Chapter 18 Abbie
ABBIE
Sunday
The bathwater goes cold while I pretend it helps. My phone sits face-down on the kitchen counter. I haven’t touched it since I got home. I sink lower in the tub until the water reaches my chin.
Here's the thing about sleeping with your estranged husband: your body remembers everything your brain spent a year trying to forget. The exact pressure of his thumb against your hip bone. The sound he makes right before...
"Stop," I say out loud, to no one. "Just stop."
I drain the tub and wrap myself in a towel, then put on ancient leggings and a clean sweatshirt and curl up on the couch. My hand reaches for the phone anyway. Not yet. I need to figure out what I want to say.
I fall asleep on the couch at eleven AM.
* * *
Monday, 7:47 AM
Wren's name flashes across my screen before I've finished my first cup of coffee, which is a war crime. We have rules about pre-caffeine communication. She knows this.
"Someone better be dead," I answer.
"Check your email. I sent you a link."
"Good morning to you too. I'm fine, thanks for asking, the weekend was—"
"Abbie." Her voice has that particular quality, the one she uses when she's about to deliver information that's going to rearrange my entire day. "The Vanity Fair interview. It published overnight."
My stomach drops. I hadn't known he was giving an interview. "What did he say?"
"I'm not going to tell you. You need to read it yourself."
"Wren."
"I'm not being dramatic. I literally cannot summarize this. Just open the link, I'll wait."
I open the email: VF Interview LIVE. I click. Gray looks straight into the camera beneath the headline about his marriage.
I scroll to On The Tabloid Speculation.
VF: There's been considerable media attention on your personal life lately. Speculation about affairs, a secret child. Do you want to address any of that directly?
GV: I do not have a child. I want to be absolutely clear about that. The rumors are false, and the people spreading them have their own reasons for doing so, none of which have anything to do with the truth.
VF: And the affair allegations?
GV: There was no affair. There was no other woman.
The biggest mistake of my life was neglecting my wife, not cheating on her.
I let the work become an excuse. I let things that felt urgent crowd out the person who was essential.
By the time I understood what I was doing, I'd already done damage I'm still trying to figure out how to repair.
VF: You've been separated for about a year now. Is reconciliation something you're hoping for?
GV: Hope feels too passive a word. But I'm not going to pretend I've moved on, because I haven't. There is no one in this life or the next for me but her.
The phone nearly slips from my hand. I read it three times. He told Vanity Fair. Everyone can read it.
"Abbie?" Wren's voice, still on the line. "Are you still breathing?"
"I'm breathing," I manage.
"And?"
"And I need to process this."
"Understandable. Take your time. But also I'm literally dying over here, so if you could process a little faster—"
I close the link and put the phone down on the counter. "I'll call you when I get to the office."
"You're hanging up? Now? After I delivered you this life-changing news?"
"Love you. Bye."
I end the call before she can protest further.
There is no one in this life or the next for me but her.
I’m not angry right now. That scares me more. I take a long, steadying breath. I grab my keys.
* * *
Halo Creative, 9:23 AM
The stairs to Halo smell like carnitas and cilantro. A wall of flowers blocks the landing. I stop on the fourth step, staring. Roses, peonies and orchids line the stairs.
"What the hell," I breathe.
My phone rings. Wren again.
"Did you make it up the stairs yet?"
"I'm standing in them. There are flowers."
"I know. There have been flowers since six AM. Apparently the first delivery guy had to wake up Roberto to get access to the building."
"Roberto?" The taqueria owner. Sweet man, seventies, makes the best al pastor in Culver City.
"He's been helping coordinate. I got here at seven and there were already fifteen arrangements. We're at forty-seven now."
"Forty-seven."
"I've been counting. It seemed important to count."
I check three arrangements for cards as I climb. None. The office door is already open. Wren stands just inside, phone pressed to her ear, watching me navigate the floral obstacle course with barely contained glee.
"This is insane," I tell her, hanging up my call so we can talk like normal humans. "This is actually insane."
"I know. Isn't it great?"
"It's excessive. It's absurd. There's no way we can keep all of these."
"Obviously not." Wren's already on her phone, scrolling through contacts. "What do you want to do with them?"
"I want them gone. I want them—" I stop. Think. "Hospitals. Nursing homes. Anywhere that would actually want them."
"On it." She starts typing. "Roberto!"
He appears in the doorway, already pulling on his jacket like he knew this was coming. "I heard. I'm calling Cedars-Sinai now."
I go down to the delivery truck.
"Change of plans," I say. "How many hospitals can you hit in the next two hours?"
"Lady, I just deliver where they tell me."
"Can you deliver them somewhere useful instead?" I pull out my phone to collect the addresses. "And we'll get you a list of nursing homes accepting donations."
He stares at me for a long second. Then grins.
"My grandmother's in a place in Glendale. They'd lose their minds over roses like this."
"Perfect. Start there."
Roberto loads arrangements into his car while Wren calls hospital volunteer coordinators. I spend forty minutes on the sidewalk helping carry bouquets.
"For my wife," Roberto keeps saying. "She's going to love these. She's going to absolutely love these."
By the time the truck pulls away, half the arrangements are gone and we have a list of places willing to accept the rest. But the sidewalk is clear. The message is sent.
Your flowers are not a weapon. Your gestures don't own me.
Wren appears at my elbow, slightly out of breath. "Okay, that was impressive. Also slightly unhinged. Also I need you to tell me everything that happened this weekend right now immediately."
"It's too early for this."
"It's never too early for this. Coffee's already made. Sit down. Talk."
At my desk, I take the coffee Wren hands me. The room still smells of flowers.
"Forty-seven arrangements," I say again. "He sent forty-seven arrangements."
"Forty-nine now, actually. Two more just arrived while you were climbing the stairs.
" Wren perches on the edge of my desk, vibrating with curiosity.
"And don't think the deflection is working.
What happened at Topanga? You came home covered in mud and wouldn't answer any of my texts until midnight. "
"We had a mud fight."
"You had a what?"
"At a muddy pullout. My car was stuck. I was trying to leave. He made a comment about not running away. I threw dirt at him." The memory surfaces, his shocked face, the first glob of mud hitting his chest, the way surprise shifted into something delighted and feral. "It escalated from there."
"Please tell me there are pictures."
"There are no pictures."
"Security cameras?"
"Wren."
"I'm just saying, historically speaking, this is important documentation of a key turning point in your romantic journey—"
"I'm not having this conversation."
She studies me for a long moment, her expression shifting from gleeful to something more careful. "You slept with him."
I don't answer. I don't have to.
"Okay," she says slowly. "Okay. And now there are forty-nine... wait, hold on." Her phone buzzes. She checks it, types something rapid, looks back at me. "Fifty-two. We're at fifty-two arrangements. Roberto is asking if we want him to set up a folding table in the alley to hold the overflow."
"Tell him yes. And tell him we'll cover his lunch rush for the trouble."
"I'll tell him." She puts her phone down. "So. You slept with him. You read the interview. You're sitting here surrounded by approximately one thousand dollars worth of flowers. How are we feeling?"
"I don't know."
"Helpful."
"I'm serious." I set my coffee down, pressing my palms against my eyes. "I don't know what any of this means. The flowers are... they're flowers, Wren. They're a grand gesture. He's always been good at grand gestures. It's the small things he couldn't manage."
"The interview wasn't small."
"The interview was—" I stop. The interview was public accountability, on the record, permanently attached to his name. "The interview was different."
"Yeah." She softens slightly. "It was."
My phone rings again. An unknown number this time.
"Delivery confirmation," Wren says before I can answer. "That's been happening all morning. I've been handling them when I can, but they keep asking for you specifically."
I answer anyway. "Hello?"
"Ms. Valentine? This is Diego from Bloom Room. I have eighteen more arrangements scheduled for delivery today. Your colleague mentioned you're redirecting them?"
"We are. Anywhere but here. Hospitals, care facilities, shelters, wherever they'll do the most good."
"Got it. I'll coordinate with the other shops."
"There are other shops?"
"Six that I know of. Maybe more." He sounds almost impressed. "Whoever ordered these really committed to the bit."
"Yeah," I say faintly. "He does that." A text from Gray arrives before I can put the phone down. The florist forwarded your instructions. These are from the standing order I placed before we talked. I cancelled with the lead shop Friday; they didn’t cancel the others. I should have checked. I’m sorry. All further orders are stopped, and I’ll cover redirecting these. No response needed.
I hang up and meet Wren's eyes. She's grinning again.
"Stop," I tell her.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"I was thinking that your estranged husband has created enough florist logistics to qualify as a minor government department. At least he’s fixing his own mistake instead of making you thank him for it."