Our Worst Secret
Prologue
The mirror is fogged, even though no one has run the hot water and there's certainly no one in the shower.
Abigail has her back against the cold tiles and Eleanor's fingers are inside her, moving hard. She has to bite her fist to keep from making a sound that would carry through the door and out to the backyard.
Eleanor doesn't look at her face. She never looks at her face when she fucks her, except in those moments when her eyes seem to move on their own and fix on Abigail like it's the first time she's ever seen her.
Her jaw is tight and the collar of her blouse is twisted because Abigail grabbed it with both hands when they started and still hasn't let go.
Eleanor tips her head back when one of Abigail's hands releases her collar and slides down, slipping easily into her pants. She hadn't touched her yet — Eleanor had come at her so fast, with such desperation, that Abigail had barely managed to hold on.
"Shhhh."
It sounds like one of them is telling the other to be quiet, but that hiss is the only sound Eleanor makes when she feels the fingers she knows so well push into her.
She feels the burn, the stretch, and then the pleasure right behind it.
The rhythm they've shared so many times begins, the one that drives them both completely out of their minds.
Abigail rolls her hips forward and Eleanor presses deeper. A wordless conversation they've spent years perfecting.
When Abigail feels herself getting close, she sinks her teeth into Eleanor's shoulder through the fabric.
Eleanor doesn't complain — she takes the pain with a short breath and simply gives her what she wants.
She adds a third finger because she knows Abigail needs to feel her completely.
She comes like that, hard and biting, her eyes shut and her feet barely touching the floor, her skirt pushed up to her waist and her underwear around one ankle.
Eleanor feels Abigail clench around her fingers, and that, combined with the teeth tearing into her skin, sends her own orgasm crashing through her with a force that cuts off her breath for a moment and leaves her without air.
They go still for a second, and with a motion they've rehearsed many times, they pull their hands away. It's always struck Abigail as obscene that Eleanor wipes her fingers on her own pants, and it irritates Eleanor how calmly Abigail straightens her clothes. But they never say a word about it.
Abigail picks her underwear up off the floor, steps back into it, and pulls her skirt down. The silence between them is what they know — that unspoken agreement they've never discussed but both understand perfectly.
Eleanor puts her hand on the door handle and Abigail clicks her tongue and grabs her arm.
Eleanor's gaze drops to her hand, then jumps straight to her eyes, because they don't touch each other — only during, only in the middle of things — but Abigail ignores that, reaches up, and straightens Eleanor's collar with her fingers, smoothing it into place.
Then she gives a small nod toward the door and Eleanor goes out first.
The backyard smells of meat on the grill, which two men are tending while chatting easily with glasses of whiskey in hand.
The familiar scent of jasmine — planted everywhere along the fence — makes the night feel cooler than it is.
String lights hang between the trees, and the long table has been set with the white linen tablecloth they only bring out for special occasions.
Twenty-five years, a quarter century married, and Richard and Carol are still the kind of couple that searches for each other across a crowded room.
Abigail slips in through the side gate two minutes after Eleanor.
"Mom." Eleanor hugs her, and Carol returns the embrace with that quiet strength she has, that way of holding on that has always seemed to say you're home now. "Happy anniversary. How are you two doing?"
"Like new people," Carol says, pulling back to look at her. "That hot stone massage should be required by law. Thank you for the gift. Where's Abigail?"
"Right here." Abigail appears at that moment and wraps an arm around Richard's waist. Her father pulls her in by the shoulder and squeezes her against his side.
"Sweetheart," Richard says, hugging her the way he always has. "Twenty-five years — can you believe it?"
"Honestly, no," Abigail says, and winks at Carol as she leans in for a hug.
Cousin Sophie — the one who cycles through partners like they're disposable — walks over with an unfamiliar man in tow.
She's tall, with the kind of blond that only exists in expensive salons, and she introduces the man with the enthusiasm of someone still in the stage where everything feels new and perfect.
"Everyone, this is Connor," Sophie says, beaming. "Connor, this is my family."
Connor is the kind of man who looks at people with too much interest, like he's running numbers. He shakes hands, takes in names, nods. When he gets to Eleanor and Abigail — who are standing together without having planned it — he glances from one to the other.
"For sisters," he says, "you two don't look anything alike."
Abigail picks up her glass.
"Stepsisters," she corrects, not looking at him.
Eleanor lets exactly one second pass. She has that ability — to measure the weight of words before she releases them.
"Not even that," she adds. "We don't share any blood."
She says it with the same coolness she uses to sign documents. Connor nods, slightly thrown, and Sophie is already pulling him toward someone else while Abigail takes a sip from her glass.
Richard rolls his eyes, but Carol — always Carol — looks at the two of them for a moment, then takes her husband's hand and moves on to greet the other guests. And the two of them simply drift apart.
To the left, barely ten feet away, Daniel and Marcus are still laughing.
Daniel, Eleanor's husband, has that easy, carrying laugh that has won over every room he's walked into for the past twelve years. Marcus, Abigail's, nods with his glass raised, relaxed, oblivious to everything. Both of them are exactly what they appear to be: good men at a family party.