31. Abigail
ABIGAIL
It’s been just over a week since the awards, and I’m doing well. Better than well, actually.
It’s Saturday morning. I’m walking home from yoga through the tree-lined streets. The studio is downtown, about thirty minutes from my place. Just long enough to warm up on the way there and cool down on the way back.
I don’t have a car right now. The garage scrapped mine, like I asked. I returned the one Will gave me. I’ve been looking for something I can afford, but nothing feels right after driving that one. I’ll adjust. I always do.
My days follow quiet routines: seed mixes, green juices, meditation, real sleep. I’ve started reading again. I skip work events, not from shame, but because I finally see those people clearly. They were never my friends. That kind of clarity brings its own peace.
Judy’s been showing up. She brings takeout and jokes that I’ve become some kind of wellness monk. Sometimes she even joins me for yoga, though she hates every minute of it.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asks.
I tell her I am. And I mean it.
I haven’t cried. Haven’t ached. I just feel a clean detachment.
Everything is fine. Well, apart from when he shows up. Like he is now. I spot a silver Aston Martin in my driveway as I round the corner of my street.
If I thought Will was persistent before, that’s nothing compared to now.
I’ve blocked him. I don’t open the letters he leaves on my doorstep. I tear them up without reading. The flowers, the gifts, the desperate apologies. None of it matters.
But he just doesn’t get it: we are done.
I can’t avoid him this time. He’s seen me.
He gets out of the car. His polo is wrinkled, his usually crisp chinos creased at the knees.
Even his hair, normally neat, hangs loose, like he ran a hand through it too many times.
His face is drawn, the shadows under his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them.
He looks older. Weathered. Like someone who’s finally learned that not everything can be bought, fixed, or talked away.
Good.
My keys dig into my palm as I walk up the driveway.
Will closes the distance between us.
I’m fumbling with the lock when my yoga bag slips from my shoulder. He catches it before it hits the ground and sets it beside me.
“This is getting ridiculous,” he says, taking the key from my hand.
“Give it back,” I say calmly.
That shakes him. More than yelling ever would.
“Baby, I did it for us. I know I lied—”
“I’ve heard it before.” I hold out my hand. “Give me the key.”
“Just listen.” His eyes are raw with something that might be regret. But it doesn’t move me. Up close his eyes are red. Like he’s been crying. There’s a small pang in my chest, but why should I care? He did this.
“I made a mistake. A huge one. But we can come back from this.”
I should feel something. Rage, pity, anything. But there’s just silence.
“There’s no coming back.”
“I’m not giving up. I’ll sleep in this damn driveway if I have to.”
I almost laugh. That used to work on me. The grand gestures, the relentless pursuit. But I’m not the woman I was when we met.
“Knock yourself out.” I pause. “Now, the key.”
Instead, he pulls something from his pocket. A small box. And before I can react, he drops to one knee.
“I’m serious about us—”
He opens the box. The ring is massive. An oval diamond, flawless, bright enough to catch the sun. For a second, my breath hitches. Not from desire, but from memory. The version of me who once wanted this.
“I want a family with you—”
That breaks the spell.
“A family?” My voice is sharper now. “With a man who lies to my face? No.” I snatch the key from his other hand. He reaches for me, still on his knees, arms wrapping around my waist.
“I’m sorry. I promise—”
“Get off me.”
I yank myself free, open the door, and step inside. I lock it behind me.
“I’ll leave it here,” he calls.
“Don’t.”
A minute later, his car engine hums to life. I wait until the sound fades, then open the door.
The box is there.
It must’ve cost a fortune. He’ll want it back, eventually. Once he realizes I meant it.
He’s not getting another chance. Not now. Not ever.
I drop the box into the kitchen drawer. The one where dead pens, rubber bands, and expired coupons go to be forgotten. It looks out of place.
I slide the drawer shut.
Will just proposed to me.
That ring was everything I used to want.
He dangled the dream in front of me like bait.
But he doesn’t get to be the hero now. He’s only here because he can’t stand being the villain. If he really loved me, lying would’ve been harder. Betrayal wouldn’t have come so easily.
I grab the blender and start prepping a smoothie. Spinach. Avocado. Ginger. Flax.
Something clean. Something grounding.
The blender roars to life, the noise louder than it needs to be. I press down hard on the lid, like I could pulverize the last pieces of him in my heart if I just blend long enough.
When the blades slow to a stop, my phone lights up.
Mom.
I take a breath, abandon the smoothie and answer.
“Mom, how are things?” I try to sound breezy.
“I’ve just booked a ticket home,” she says. “I’ll be there Tuesday afternoon.”
“Here?”
“Yes, sweetheart. Tuesday.”
“Does Celia have a shoot?”
“No, it’s just me. I’m coming to see you,” she says. Then adds, too casually, “And to meet Will, of course. It’s perfect timing really. Him being a Carter and all. I have loads of experience in fashion. Loads.”
“You want to work for Carter?”
“Celia’s not getting any younger. The jobs are drying up. Time for something new.”
“What about Celia?”
“She’ll be fine,” she says with a sigh, waving it off like it’s nothing.
“I can’t wait, darling. I might need to stay at the house for a little while, just until I get on my feet.
I’ve been meaning to mention it. It might be time to sell.
I mean, you’re hardly going to live there much longer, right? Will seems quite taken with you.”
Sell the house? I press my palm against the cold counter.
“Darling?” she prompts. “And about moving. There are some lovely homes in the Hills. Some even have guesthouses. So much potential…”
Oh. She thinks Will’s going to buy me a house in the Hills and we’ll play happy family.
“I broke up with Will,” I say.
Silence.
“What?” Her voice sharpens. “Why? Darling? If it’s just a wandering eye, you have to expect that sort of thing.”
She launches into a spiel. Wealthy men and their inevitable indiscretions. The glamorous life I’ve thrown away. The parties, the name, the magazine spreads. The image. The illusion. “You need to think about what he can give you.”
But I never cared about any of that.
“Will and I are not getting back together.”
Another pause. This one colder.
“Right. Well. Okay, darling. I have to go.”
She hangs up before I can ask anything. How long she’s staying. If she really intends to sell the house. If this is just another passing whim, or something worse.
But the real question is the one I could never ask: Why do you only want me when you think I come with him?
I stare down at the blender. The smoothie has separated completely. Murky green sludge swirling in pale liquid, like it’s rotting from the inside out.
I pour it down the drain and watch it spiral away.
Just like everything else.