Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
ABBEY
I spend all of New Year’s Day at Wil’s. He makes grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and a frozen pizza for dinner, although by then, I’m so exhausted, I can only eat one slice, and even that makes my stomach feel queasy.
All day, I’ve been figuratively pinching myself to make sure this isn’t a dream.
The gala, the hot kisses backstage, the sex.
So much sex. So many orgasms. And not that I want to think about Tucker, but I’m fairly certain that in the hours I’ve spent at Wil’s apartment, I came more times than I did with Tucker the entire time we were together.
It’s nearly impossible to leave the perfect bubble of Wil’s apartment (and the cloud couch), but after another movie (Charade with Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant), Wil drives me and my gown from the gala home.
“I’ll walk you up,” he says after he pulls into a parking spot.
Brianna’s not home. Moses rubs himself against my leg and hisses at Wil, then saunters back to the sofa and curls up with his back to us. Wil follows the cat into the living room, over to the large wooden bookcase that holds my books and movies. He tilts his head to read the titles.
“Gloria Steinem, Revolution from Within. Marianne Williamson, A Woman’s Worth. Kate Chopin, The Awakening. And wow, that’s a big stack of Ms. Magazine.”
“Women’s studies minor,” I explain.
“Look at all these Harlequin romances,” he muses. “You contain multitudes.”
“Glamma bequeathed me her collection. They’re perfect for days out by the pool.”
He pulls a slender paperback from the shelf. “A Candlelight Regency Special. A Convenient Bride. ‘He meant to have his cake and eat it...’ Really, Lord Ashford? Oh, and Penelope turns out to be a spirited hellcat.”
I laugh at his dramatic tone. “Do not knock my regency romances. Those heroines are badass.”
“I would never.”
“Do you read much?”
He shrugs. “Mostly biographies. Musicians, baseball players, that kind of thing.”
He moves on to the CD tower. Since I started at Hometown, I’ve purchased so many albums, the stand is full and there are two teetering stacks on the floor next to it.
“Looks like you need some new storage. You should talk to Kevin.” He leans down to pick up one of the CDs and reads the title: “MTV Buzz Bin: Volume 1.” He flips it over to read the track listing. “It’s a promo copy. Felix?”
“He dropped off a box of promos before Christmas,” I reply. “I can’t quite figure him out.”
Wil turns from the CD tower. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, it’s just a feeling I get. Like he’s a total ass-kisser but maybe he’s not kissing the right asses? Does that make sense? But let’s not talk about work. You want to see the rest of the hovel?”
I give Wil the quick tour and then he kisses me at the door. Like, kisses me. Kisses me like he never wants to let me go.
“Good night, Abbey,” he says, then runs a finger down my jawline in a gentle caress.
I crawl into bed, spent and aching and happier than I’ve ever been in my life.
I wake up in the middle of the night with a lurching stomach. I barely make it to the toilet in time before the contents of my gut burn their way up and out. I heave, again and again, and then I lie down on the floor, curled into myself, my cheek on the cold tile.
When I have enough energy to haul myself up from the floor, I rinse my mouth, run cold water over a washcloth, and crawl back to bed with it.
I’m still wearing Wil’s sweatshirt, although at some point in the night, I took off his sweatpants.
Now I’m cold, so I pull the plaid wool blanket up around me tight. Everything smells like Wil.
Wil. Wil kissed me. Wil gave me lots of orgasms. So many. Wil wanted me. Wants me.
I cover my eyes with the washcloth. Every bone in my body aches. I fall back asleep, still thinking of Wil.
When I wake, the big red numbers on my alarm clock read 10:06 a.m. I’m confused, wrecked, nauseous.
There’s an empty ice cream bucket by my bed.
I don’t remember Brianna bringing it in but I’m glad she did.
I lean over and heave into it. The bucket still smells faintly of vanilla, which makes me retch again.
I somehow find the strength to take the bucket to the bathroom, flush the contents, and rinse it out. I pee and gargle with mouthwash. Then I call the store. Jeremy takes the call.
“I can’t make it in tonight,” I say, my throat scratchy and raw. “I’m sick.”
“Wow, you sound bad,” he says. “No offense.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve never called in sick before.”
I can almost hear him shrug. “Eh, it’s no biggie. Take care of yourself, and whatever you do, do not bring that to work, you hear me?”
“Bring what?” My brain is so foggy.
“Your germs. I can’t afford to have my whole media staff tossing their cookies. Stay home as long as you need to. Happy New Year!” he says cheerfully and hangs up.
I’ve been sick for two days. I throw up, think about Wil, eat crackers, think about Wil, drink ginger ale, think about Wil, try to read a few pages of A Convenient Bride until I fall asleep and wake up to puke once again.
I throw up until there’s nothing left and then I dry-heave until my ribs ache and my entire body feels heavy and broken.
Mostly, in my haze, I think about Wil. I swoon when I think about his tattoos and his searing kisses (sweating, throwing the covers off) and blink back tears when I think about the fact that he hasn’t called to see how I’m doing (freezing, burying myself under his wool blanket, inhaling the scent of him that lingers on it).
I shuffle out to the kitchen, still wrapped in Wil’s blanket, for a glass of ice water.
The red message light on the answering machine blinks.
I hit play and skip the two messages from Brianna’s mom.
The one from my own mother is rambling nonsense.
It cuts off before she says anything important. The fourth is from Wil.
“Abbey, it’s Wil,” he says in his low, rumbly voice, as if I wouldn’t have known it was him. “Are you feeling better? Can I bring you anything? Call me when you feel up to it.” There’s a pause, and then, “It’s not the same here without you.”
I listen to the message again, and a third time. I’m hit with a wave of exhaustion and nausea, and I collapse onto the couch, cover myself with his blanket, and sleep.
When I wake up just before noon, I’m feeling about fifteen percent better.
I drag myself into the bathroom for my first shower since the one in Wil’s fancy apartment.
I smell like puke and sweat and… I lift my Styx Paradise Theatre T-shirt and sniff.
Onions. I smell like onions. I’m going to have to burn this. Too bad. I like this shirt.
I shampoo my hair three times and double the amount of conditioner I typically use, then decide to leave it in. Can’t hurt. I stand under the hot spray for a long time. I’ve just pulled on a pair of wind pants, a clean Duran Duran T-shirt, and a zip-up fleece when the buzzer sounds.
I push the button. “Yes?”
There’s a crackle and then, “It’s Wil.”
It’s Wil. Wil’s here. My mouth falls open. Thank god I’m not still wearing my oniony Styx T-shirt, but why does he always show up when I’ve got wet hair?
I buzz him up, dash to the bathroom for a claw clip, and secure the heavy strands in a messy twist. Moments later, he knocks on the door.
When I open it, he steps through carrying a to-go bag from Boston Market in one hand and a gigantic bouquet—cream roses, white carnations, pale blue delphinium, and pinecones—in the other.
“Hey,” he says. The delicious aroma of rotisserie chicken wafts from the bag.
I reach out to caress a rose petal. “Oh, Wil, they’re beautiful.” I sigh.
“Not as beautiful as you.”
My laugh turns to a sob. He’s such a sweet, sweet liar.
I collapse onto the sofa and point to the coffee table for Wil to set down the flowers. He slides a stack of SPIN magazines onto the floor to make room for the vase.
“What are you doing here?” I throw an arm over my eyes. The light streaming in from the balcony door is so bright. I hear him move across the room and pull the curtains closed.
“You didn’t return my call. I needed to see that you were all right.” He sits back down and reaches for me, pulling me close. I snuggle in under his arm and breathe in his delicious scent.
“Mmm,” I murmur. Then I pull away. “No! I don’t want you to get sick.”
“I won’t get sick.”
“You can’t know that.” Even though I want to relax into his embrace, I scoot to the far end of the couch. “Don’t you work today?”
“I’m scheduled to close.” He reaches for the Boston Market bag. “I wasn’t sure what you’d be able to eat, so I got a few things.” He pulls the containers out—a chicken pot pie, macaroni and cheese, cornbread, and sweet potato casserole, my favorite. My stomach growls.
“When’s the last time you had anything to eat?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure.”
He pops open the container with two mini-loaves of cornbread. “Here, try this.”
I take a bite—sweet and sticky and dense—and then set the loaf back in the container as I swallow and the bread lands heavy in my sensitive stomach. “Maybe later.”
I lean my head against the back of the sofa, too fast, which makes my head spin. He reaches for my hand and drags his finger across it, sending a swirly swizzle under my skin.
“I’ve got one more thing for you.” He reaches into the bag, pulls out a slender paperback, and hands it to me.
The deep pink cover shows an inset photo of a regency-era couple in a passionate embrace.
She’s delicate and blonde in a crisp white gown and long white gloves past her elbows, and he’s dark and dashing and most undoubtedly a rake.
“The Loves of Lord Granton.” I read the title aloud and laugh. “Thank you. I can’t wait to read it. You know, Lord Granton looks a little like you, Wil.”
“I thought so, too,” he says. “I had to get it for you.”
I lean over and kiss his cheek, but he tugs me closer and presses his lips to mine. For a moment, I lose myself in it, but then I pull away.
“Thank you for bringing me flowers and food and the book,” I say, “but you need to leave. You don’t want to get this. Trust me.”
He furrows his brow, like he might argue with me, but then he stands, leans over me, and kisses the top of my head. “Lie down,” he says, and after I stretch out on the sofa, he covers me with the plaid blanket. “Promise me you’ll eat.”
“I promise.”
My eyes flutter shut and I listen as Wil sets the food containers in the fridge, heats water in the teakettle, and rummages in the cabinet for tea bags. Finally, after setting a steaming cup on the coffee table, he kisses the top of my head again and whispers, “Feel better.”
Later, I wake groggy and hungry. I realize I haven’t read the note in the bouquet.
The card matches the pale blue of the flowers perfectly.
On one side is a gold embossed logo and the words Fieldstone at The Galleria—an exquisite floral experience.
On the other side, Wil wrote, Because you can’t buy yourself flowers this week. Wil
Oh, he remembered. I read the card again, press my finger to ink.
An exquisite floral experience… I’ve seen that before.
The bouquet that arrived at work the day after Christmas, which is drying upside down on a hanger in my closet.
Wil sent them. My heart stutters. I crawl into bed with The Loves of Lord Granton, and later, dream of Wil in a white cravat and black tailcoat.