13. Abigail
ABIGAIL
I’m still here at the office at seven-thirty tonight. My workday officially ended at seven, but I had a call scheduled with Mom at seven-thirty, so I stayed put. Rushing home wouldn’t have made much sense.
Time zones always make things tricky. I have to adjust to their schedule, no matter how inconvenient it is on my end.
I say their because I haven’t spoken to Mom alone in years. We don’t really talk about her. Or me. Every conversation orbits around Celia and her dazzling, untouchable life.
I can’t think of a single bad thing that’s ever happened to her.
Well, there was that time she got food poisoning from an undercooked falafel. But even then, she dropped three pounds and looked incredible for her next shoot. I mean, who does that? Who gets food poisoning and comes out looking like a supermodel?
I’m not a jealous person. Really. But some people seem to collect all the luck without even trying. Genetically gifted. Effortlessly charming. Opportunities seem to fall into Celia’s lap like she’s some sort of human good-luck magnet.
Still, I’m sure she has her struggles. She must. Maybe she can’t find matching socks. Maybe she’s terrible at parallel parking. These are the things I tell myself.
I decide I’m not going to feel envious tonight. I’m going to be positive and serene. And most importantly, I’m going to tell them how great things are for me.
Because they are.
My speech went alright. I didn’t faint or accidentally swear, so that’s something. I’m working a major case and one of Alton Hill’s most eligible bachelors won’t leave me alone. Things are definitely looking up.
The clock flips to 7:30. I take a deep breath and hit dial.
Mom and Celia appear onscreen, twin smiles lighting up their faces. Celia is radiant. Tanned, glowing, not a trace of makeup in sight. Behind them, a wide window frames a beach bathed in soft gold and blush tones. The whole scene looks edited.
We breeze through the usual pleasantries.
“Things are just wonderful, darling,” Mom says, her eyes already drifting toward Celia. “She just landed another campaign. For a whitening toothpaste. Six figures for three posts. We can knock that out in an afternoon.”
Serene, I repeat in my head.
“That’s great.”
“We just wrapped a campaign with Harlow his thumb pauses mid-stroke on my skin. Frustration ripples through him, quiet but unmistakable, like a current humming beneath still water.
So I give him something.
“But this,” I say, pressing closer, letting my hand settle over his chest. “This helps.”
His breath leaves him in a slow exhale. Some of the tension eases from his body, his muscles softening as he pulls me tighter against him. His chin lowers to rest lightly against the crown of my head.
“We can do this as much as you want.”
I don’t know how long we stay like that, half-watching the TV, barely paying attention. The sound fades into the background, more white noise than dialogue.
“It’s getting late,” I say.
“Want me to go?” he asks, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even pretend to.
I hesitate for half a second. Then, “No.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he says, his arms tightening around me like he’s afraid I’ll take it back.
“Don’t get used to it,” I say, letting just enough teasing slip into my voice.
There’s a pause. A shift in the energy, subtle but unmistakable.
“Tell me about your last relationship,” he says. His voice is casual, but there’s an edge to it, like the question’s been sitting in his throat all night, and he can’t keep it in any longer.
I stiffen, caught off guard. That’s not a story I want to tell. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Before I can answer, he gently cuts in.
“Alright,” he says. “I’ll go first.”
He taps his knee, once. A nervous beat.
“Four years ago, maybe. Her name was Cassandra. It lasted about a year. It wasn’t serious.” He pauses. “She had this way of looking down on people. Said things that rubbed me wrong. Eventually I figured out I was just her ATM. Took me a while to catch on.”
The honesty hits harder than I expect. He stares at the ceiling like he wants to take it all back.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s not nice to feel used.”
“What about you?” he asks.
I pick at a loose thread on the couch. “There’s not much to say.”
But he opened up. He deserves something.
“His name was George. He lied about everything. Where he worked. Where he lived. Even his middle name. It took me years to realize.”
Will’s arms tighten.
“Is that why you’re so skeptical?” he asks. His thumb brushes over my shoulder blade.
“Maybe.”
“You shouldn’t feel bad for not knowing. People assume others operate like they do. Honest people don’t expect liars.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “For the record. I don’t lie. Don’t need to.”
I hug into him tighter, letting myself sink into that warmth. That steady, safe feeling. Like maybe everything is okay.
Because I know he’ll have to leave soon.
And I don’t want him to.
“Want me to take care of you tonight?” he asks, his hand drifting to my thigh.
I breathe him in. His scent. His warmth. His steadiness.
“I’m happy like this,” I whisper.
He presses a small kiss to the top of my head.
“So am I.”