ABBY
I WAKE SUNDAY morning to the tender ache of my kiss-worn lips, my breasts, and most of all, my sex. It’s definitely not terrible. The sheets are cool around me, but smell faintly of Hank’s cologne and I press my nose into them, wanting as much of it as I can get.
He wanted to stay, but I knew better than to let him.
He’s changed in some ways, but not the ways I’d need him to for us to have a chance. And honestly, I wouldn’t want him to. He’s doing too much good with the life he has.
Knock, knock, knock.
I close my eyes, take one more hit of my Hank-laced sheets and sigh.
Crawling out of bed, I throw on my robe.
“Coming, Helen!” I tiptoe over my dress and the boring bra I wore last night. Not the splashy orange number with the lace trim I got to appease Helen for the reunion.
I’m going to have to invest in more lingerie.
I stop midstep, giving myself a mental shake, because no. I’m not going to buy new lingerie. What happened with Hank isn’t going to happen again. No matter what he keeps saying.
Before closing my bedroom door on the cornucopia of dirty evidence from our night before, I scan the floor by the door where my panties are supposed to be… but aren’t.
My eyes bug.
He wouldn’t have. Only even as I think it, I realize that Hank isn’t exactly behaving the way I’d predict. For as well as I think I know him, in some ways I don’t know him at all.
Like his dirty mouth.
My belly gets a little fluttery just from thinking about the things he said to me last night. Wondering what more he would’ve said if I’d let him stay when he asked.
Helen knocks again, this time more insistent, and her muffled voice filters through the door.
“Abigail, for goodness’ sake, my arms are full and I’m going to drop—”
I pull the door open and she expels a put-upon breath before breezing in wearing an applique sweatshirt and leggings with Betty Boop all over them. She circles around to the couch and begins laying out the bounty she’s brought with her. A Tupperware of cookie dough, Chunky Monkey ice cream, and an assortment of magazines ranging from GQ to Muscle & Fitness and Flex.
“I figured after your night out with Wilson”—she says his name like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth—“you’ll need a little pick-me-up, and some incentive not to give up on penis altogether. I picked these up at the Mobil station off Main Street last night and—”
Her words cut off abruptly and I look up from where I’ve started making a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen. “What?”
Mouth hanging open, aghast, she fumbles up from the couch. “What did you do?”
There’s confusion in her eyes as she closes in, looking me over from head to toe.
She knows.
“Wilson?” She looks like she’s going to be sick, and I laugh to myself, wondering how in the world someone as well-liked and decent as Wilson could have made such an epically bad impression on Helen.
I have a moment of guilt thinking about last night in the car and how things will be different between us now. But that’s something I can worry about tomorrow. Now, I need to put Helen’s mind to rest.
“Settle down, Helen, it’s not what you think. At least, it’s not Wilson.”
She heaves a sigh of relief, pressing her hand against her chest as she leans back into the refrigerator like it’s the only thing keeping her up. She’s adorable.
I know it’s time to tell her about Hank, but I give her a minute to get herself together. And maybe a minute for myself to try and figure out just exactly what to say. I don’t want to get her hopes up, but more than that… I’m not exactly sure how we left things.
I mean I know how I tried to leave them. With a heartfelt thank you for an amazing night, and nothing more. But Hank wouldn’t have it. And every time I told him I was serious, he’d find some new and creative way to turn my brain to mush and tell me he was serious too. Serious about taking me to dinner tonight… in Paris.
No.
Serious about wanting to know what it would be like to wake up with me in his arms.
No.
Serious about giving us another chance.
God, my heart hurts.
A set of rhinestone-tipped fingers snaps in front of my eyes, yanking me back to the now, and the eager smile suddenly spread across Helen’s face.
“Hank?”
I nod, smiling as she pulls me in for a hug that practically suffocates me.
“Abby, that boy sure looks good on you.”
Maybe it’s not cool, but I tell Helen what happened with Hank. I try to keep things classy, the details at a minimum, but she’s just so persuasive that, in the end, I tell her everything.
“Forgive me for being confused, but you let him into your body and you still won’t let him take you to dinner?” Helen asks from where she’s sprawled in her corner of the couch, three-quarters of the pint of ice cream gone and the men’s magazines left untouched.
“It’s not that simple.” If she’d been here—and thank God she wasn’t—she’d have understood the kind of full-body meltdown that took place last night.
She points her spoon at me. “It’s exactly that simple. You care for him. Don’t deny it.”
She doesn’t understand. “Of course I care for him. But Helen, how long do you think he’s going to be around?”
“He’s twenty-eight, dear. Statistics would suggest quite a while.”
I sigh, taking the ice cream from Helen’s grasp, and to her credit, she only resists for a second before giving it up. “I don’t mean on this earth, Helen. I mean in Chicago. He’s always leaving.”
She purses her lips and throws up a hand. “So go with him. Certainly not every trip, at least not until he puts a ring on it.” My mouth gapes, but she isn’t done. “And even then, I know how you love teaching. But maybe in the summers and over breaks. Is he coming to Thanksgiving at your mother’s? Do you want a summer wedding or maybe a New Year’s Eve affair? You’ve waited long enough, and any wild-oat sowing he’s—”
“Helen!” I slap my hand over her lips and shake my head. “Not another word.”
Scowling at me, she sticks her tongue against my palm, and I jerk away, laughing and disgusted.
“Hank is not coming to my mother’s on Thursday, we aren’t getting married, and I’m not just talking about business trips. I’m talking about Chicago. He’s hardly here as it is, and he’s already planning to change his base of operations in the next months. He’s always leaving.”
Helen’s shoulders sag. “And you can’t be the one watching him go.”
It’s more than that. I can’t be the one waiting for him to come back.
HANK
“WHOA, YOU’RE TELLING me Abby still won’t agree to a date?” Jack grins from his corner of my oversized sectional, a half-eaten slice of sausage and mushroom pizza dangling precariously from his fingers.
“Not yet.” It’s Friday night, two weeks since I’ve been in her bed, held her, kissed her, or seen that gorgeous smile light up, and I’m going out of my mind.
“But you’re talking to her? I mean she didn’t tell you to stop calling her or anything, because if she does, tech god or not, you gotta leave her alone.”
I shoot him a dirty look. “You think I don’t know that?” Christ.
Hands up, he shakes his head. “Just checking.”
“We talk a lot. And she likes it.” Staying on the phone laughing and talking with me for hours. So long as I don’t suggest a date. Or a trip to Venice. Really anything that suggests more than two friends sharing a little harmless conversation.
Mostly harmless. I did get her to tell me about her panties on Wednesday—pink with little green polka dots and cotton. So sexy. But asking her to take a picture of them for me was obviously going too far. Live and learn.
I know more about her now, about the years that have passed and how she’s filled them. I know about the boyfriends, Eric, Larry, and Mark—all decent guys by her account, just not the right guys, thank fuck. I know about her dad’s stroke and it kills me to think about her waiting so long to have a real dad and then losing him that quickly. I know about her students and her landlord and, of course, Helen.
I know that talking to her is as easy as it was ten years ago and hanging up is even harder because she’s still not ready to give us another chance.
“See, this is good.” Jack reaches for another slice. “I told you, you needed a hobby outside of work and now you’ve got one: getting the schoolteacher to agree to a date.”
“Glad you’re entertained, dickhead.”
He grins. “Oh, I am. Have you seen yourself lately? You look almost human.”
“Ha-ha.” Thing is, he’s not entirely wrong. I feel different.
Greg walks in from the kitchen, three longnecks hooked in his fingers. He hands them out and sprawls in the other corner of the couch, looking amused as hell.
“So let me get this straight. You bust up her date, get her into bed for a night—”
“Half a night, man. She didn’t let him stay. Security’s got him dragging in here at three a.m., and you should see the ear-to-ear smile on his face.” Jack wipes his hand on a paper towel and goes for his phone. “Hold on. I think I might have it.”
There’s no way.
Ping!
Greg’s brows shoot to his roots and then he’s looking at me and shaking his head.
“Dude. You are whipped.”
“Please.” He’s probably right, because I’m already thinking about hacking into Jack’s phone for that footage.
Shoving his phone back in his pocket, Greg takes a long swallow. “So what’s the reason she’s saying no again? It’s not the guy from the date, right?”
My mind flashes to fucking Wilson and the kiss he tried to take because of me. I want to drag my own ass outside to kick it for pushing a point that should have been left alone. Thing is, I’m where I am today because I’ve got a knack for recognizing what people want… even before they recognize it themselves. It was only a matter of time with him.
“It wasn’t a date and it’s not him. She doesn’t think we fit in each other’s lives.”
“She right?”
When I look at Jack, he’s serious, and it eats at me that I can’t answer the way I want to. Tell him, Hell no, she’s not. But the truth is, I don’t know how we fit in each other’s lives because I haven’t had the chance to test it out. What I do know is that I want to try.
I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling glass slider. If Abby were here, I’d open it up to the night. Crank the fireplace and wrap her in the comforter from my bed like we used to do when we went out to the lagoon back in high school.
I can remember how heated it would be beneath that heavy blanket compared to the chill air outside. I remember the feel of her hips moving beneath my hands. Her breath, warm and sweet, on my face.
This is why I spent ten years working overtime not to let myself have a single free minute to think about her. Because I knew once I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop.
In the reflection of the glass, Greg opens his mouth and puts half a slice down in one bite. Damn.
He finishes chewing and points his beer at me. “What I can’t believe is that you’re supposed to be this internationally recognized genius guy and you can’t figure out what it’s going to take to get a girl you dated for four years to let you buy her dinner. You say she hasn’t changed, right? So think about what she likes, what she wants, and give it to her. I mean, Jesus, man. Use your brain.”
That’s the problem. I know exactly what Abby wants. I remember promising her she could have it. That I’d give it to her.
Even now I can feel her cheek against my chest, my heart pounding as I painted the picture of the future I thought would be ours. I wasn’t talking about alternate power sources or making clean water a reality for those who don’t have it… I was telling her about the house we’d buy on Sixth Avenue a few blocks between my parents’ house and hers. The one with the red door and little covered porch just big enough for a couple of chairs side by side. I was telling her about how we’d be the kids’ favorite English and science teachers at Bearings High, and how I’d meet her in her classroom at the end of the day and kiss her longer than I should when the halls were empty. I was putting my class ring on her finger and promising I was going to marry her the minute I thought her dad wouldn’t pound the crap out of me for asking too soon. That it was going to be me and her. Forever.
Yeah, I know what Abby wanted. It’s the only promise I’ve ever made I didn’t keep, but my shot at giving Abby that life—
I straighten, turn back to Greg, and feel that familiar rush through my chest as I start to nod like some kind of bobblehead.
He raises a brow.
“You’re the genius. I know what to do.”