33. Abigail
ABIGAIL
It’s late. I’m in my office, finishing an email that reads more like a novella than a reply. The building’s mostly dark, hushed and still, except for the low hum of traffic outside and the muted glow of my desk lamp.
Mom never showed up Tuesday. She hasn’t answered any of my calls. I don’t know if she meant what she said about selling the house. But maybe it’s time for me to move on. Start fresh. Find somewhere else to call home.
Judy pokes her head around the doorframe. Her lipstick is smudged, her bun askew.
“I dumped Russ,” she says. “Not that we were official.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she replies, settling into the chair across from me. But I know that look. She’s lying.
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugs, blinking hard. “He told me the foundation is a stupid idea.”
I stare at her. “Fuck him.”
“I mean, maybe he’s right. I almost gave up. Closed it. But then this donor came through. Decent amount, too. Out of nowhere.” She offers a weak smile. “So…we’ll see.”
“I told you people care about what you’re building.”
She nods but doubt still lingers in her eyes.
Then she changes the subject. “Can I show you the new site?”
We scroll through mock-ups for a while. I give her some notes. She tells me I can move in with her if Mom really does sell the house.
“Come to the mixer tomorrow night? We can get ready together. Like old times?” she asks.
I want to say no. I’m done with those people. But I can never say no to her, and maybe it would be good to get out of the house. It’s not like it was before. It’s quieter, somehow.
“That sounds nice,” I say.
She gives my hand a squeeze and heads out.
I start packing up for the night, slipping files into my tote, when I see it: a plain white envelope sitting neatly at the corner of my desk. My name is written across the front in a careful, looping script.
I pause.
I don’t recognize the handwriting, but something about it unsettles me. I tear it open.
Inside is a single sheet of thick stationery, written in the neatest cursive I’ve ever seen.
Abigail,
You don’t owe me forgiveness. But you deserve the truth.
I’m going to give it to you.
I miss you.
Will
I stare at the page.
My heart skips.
How did he manage this?
I run through the day in my mind. Anthea could have brought it in. Maybe a courier. One of the cleaning crew? With Will, it could have been anyone. He always finds a way.
But it doesn’t sound like him. Not exactly. There’s no charm, no grand performance. Just this.
I read it again.
And again.
My eyes stop on one line.
I miss you.
It is so simple. So small. And yet something inside me breaks open.
I fold the letter in half and press it to my chest, as if that might keep something from falling apart.
It doesn’t.
I slide under my desk, draw my knees in close, and let go. The tears come fast. Hard. Messy. The kind of crying I thought I had outgrown.
When it passes, I wipe my face with the sleeve of my shirt. I steady my breath. I pick myself up.
I drop the letter into the bin.
And then I go home.