Chapter 6 Abbie
ABBIE
Thirty-one. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, searching for evidence of the new number like it might have carved itself into my face overnight. Same green eyes. Same freckle near my left eyebrow that I've hated since middle school. Happy birthday to me.
The house is quiet in that specific way that used to feel peaceful and now feels like a held breath.
Gray's side of the bed is still made from when he left for Lisbon, the pillow untouched.
I stopped sleeping on his side two trips ago.
It felt too pathetic, like I was cosplaying at having a husband instead of actually having one.
Three weeks. He promised me three weeks ago. "Your birthday, Abs. Whole day, phone off, whatever you want." He'd said it over breakfast in this kitchen, with my feet in his lap. I'd written it down in my calendar anyway.
I twist up my hair and smile at my reflection.
"Happy thirty-one," I tell myself. "You've accomplished a lot. You have excellent bone structure. Your marriage is fine."
The mirror doesn't argue back, which is the best thing anyone's done for me today.
* * *
Wren's already at the restaurant when I arrive, commanding a corner booth at the little Italian place we've claimed as ours since my first year at the agency. She's wearing something architectural and black that makes her look like a very chic assassin.
"There she is," she says, standing to pull me into a hug. "The birthday girl. Thirty-one and still irritatingly pretty. It's disgusting, really."
"You're a year younger than me."
"Yes, but I've embraced my decay with grace. You're still fighting it." She releases me and gestures at the bottle of wine already open on the table. "I ordered. Don't argue. It's your birthday and I'm buying you alcohol at noon like the supportive friend I am."
I slide into the booth. This isn’t what Gray promised.
"You didn't have to do this," I say, and Wren rolls her eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck.
"I absolutely had to do this. It's your birthday. You think I'm letting you eat sad desk salad alone while staring at spreadsheets?"
"I wasn't going to eat sad desk salad."
"What were you going to eat?"
"Sad desk sushi."
"There is no difference. There is only sadness and desks.
" She pours wine into my glass with the confidence of someone who has never second-guessed a decision in her life.
"Now drink. Toast first, obviously. To thirty-one.
To you. To another year of being the most competent person in every room you enter while somehow also being the most self-deprecating about it. "
I lift my glass because it's easier than arguing. "That's a very specific toast."
"I'm a very specific person." She clinks her glass against mine. "Happy birthday, Abbie. You deserve good things."
I take a sip.
"So," she says, setting her glass down. "Where's the husband? I assumed he'd be whisking you off somewhere disgustingly romantic today. Private jet to wine country. Surprise picnic on a yacht. Whatever it is rich people do for birthdays."
"Lisbon."
"Lisbon."
"Yes."
"Lisbon, Portugal."
"That's the one."
"On your birthday."
"Wren."
"I'm just clarifying. Because three weeks ago, when we had drinks, you told me, and I quote, 'Gray promised the whole day, phone off, just us.' Did I hallucinate that conversation?"
"You didn't hallucinate it."
"So what happened?"
"Work happened. Something with the European expansion. He’s still there." I shrug like it doesn't matter, like I haven't been checking my phone every twenty minutes since midnight waiting for a text that hasn't come. "You know how it is."
"I know how it is when my job demands something unexpected. I do not know how it is when my hypothetical husband promises me an entire day off and then disappears to another continent without—" She stops. Narrows her eyes. "Wait. Has he called?"
"He's busy."
"Abbie."
"It's the time difference. He's probably in meetings."
"Abbie. Has he called you today?"
I take another sip of wine. Wren's face changes from disbelief to anger.
"Not even a text? A 'happy birthday, sorry I'm missing it, love you' text? That takes fifteen seconds."
"I'm sure he'll call later."
"It's almost one o'clock. And you’re sitting here on your birthday pretending you’re fine."
"I am fine."
"You're not fine. You've got the mask on."
"What mask?"
"The one where you smile and your eyes go dead and you pretend everything is okay when it's clearly not okay. I've known you for six years. You think I don't recognize the mask?"
"Okay," I say. "Fine. It's not great. Is that what you want to hear? My husband promised me a whole day, his words, not mine, and then he left the country and hasn't acknowledged that today exists. It's not great. I'm dealing with it."
"Have you tried calling him?"
"I'm not going to chase him down and demand birthday wishes, Wren. That's pathetic."
"It's not pathetic to want your husband to remember your birthday."
"He remembers. He's just busy."
"Does that make it better? Because from where I'm sitting, the outcome is the same. You're here, he's there, and you're making excuses for him while drinking wine that I bought because he didn't bother to make a reservation anywhere himself."
Wren sets down her glass. "I’m not the person who should have to remind him to buy you birthday lunch."
"Maybe you're exactly the person who should be buying me birthday lunch. You actually showed up."
I didn't mean to say that. It comes out sharper than I intended, and Wren's expression shifts from angry-on-my-behalf to something softer, more worried.
"Abbie."
"Don't. I don't want to... can we just not? It's my birthday. I want to eat pasta and drink expensive wine and talk about literally anything else. Tell me about work. Tell me about the rebrand. Tell me about whatever disaster client is making your life hell this week."
Wren picks up her menu.
"Fine," she says finally. "But we're coming back to this."
"Sure."
"I mean it. This isn't over."
"I know. But not today. Please."
She sighs. "Fine. Work, the rebrand. The pitches went out Monday and we've already heard back from three accounts."
"That's fast."
"That's me being a genius, is what that is." She takes a sip of wine, letting herself be redirected. "They loved them. Well, they loved three of them and had 'concerns' about the fourth, which in client speak means—"
"They hated it but don't want to hurt your feelings."
"Exactly. So I'm killing it with kindness and burying it in the deck where no one will ever see it again.
" She sips her wine. "The presentation is Friday after next, which means I'm basically living in the office until then.
You should come by, bring coffee, remind me what human connection feels like. "
"I'm there plenty."
"You're there too much. We've discussed this. Department heads are allowed to occasionally exist outside the building."
We order our usual pasta. Our food arrives, beautiful and aromatic, and I'm about to respond with something defensive about my work-life balance when I notice the woman approaching our table. I know her vaguely. One of those yacht-club wives, always knowing everyone’s business.
"Abbie," she says, and the tone is wrong. Soft and syrupy, dripping with performed concern. "I thought that was you. I'm so sorry to interrupt your lunch."
"That's alright," I say, automatically polite. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine, sweetheart. I'm fine." She's standing too close to our table, positioning herself like she's about to deliver news. "I just... I wanted to see how you're holding up."
Wren goes still across from me.
"Holding up?" I keep my voice light, my face pleasant. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"Oh, honey." Patricia-or-Priscilla puts a hand to her chest, and there’s excitement in her eyes. "I just assumed you'd heard by now. Everyone's seen it. I honestly thought... I mean, I'd want to hear from a friend."
"We're not friends," Wren says, flat as pavement.
The woman doesn't even glance at her. She's already reaching for her phone, already pulling up whatever poison she's been waiting to share, and my stomach drops before I even see it.
"I just thought you should know," she says, and turns the screen toward me.
It's a photo. Hotel hallway, a door slightly open, and a hand, a woman's hand, reaching toward a man standing in the doorway.
You can't see faces. You can't see much of anything, really, just shapes and shadows and that one hand, palm pressed against what might be a chest, fingers spread in a gesture that looks intimate. Familiar. Like it belongs there.
The wallpaper behind them is expensive. The kind hotels in Lisbon might have.
"I don't know who took it," the woman continues, voice dripping with false compassion, "but it's been making the rounds. I just thought you'd want to hear it from someone who cares, rather than—"
"Thank you," I say. My voice comes out smooth. Steady. Like this is a business meeting and she's just delivered a quarterly report. "I appreciate you thinking of me."
Her face flickers, confusion, then disappointment. She wanted tears. She wanted a scene. She wanted to walk away from this table with a story to tell.
"Of course," she manages. "If you ever need to talk—"
"I'll keep that in mind." I return to my pasta, pick up my fork, take a bite I can't taste. "Enjoy your lunch."
She hovers for another moment, clearly unsure how to exit a bombing that failed to detonate, then retreats back to wherever she came from.
Wren waits until she's out of earshot before leaning forward. "Abbie—"
"Excuse me for a minute." I stand up, smooth my napkin on the table, and give Wren the calmest smile I can manufacture. "I just need to make a call."
"Do you want me to come with you?"
"No. Stay and eat. I'll be right back."
I walk out of the restaurant like nothing is wrong, the photo seared into my brain. My car is parked three spaces down. I get in, close the door, and sit in the silence for exactly ten seconds before pulling out my phone. He answers on the second ring.