I tell them how Tommy and I began with an arrangement of convenience that grew to something more. Something deep and precious. I tell them about Grandmother’s threats and how we overcame them, about Tommy’s mother and how she hates me, and I point my finger at them and rage that I know they both dislike him as well—and that they’re total and complete arses for it.
I tell them about the short chaotic moments when I thought I was pregnant—and the bizarre mixture of joy and stark terror I felt at the prospect.
And I tell them the aftermath—the way I pushed Tommy out the door and the horrible, stupid way I tried to explain myself. I tell them of the regret I’ve felt every moment since.
I tell them that I’m a fool. That I can’t believe there was a time I worried that Tommy would be a distraction. That being without him is the worst distraction of all.
But with him beside me, next to me, holding my hand—I can face anything.
Everything.
“Well, that’s . . . quite a bit of information,” my father says stiffly.
And then he frowns.
“Where did you get the notion that we dislike Tommy? Your mother and I happen to like him very much.”
I look up at him with watery eyes.
“You do?”
Father hands me his handkerchief, nodding.
“He’s a good man—hardworking, direct. And I like the way he looks at you.”
My heart squeezes with a piercing pain.
“I like the way he looks at me too,” I whisper.
Right before I burst straight back into tears.
After the second wave subsides, Mother presses a cup of tea in my hand and I’m able to swallow a few sips.
“I’m sorry about this,” I tell them, because at this point I’m just completely pitiful.
“I’m sorry I’m not more like Sterling and Athena—I’ve tried to be, but I can’t. And I’m not going to try anymore. I just want to be me. I like me, and Tommy likes me—or at least he did. I’m sorry if that’s a disappointment to you.”
“A disappointment?” My mother gapes. “Where the devil did you get that idea from?”
Father leans forward. “Your mother and I have always been so proud of you, Abigail. I’m sorry if we’ve been remiss in telling you. We assumed you knew.”
Mother nods.
“I used to worry about Sterling and Athena, that they would be successful . . . but not happy. But you, Abby—dear girl—I was never worried about you. You have such a spark inside; you always did. And when you ran down to Tommy at Bumblebridge that day, and climbed on the back of that dreadful motorbike—your face, Abby, was so full of life. I knew then that you had found your happiness, and you would hold on to it with both hands and never let it go.”
I shake my head miserably—and say aloud what I already know.
“But I did let it go, Mother. I’ve messed things up terribly with Tommy.”
“Well, you get that from your father,” she says dryly. “He mucked things up with me dozens of times before we were finally settled. Back and forth, up and down we went.”
“It’s true.” Father sips his tea. “But admitting you’ve mucked it up is the first step. Now you just have to fix it.”
“What if I can’t? What if . . .” The words catch in my throat. “What if he’s finished with me? What if I’ve broken his heart?”
My mother’s smile is gentle.
“Then it’s a good thing you’re a remarkable cardiac surgeon. If you’ve broken the lad’s heart, you’ll know just how to put it back together again.”
Those words—those words from her—are just what I need to hear.
Because I don’t need to sort out anything—it’s already sorted. As long as Tommy and I have each other, we’ll be able to face, and have, and love whatever life has in store for us. Together.
“I need to go,” I blurt out, standing. “I need to go see him right now.”
And I fly out the door . . . in my slippers, nightshirt and robe. I make it halfway to the road before I realize it.
When I come back in, my parents are not surprised to see me.
“I forgot to put on clothes first.”
As I head down the hall, I hear Father tell Mother, “She gets that from you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Abby
SOUND DECISIONS ARE ALWAYS ACCOMPANIED by a pushing sense of urgency. It’s human nature that once a solution has been found, you want to enact that solution as soon as possible. The urgency is fueled with determination and at times—carelessness.
Run, run as fast as you can . . .
That’s why I take the stairs down to the first floor of my building, instead of waiting for the lift.
That’s why outside—clothed now—I trip over nothing but my own feet and almost stumble into the road as I hail a taxi, bathed in the bright yellow of the unusually sunny day.