but for some reason, I find his name in my contact list and press it. Governor Abbott—I don’t even have him listed as Dad.
“What is it?” he asks instead of saying hello. Honestly, I’m surprised he even answered, but considering I never call him, he had to be curious.
“I was five years old the first time I saw one of them.” I take another drink of the bourbon, my throat feeling hot.
“One of what, Preston? You’re going to have to give me more than that to go off of.”
“She was my babysitter,” I say, picturing it.
His office door at home cracked…her sitting on my father’s desk.
He stood between her legs, running his finger up and down the side of her face.
“She was a college kid. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-one.
She used to come over to stay with me when you and Mom went out.
You told me she had something on her face, and you were helping her get it off.
I was young and na?ve, so of course I didn’t get it. ”
“What are you going on about? Are you drunk? Calling me to make up stories while you’re drunk is childish. We’ll talk when you’re sober.”
“They were all young,” I say next. He doesn’t reply, but he hasn’t hung up.
I can hear him breathing. “When I was nine, I saw you kissing one of them. You’d forgotten Mom was dropping me off at your work.
You forbade me from telling her, told me that you loved her, and all it would do was hurt her…
You don’t want to break your mother’s heart, do you, Preston?
She would never forgive you. Please don’t hurt your mother.
It won’t happen again. Jesus, I can’t believe you said those things to me.
” I can’t believe I’d believed him. He put the responsibility on me, made me think I would be the one hurting her. “She deserved better than you.”
“Don’t be so naive. You didn’t say a word to her because it was easier for you not to, and your mother wasn’t as innocent as you think. She knew, and she didn’t care as long as she kept living the lifestyle I provided for her…the same way you wanted to live the lifestyle I provided for you.”
I don’t even bother arguing with him. There’s no point. And hell, maybe he’s right. Maybe I didn’t tell for selfish reasons.
“After she died… Jesus, the women you had coming and going—pretty, young women who you could get to do what you wanted. Did you care about any of them? Never mind. I know the answer to that.” Another drink.
“You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself.
You were horrible to her…to me, to every woman you snuck around with behind the backs of everyone else, yet the world loves you.
No one sees it. No one talks about it. How do you keep the wool pulled over their eyes? ”
The line is quiet for a moment before my father speaks again, his voice even and measured, but I can hear the anger in it.
“Tread very carefully right now, Preston. You don’t know what you’re talking about.
I wasn’t the perfect husband or father, but I loved your mother, and I love you.
I love this state, and the people in it, and the community knows it.
I have nothing to hide, and I’m offended that you would try to say otherwise.
The people of Massachusetts know who I am, even if my son doesn’t. ”
They don’t know who he is, or he wouldn’t have just won reelection. They think he’s someone he’s not, and those who know the truth wouldn’t dare cross him. Not the powerful Preston Abbott Senior.
“You don’t sound like you’re doing great. Is this about that man you were dating? I heard he’d stepped out on you. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
It’s fake. So fucking fake. He has no concern for me.
He never did when I cried after Mom’s death, when he left me alone in my grief.
When he manipulated me to do what he wanted.
“Fuck you,” I tell him. He’s not sorry, and he never even met Hector.
He doesn’t give a shit about anything going on in my life…
but he does know. Clearly, he knows what’s going on.
“I’m not who you think I am, and I believe I’ve done enough to prove that. There are a lot of people who will speak up for me. Remember that.” There’s a pause, and then he continues, “Get some rest, son. Sleep it off. You’ll see more clearly in the morning.”