Chapter Twenty-Nine
Abbi missed Tyler with an ache that was physical. How many times a day did she reach for her phone, wanting to call him? How often did she pick up her keys, thinking she’d drive over there, barge down his door, and demand he take her back?
Whenever she thought it, she’d sit back at her computer and work on the endangered species petition.
Updates from work said he was still pushing hard on the firebreak, using what had happened to her as leverage to show Gold Mountain needed the so-called protection. It was clear nothing had changed.
One more week of misery, wondering what he was up to before he was officially out of her life. They’d gotten slowed down, but if she was lucky, she’d be able to end this project for good before the Forest Service hired someone else—or, God forbid, extended Tyler’s contract.
But sitting on the couch with her laptop propped on her lap, feet on the ottoman, she had to acknowledge that once she got over the irritation of being so limited, working from home actually wasn’t so bad.
Not that she wasn’t itching to get outside. But being able to finish one set of emails before her phone rang or someone needed her down the hall? That part was kind of nice.
She sent off an email to Walker and Chip about a data point, got up to refill her coffee, and was surprised to see she had another email when she got back. Unlikely they’d have responded so quickly.
Then she sat down and realized it wasn’t from the Forest Service.
It was from Tyler.
And it was to everyone, not just to her. Looked like the only way he’d contact her was for business. At least she was at home, so she could make whatever faces she wanted.
But as she read, the only expression she could muster was shock.
Tyler’s email wasn’t about the merits of the firebreak, or the details of the plan he was overseeing.
Tyler’s email was giving notice of his resignation.
Her first thought was relief. Without a project manager, and the construction company mired in scandal, how could the Forest Service seriously keep funding this mess?
Her second thought was to kick herself for being so selfish. Tyler had cared about this firebreak. He’d at least cared about using it to land him a new job.
A new job.
Fuck.
His resignation only meant he’d be out of there sooner than expected, off to whatever came next. It should have made her glad—no more skipping the farmers market and booking it to the grocery store five minutes before closing, hoping in this small town she’d be able to avoid running into him. No more steeling her itchy fingers against contacting him.
But as much as she’d told herself she wanted him to leave, it wasn’t the same as knowing he was actually going. It wasn’t the same as understanding, deep in the soft, bruised center of her, that he’d really be gone.
She hit reply-all and started composing an email back. Calm. Professional. Polite. Neither jumping in glee about the demise of the firebreak plans nor bleeding her broken heart all over the screen.
She highlighted what she had, deleted it, and tried again.
This was torture. Did she really want to pretend she felt nothing, that Tyler was just another guy and she’d be happy to jump into any other bed when he was gone? Did she really want to be who she used to be, the person Russ thought she was, the one who barely felt anything at all?
The worst part of her affair with Cash—aside from the fact that it happened in the first place—wasn’t when he was arrested. It was having to show her face at school when the trial was over. Her parents had raised hell with the school board, but her dad was so focused on his legacy, he wouldn’t let Abbi graduate with any other name on her priceless resume.
To walk down the hallway and know everyone was staring at her, whispering, imagining every twisted thing she must have let him do to her, so much more sordid than anything that had really gone on behind closed doors…
She’d had to be strong. Unemotional. A wall over her that said she heard nothing, felt nothing, wasn’t bothered by a goddamn thing.
Look at her sneaking out at night to fuck a senior she barely knew on the soccer fields. Look at her buzzing her hair in the dorm showers and leaving blooms of red dye in the sink. Look at Abbi Haas not giving a shit.
But she’d felt every one of those stares, heard every whisper about her. She’d felt every loss—of the man who’d never really loved her, the friends who’d decided they couldn’t trust her anymore. Her family’s approval, so hard to come by, forever slipping out of reach.
She didn’t want to lose anymore. She didn’t want to pretend she was fine when she wasn’t. She didn’t want to feel like she had to be strong every second of the day when sometimes she just wanted to sit down, put her feet up, take a deep breath, and acknowledge that sometimes things just sucked.
She still wanted to be herself. She just wanted to be a version of herself without so many walls around her. Herself—but not quite so alone.
She reached for her phone.
This time, she didn’t stop herself from calling.
His voice when he picked up—it didn’t seem like someone saying “Abbi” should be able to do this to her. But it felt like a breath on her skin, a whisper just for her. Like her name in his mouth was all she needed to know who she belonged to for the rest of her life.
But she was getting way, way ahead of herself.
“Don’t do this,” she said before her resolve could leave her.
“You got my email.”
She wanted to stop and savor the sound of his voice, the way it felt as though there’d barely been any distance between them. As though the last time they’d talked hadn’t been in her hospital room, when they’d said things she wished she’d never spoken and never had to hear.
But that wasn’t why she’d called. She had to push through, say what she had to, and hang up.
“If you have to leave early, go. If you don’t want to do the firebreak, don’t. But don’t do this just because you, I don’t know, think you’re supposed to or are trying to do something for me or you—”
“Why can’t I do something for you?”
His question was so simple. But didn’t he get it? “This is your career,” she cried. “You told me yourself that there’s no way you can land an interview for a full-time manager position if you fail up here.”
Tyler was quiet. She thought maybe he was going to agree with her. But then he said, “There are some things that are more important than my job. More important than my pride. More important than some kind of absolution for Scott’s death that I’m never going to get.”
Hearing him talk about Scott made her suck in her breath. But he didn’t say it like the words themselves were welcoming disaster. He just…said it. Like it was a thing to talk about but not the end of the world.
What had changed for Tyler McCall since she’d been too stubborn, too strong, too—admit it—afraid to pick up the phone?
“It’s just a firebreak,” she said softly. “It’s not worth quitting over, pissing off the Forest Service, leaving yourself without a backup plan.”
“It’s just a firebreak,” he repeated. “It’s not worth losing everything important to me.”
She almost couldn’t answer. “What are you talking about?” she asked. Then she heard banging in the background. “Where are you? What’s going on?”
Shifting, the sound of a door closing, then quiet.
“Sorry about that. I’m at the nature center.”
She sat upright. “What?”
“In your office, actually. Well, not now. Now I’m walking down the hall.”
“What are you doing in my—”
“We’re installing a new bookshelf.”
“We?”
“Me and, uh, everybody.”
“Tyler, what are you doing?” She’d called him so intent on telling him he couldn’t resign, he couldn’t leave early, he couldn’t just…let this all end.
But now a familiar anger was creeping up her throat.
“Your bookshelf got banged up from Russ,” he said. “I talked to your colleagues about it and they’re helping to install it and get your office cleaned up. It was supposed to be a welcome back surprise for you. I’m sorry, please don’t tell them I ruined it.”
Abbi pinched her eyes shut. “I thought it was my friends.”
Silence. Infuriating, ear-splitting silence.
“I thought it was my friends being nice and helping out with all these projects around the house because they knew I wouldn’t accept it if they asked outright. I was going to tell them it was more than enough and they could stop, I’m better, I can deal with the garden and everything on my own now.” She sucked in a breath. “But it was you.”
She didn’t know whether to cry or scream that he’d been sneaking around her house this whole time.
“No,” Tyler said. “It was your friends.”
“Then what—”
“It was your friends, and me. I roped them into it, so you can be mad at me but not at them. Okay?”
“Why?” It was all she could say.
“I know about Cash.”
She was so taken off guard, she let out a strangled cry. He couldn’t, she didn’t want him to, if he thought—
“I looked it up. I’m sorry.”’
He was so matter of fact about it. He wasn’t angry and that made it hard for her to be angry. But oh God, she wanted to be angry. She wanted to scream and cry and punch her pillow and never even think of letting him into her life again.
But she couldn’t make herself do any of those things. She couldn’t even hang up the phone. All she could do was sit there, a tear tracking down her cheek, as Tyler explained.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about it, how you looked when I brought up that word to you. And I just… I know I said I’d let you go but I couldn’t. I looked it up and I read the court case. Abbi—”
Her name, so soft in his mouth. Those lips that could be so tender on a body so strong. She’d wanted to keep him out of that part of her life, away from what was dirty and shameful about her. And now he knew everything.
She couldn’t believe he’d even talk to her again.
“Someday, if you want to, you can tell me the whole story,” he said. “Or not, and that’s okay, too. You don’t owe me your past. But my theory is that he probably seemed like a pretty stand-up guy at one point, or else you never would have given him the time of day.” He laughed, a small breath, as though to himself. “And then he probably used those qualities in a way that wasn’t so stand-up after all.”
Abbi swallowed. No one had ever understood that part of her time with Cash. He was charming, funny, attentive, smart. And to say the man she’d been drawn to was a monster meant she’d been drawn to a monster. There had to be something wrong with her, because why else had she been so ensnared?
Tyler said, softly, “I think maybe that makes it hard to accept that someone might care for you without wanting anything in return but what you freely give.”
Abbi didn’t realize she’d been holding in a breath until she exhaled. She was crying. She was sitting in her pajamas in her living room and she was crying.
“I wanted to do something for you so you could see that it’s possible to accept something nice without feeling like you owe anything in return. And I got your friends on board because I felt like maybe it would make more sense that way. Like you could see this group of people who’d do anything for you, to help you in whatever way they can. And I’m one of those people. Or I want to be. I want to be part of that group of people you let care about you.”
“Tyler, don’t leave. Not yet.” She sprang into action, looking for her keys. Who cared that she was wearing cotton pajama pants and an old T-shirt? She couldn’t waste time even looking for socks. “You can’t quit this job. You can’t just go. You can’t—”
Leave me, she almost said. But the words stuck in her throat.
“Baby,” he said, and her breath caught at that word just for her. “I’m not resigning because I’m leaving. I’m resigning because I’m not going to let this firebreak be the reason for letting you get away.”
Oh.
Keys. Flip-flops. She was racing down the front steps when she said, “I’m coming to the nature center.”
“No, stay put. I’m coming to you.”
“Meet me at the gazebo.”
“It’s daylight.”
Abbi laughed, flushing at the memory. Flushing with hope. “Just get over there. I’m sick of wasting time when what I really want is you.”