Chapter 7
Six months ago. Pittsburgh. Eleanor's birthday.
Carol has made the lemon cake — the one that's been Eleanor's birthday cake for as long as she can remember, from before Richard and Carol got married and Carol learned that her daughter didn't want chocolate or vanilla but lemon, with white frosting and the little yellow sugar flowers her mother places by hand with a patience Eleanor has never quite decided whether to admire or find excessive, but that cake is one of the few constants in her life she's never wanted to change.
She and Daniel are the first to arrive, the ride from the airport made in silence.
It's not uncomfortable because they've long since gotten used to saying only what's necessary, but Eleanor feels a wave of relief when the cab pulls up in front of her parents' house and she climbs out, no longer feeling trapped beside her husband.
Something fills her chest when she looks at the front of the house — a kind of strange nostalgia she's never felt before, because she's never gone this long without coming back.
She hasn't set foot here since Thanksgiving, and it's not the house itself she's missed so much as what happens in some corner of it without anyone knowing.
She remembers the Christmas she couldn't make it to, and her stomach still twists with anxiety, as if she'd lost something she'll never get back — one of the handful of moments each year when she feels like herself, stolen by some stupid event she didn't want to attend in the first place.
"Happy birthday, Eleanor," Richard says when he opens the door, pulling her into a warm hug. "It's so good to see you."
"Thank you, Richard," Eleanor says, giving him a genuine smile.
Carol appears behind him, arms wide open, her smile even wider.
"Happy birthday, sweetheart," she whispers against her cheek. "Forty, huh?"
"Don't remind me, Mom."
Carol pulls back and smiles.
"You look absolutely beautiful. Forty suits you."
"Forty hurts my knees," Eleanor says with exaggerated drama, making everyone laugh.
Thirty minutes later, Eleanor walks into the living room with a glass of wine, at her stepfather's side and her sister's.
She's trying to follow the conversation when she hears a car outside and something like a current runs through her whole body, because she knows it's Abigail even without seeing her — it's as if the air shifts around her when the lawyer is just a few feet away, as if her body can sense her in some way she can't explain.
That connection unsettles her as much as it scares her.
Again, it's Richard who opens the door. Eleanor's back is turned and she doesn't spin around right away while she hears footsteps in the entryway, her mother's voice and Richard's, then Marcus saying something that makes them laugh, and finally, Abigail's.
That's when Eleanor turns and sees her in the doorway. She's wearing a deep burgundy sweater and that perfect chestnut bob, and all Eleanor wants in that moment is to run her fingers through it and mess it up — while those dark green eyes settle on her like there's no one else in the house.
"Eleanor," Abigail says, without any greeting, just devouring her with a look that lasts two seconds and warms Eleanor completely.
"Abigail…"
Those two words are all they exchange before dinner.
For this celebration the group is smaller than at Christmas — just the three couples — because Carol believes birthdays should be celebrated with only the closest family, and no one in that house ever argues with the woman's decisions.
With no need for the big dining table, they set everything up at the kitchen table, perfect for six.
Unlike the last time they sat side by side, tonight they're across from each other — Carol's arrangement, and that isn't up for discussion either — but the result is that every time Eleanor looks up, Abigail is right there, eating and talking with Marcus or Richard, because she and Daniel don't have much to say to each other either, or turning toward Carol when she catches her attention, but never looking at Eleanor.
She's been avoiding her all through dinner, focused on everyone but her, and even though they rarely talk, Eleanor feels untethered, as if Abigail's gaze alone would be enough to ease the anxiety that's been eating at her since they arrived.
Six months without seeing each other is something neither of them is used to — it's never happened before, and Eleanor has been filling that void with work, the gray outside her window, and late nights in her study flipping through law books.
Six months, and Abigail won't look at her once through the whole meal, and it makes Eleanor's jaw tighten.
Daniel says something and Eleanor answers with just enough words to be polite, then lifts her glass to take a sip — but she freezes with the rim at her lips when Abigail glances up and locks those green eyes on her for exactly one second before turning back to her conversation with Marcus.
When dinner's over, Carol disappears into the kitchen and comes back carrying the lemon cake, singing in that perfectly off-key voice of hers, and everyone joins in — Abigail included, not wanting to earn a disapproving look from her father — but her voice falters when Eleanor smiles at her mother, wide and open.
It's a smile Abigail has only seen a handful of times, but when it appears, Eleanor's whole face changes: more relaxed, eyes bright, features soft.
And Abigail feels something else she only experiences in moments like this — a sudden flutter in her chest that has nothing to do with the low pull in her stomach that Eleanor's presence always stirs in her.
"Make a wish," Carol says.
Eleanor lets the smile fade and looks at the candles, but for just a fraction of a second she raises her eyes and finds Abigail before she blows them out.
After the cake, everyone moves to the living room with their drinks, and Carol insists she doesn't need any help.
"Go on, both of you — you know I'd rather move around the kitchen on my own. You make me nervous," she says, glancing between them.
"All right," Eleanor says.
Abigail is the first one out, but instead of heading to the living room she goes upstairs, and Eleanor follows a few steps behind.
This time Abigail opens the door to the guest bathroom and waits in the doorway for Eleanor to step inside before slipping in after her and turning the lock.
When she turns around, Eleanor is pressed against the wall between the shower and the window, and Abigail exhales sharply through her nose as she crosses the room, wraps a hand around Eleanor's throat, and pulls her body flush against her, pinning her between herself and the wall.
She never hurts her, but she's never gentle either, and tonight Eleanor can feel more pressure than usual as those fingers close around her throat, holding her in place.
"Don't you ever do that again," Abigail hisses, her voice rough with a ragged edge of anger. "Don't ever make me wait like that, Eleanor."
The threatening tone only turns the congresswoman on more.
She opens her mouth to say something, but two of Abigail's fingers press against her lips and slide inside so she can suck them.
When they're completely wet, Abigail drops down, pushes her hands under Eleanor's dress, and drags her underwear down to her ankles before straightening again, gripping her by the throat once more, and pressing those two fingers — the ones that were just in her mouth — inside her.
The intrusion doesn't catch her off guard. It's exactly what she's been wanting most, but her body seems to take those fingers with more pleasure than usual, and a low, rough moan escapes her that Abigail cuts off by tightening her grip just slightly.
"Look at me," Abigail demands, when Eleanor's gaze drifts toward the ceiling for a moment as she breathes in shallow pulls that only heighten her pleasure.
She obeys, fixing her eyes on Abigail, who adds a third finger, and Eleanor bites her lip to hold back another sound.
She grips Abigail's waist with both hands and doesn't need to ask for more — the lawyer knows exactly what she wants and how she likes it, and she's giving it to her with an intensity that has her dripping.
When she can't hold on any longer, her body goes taut and she tips her head back, and Abigail presses her mouth to her throat and then bites her chin while keeping her other hand firm against her neck.
The spasms ripple through her and she locks her arms behind Abigail's neck, afraid her legs will give out as she comes.
Abigail releases her throat and wraps an arm around her back to hold her close.
Eleanor brings her mouth to Abigail's ear and moans low against it as the last of it moves through her, and Abigail discovers another new sensation she hadn't been prepared for — a flutter against her ribs from Eleanor moaning that close, with that restraint so characteristic of her: tense, trembling, and at the same time utterly surrendered to her.
As her body stops shaking, Eleanor presses her face into the soft scent of Abigail, who still doesn't wear heavy perfume because she knows Eleanor can't stand it.
"Happy birthday," Abigail murmurs against her shoulder.
Eleanor makes a small sound against her — something caught between a breathless smile and the edge of a sob — because Abigail's tone is too warm, too genuine for her body to handle, knowing they only have a few minutes left like this.
When she's steadied herself a little, Eleanor kisses and bites Abigail's neck while turning her and switching their positions, pressing the lawyer's back to the wall.
She steps back, holds her gaze for a moment, and crouches to pull her own underwear back up.
Then she kneels in front of Abigail, unbuttons her pants, and presses her open mouth to her over the fabric before pulling them down.
Abigail bites down on her own fist to keep from making a sound — not when Eleanor's mouth is still on the fabric, not when she pulls her pants and underwear down and her tongue presses against warm, wet skin.
She comes with her fist in her mouth, her other hand gripping the back of Eleanor's head, her hips rocking forward against her tongue.
When it's over, Eleanor straightens, pulling Abigail's pants back up, and stands in front of her while Abigail buttons them.
They look at each other for a moment, like they can't help it, and then they both turn to face the mirror to wash up and put themselves back together.
After drying her mouth and chin, Eleanor checks that her updo is still in place and that her dress hasn't picked up a single wrinkle, while Abigail smooths the collar of her sweater.
"Wait," Abigail says, just as Eleanor reaches for the door.
She takes hold of the necklace Eleanor's wearing — which has somehow ended up twisted — and straightens it, settling it where it belongs, while Eleanor holds her breath at the soft brush of fingers against her skin.
She wonders whether some unconscious part of her leaves things slightly out of place on purpose, or whether it's Abigail herself who finds details that aren't really there, just to have this last moment together — the one that always feels, to both of them, like the most intimate of all.
"There," Abigail murmurs, and Eleanor turns and walks out of the bathroom.
She goes downstairs, and when she walks into the living room the three men are still there and Carol is in the kitchen.
Eleanor steps in to pour herself another glass of wine, and her mother turns and looks at her for a couple of seconds without saying a word — because mothers know their daughters, and Carol has spent nearly twenty years suffering in silence as she watches hers be so unhappy.