Chapter 20 Abbie #2
"Jordan is terrified of disappointing me. He'll figure it out. Next."
Gray scrolls. "This one's from Wren. It says 'Hope you're feeling better, don't check your email, I'm handling everything, stop checking your email.' Followed by seventeen exclamation points."
"That sounds like Wren."
"There's a follow-up that just says 'I'M SERIOUS ABBIE' in all caps."
"Also very Wren."
"Should I respond to her? Let her know you're—"
"No. Keep reading. What else?"
He hesitates, then scrolls.
"Mika sent a thread about headline options for the Elliot campaign. She's got three versions and wants your gut reaction when you're feeling up to it. She also says, and I'm quoting directly here, 'No rush, I know you're sick, but version two is objectively perfect and I will die on this hill.'"
"She's probably right. Mika's usually right about headlines. What's version two?"
"I'm not reading three headline options to you at four in the morning."
"Fine. What else?"
"Vendor confirmation for the print run. Something about color proofs needing approval by Thursday but Wren flagged it as handled. Another email from Jordan asking if 'approachable but not folksy' means he should use contractions or not."
"Oh my God."
"I'm going to be concerned about Jordan."
"Don't be concerned about Jordan. Jordan just needs to make a decision without permission for once in his life. He's actually talented when he stops second-guessing himself." I close my eyes, letting my head rest against the cabinet behind me. "What else is in there?"
"A lot of cc's that seem informational. Wren's clearly routing everything through herself so people don't bother you directly. She's sent about nine emails in the last twelve hours that are basically 'I've handled this, no action needed, Abbie please rest.'"
"She's going to burn out covering for me."
"She seems to have it under control."
"That's what burning out looks like. Having it under control until suddenly you don't." I open my eyes, staring at the ceiling. "I should send her something. Just to check in."
"You said you wouldn't respond to anything."
"I lied."
"Abbie."
"Fine. I won't respond. But first thing tomorrow—"
"You'll still be sick tomorrow."
"I'll be less sick tomorrow. Maybe. Hopefully." I pull my knees closer to my chest, fighting another wave of nausea. "I hate this. I hate not being able to do anything. I hate that my team is working overtime because I can't stop throwing up long enough to answer a simple email about contractions."
"Your team is handling it because they're good at their jobs. Jobs you hired them to do. Jobs they apparently do well, based on the fact that nothing in this inbox is actually on fire."
"Yet. Nothing is on fire yet."
"That's the spirit."
I almost laugh, but it turns into a groan. He reaches over and rests a hand on my ankle, gentle, careful, not assuming anything.
"Read me one more," I say. "Then I'll stop. I promise."
"One more and then you rest?"
"One more and then I rest."
He scrolls.
"Here. This one's from Mika again, separate thread. She says, 'I know Wren told you not to check your email but I also know you're definitely checking your email, so just wanted to say: we've got this. Your systems work. You trained us well. Get better and come back when you're ready, not before.'"
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with being sick.
"She's good," I manage. "They're all good."
"They learned from someone good."
He closes my email and sets the phone aside.
"Okay," I say finally. "I'm done checking. For now."
"For now?"
"Don't push your luck."
I let my head fall sideways until it's resting against his shoulder. He doesn't move. Neither do I.
* * *
Later.
He leaves in the afternoon, when I'm finally steady on my feet and the fever is gone and I've kept down actual food for six hours straight.
"Call me," he says at the door. "For anything. Or for nothing."
"I know."
"I mean it."
"I know, Gray."
He kisses the top of my head, his lips warm against my hair, and then he's gone and my apartment feels too quiet without him.
On the counter is a bag of broth, crackers, tea, ginger candies and electrolytes, with a heating pad tucked beside them.
And at the bottom, a box of pads. I stare at it for a long time. When did I last need pads?
I count back. Then I count again, because surely I've miscounted. I haven't.
Topanga. Four weeks ago. I drive across town for three tests, then bring them home to my bathroom.
Three tests. Three results. All positive. I stare at them until my vision blurs. I wipe my eyes.
I climb into the empty tub fully dressed, the tests clutched in my hand. Pregnant. I'm pregnant.
And I don't know. I don't know what I want. Not yet, not about this. I want the baby. I think I want the baby. A fierce, immediate claim rises in me when I look at those two lines. Mine.
But does wanting the baby mean going back to him? Does it mean becoming a wife again, becoming half of something when I've worked so hard to be whole? Does it make me his, the way having a baby with Richard made my mother his, trapped in a life she didn't choose?
I'm not my mother. I know I'm not. But the fear is there anyway, curled up in my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I could tell him. I should tell him. He would want to know.
He would be good, so good it makes my heart ache, and he would love this baby and he would love me and we would be a family.
But I don't know if I want that because I want it, or because he does, or because the biology of it all is making the choice for me.
What I need is time. Space to think without his hope in the room, without his certainty pressing against my doubt.
I'll tell him. Soon. Just... not yet.
Holding the test in my shaking hands, I try to imagine a future, any future, and all I can see is fog.