Chapter 6 Abbie #2
"Hey, Abs." His voice is warm, distracted. I can hear traffic in the background, voices speaking Portuguese. "Everything okay? I'm just heading into a meeting, but I've got a few minutes."
"Tell me about the photo, Gray."
Silence. Then: "What?"
"The photo. Hotel hallway. A hand reaching for you." I keep my voice level, clinical. "I just got shown it by a woman whose name I don't even know, so I'd really love to hear your version first."
More silence. I can practically hear him recalibrating, the PR instincts kicking in before the husband ones.
"Shit," he finally says. "Shit. Abbie, I was going to tell you. I've been trying to figure out how to—"
"Just tell me now."
He exhales. "It was Delaney."
For a moment, I don't understand. The name doesn't fit into the shape of what I'm imagining. "What?"
"A few days ago. She came to my room. It was late, I was alone with a drink and the lights off, and she knocked and when I opened the door she was—" He stops, and I can hear him choosing words carefully.
"She was wearing a robe. She put her hand on me and said things. Made it clear what she was offering."
My sister. My twenty-eight-year-old sister, his assistant, standing in a hotel doorway in a robe, offering herself to my husband.
"What did you do?"
"I removed her hand. Told her to leave. Told her it was never going to happen and she needed to get out.
" His voice is tight now, something like anger underneath the careful explanation.
"She left. I thought that was the end of it.
I didn't know there was a photo until you just...
someone must have taken it from down the hall, or she set it up, I don't know.
But Abbie, nothing happened. I would never...
she's your sister, and even if she wasn't... I would never. "
I close my eyes. The inside of my car is warm, sunlight pressing through the windows, and I let myself sit in the reality of it for a moment.
Delaney. Of course it was Delaney. Who else would be bold enough, reckless enough, cruel enough to try to seduce my husband in a hotel hallway and then circulate photographic evidence of her own rejection?
"You should have told me," I say. "When it happened."
"I know. I know I should have. I was... I didn't want to hurt you. I was going to deal with it when I got back, handle the situation, figure out what to do about her job without making everything worse. I should have called immediately, and I didn't, and I'm sorry."
"You're going to have to do something about her position."
"I will. I am. I'll take her off my schedule today, and counsel can deal with the termination properly when we're home." He pauses. "Abbie, do you believe me?"
Gray has faults. He forgets things. He prioritizes work over everything else. He can be distant and distracted and emotionally unavailable in ways that make me feel like I'm trying to have a marriage with a voicemail.
But he doesn't lie to me. Not about the big things. And infidelity with my sister would be the biggest thing.
"Yes," I say. "I believe you."
"Thank you." He exhales, long and unsteady. "I'm so sorry this happened. I'm sorry you had to find out like this, from some stranger at lunch. When I get back, we'll figure out how to handle Delaney, what to say to your mother—"
"Fine."
"The signing went well, by the way. Ferreira's on board. His people are being difficult about the percentages, but that's what lawyers are for, right?"
"Mm-hmm."
I wait.
"I've got a flight back late next week. The team wants to celebrate first, show him around Lisbon properly. You know how these things go."
"I'm fine. I just miss you. Can we just talk for a few minutes? About something that isn't work?"
"Yeah, of course. Absolutely. Oh... hold on, Theo is waving at me. The car's here early. Let me just... one second, Abs."
"Gray—"
"I know, I know. Two minutes."
"You always say two minutes."
"I mean it this time. Hey, did you eat today? You sound tired."
"I ate."
"Real food or coffee and anxiety?"
"Real food."
"Okay. Good. That's good. Listen, when I get back, we should do something. Just us. No work, no events, no... hang on. Yes, I'm coming. Tell them five minutes."
"You should go."
"I've got time. What were you saying?"
"I wasn't saying anything. You were."
"Right. When I get back. Dinner somewhere, maybe that place you liked in Malibu? We haven't been in months."
"That would be nice."
"We'll do it. I promise. First week I'm home, we'll go."
"Okay."
"Okay, I really have to go. Talk soon, Abs."
"Okay."
He hangs up. I sit there with the phone in my lap, the screen going dark, the car filling with afternoon sunlight and the distant sound of traffic on Sunset.
He didn't cheat. I know that, and knowing it is a relief, a genuine, physical loosening of something that had tightened in my chest when I saw that photo.
But he forgot my birthday.
Three weeks ago he promised me the whole day, phone off, whatever I want. And today, my birthday, the day I turned thirty-one, the day I spent the morning alone in our empty house, he talked about Ferreira and percentages and his flight home. And he hung up without remembering.
I could have reminded him. I could have said "it's my birthday, Gray" and watched him scramble to apologize, to make excuses, to promise he'd make it up to me when he got back. I could have given him the chance to feel terrible about it.
But I didn't want his apology. I wanted him to remember.
And he didn't. Because somewhere along the way, I stopped being the thing he remembers. I became background noise. Wallpaper. The wife who's always there, who doesn't need attention because she's already secured, who can wait and wait and wait because where else is she going to go?
I return to the restaurant, to Wren, to the pasta that's gone cold while I was gone.
"Well?" she asks, searching my face.
"He didn't cheat." I sit down, pick up my wine glass, take a long sip. "It was Delaney. She tried. He shut it down."
Wren's eyes go wide. "Your sister?"
"My sister."
"Jesus Christ, Abbie."
"I know."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know yet." I set the glass down, trace my finger around the rim. "But I know when I'll know."
She doesn't push. She just reaches across the table, squeezes my hand once, and starts talking about something else, the Brennan pitch, Dev's font crisis, the new coffee place that opened near the office, and I let her voice wash over me while a quiet, definite decision settles in my chest.
* * *
The house is dark when I get home. I don't turn on the lights. I just walk to the kitchen, pull out my calendar, the paper one I keep for personal things, the one that isn't synced to any device, and flip to the awards date.
Friday after next. The night of the industry awards. The VTG ceremony at the Beverly Wilshire. He'll be back by then. He promised he would, not that his promises have meant much lately.
I find a pen and draw a small circle around the date. Nothing dramatic, nothing angry. Just a mark, like any other appointment. If I'm still a stranger to him by then, if he's still choosing work and clients and everything else over seeing me, then I'll have my answer.
I close the calendar and speak into the empty kitchen.
"Just over two weeks, Gray," I say quietly. "That's what you've got."
The silence doesn't answer.