Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck!
I’m numb as I drive to Smoke & Sugar. I’ve puked six times since I got David’s texts this morning. As much as I wanted to go see Abby, I had to force myself to dress and drive to the restaurant instead.
This stupid plan was supposed to be the right one. The path I was destined to take. Now that I’m barreling down it, full speed ahead, I want nothing more than to jump tracks. Everything about it feels like I’m going the wrong way.
Where would I rather be?
All thoughts lead to Abby and Buck.
My secret family.
A painful ache tears through my chest and my eyes burn as I pull into the parking lot. Sweat trickles down my back. Acid eviscerates my gut.
Leave, man. Just leave.
A text jolts me from my daze. I snatch my phone up, eager to hear from Abby, but it’s not her.
David: Are you there yet?
Me: Yes.
Not a lie.
David: How does the rooftop look? I’m paying these people enough that it should look perfect.
Me: Looks perfect.
Definitely a lie.
I remain rooted in my seat, car engine shut off, staring up at the building for an eternity. I’m supposed to be inside, up on the roof waiting, but I can’t make myself move.
A Porsche pulls up next to me. With my stomach churning with unease, I watch David and Vivian exit the expensive vehicle. They must assume my car is empty because they don’t even look over at me. Both of them are smiling eagerly as they enter the restaurant.
It’s not too late. I can go in and stay the course on this life I’ve been working toward.
Another car pulls up on the other side of me. My girlfriend climbs out of her car, not a single silky strand of hair out of place. There’s an arrogance about her that turns me off. I’d never noticed it until I started playing house with Abby.
Angela is beautiful and turns heads wherever she goes, but it doesn’t work for me anymore. I’m not sure it ever truly did. As if able to sense my presence, Angela turns before opening the restaurant door. Her eyes burn into me through my windshield. The determined look on her face melts away to one of confusion.
I can’t do this.
I don’t love her.
I never have.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
And then I turn on the engine. She releases the door and starts for me, but I’ve already thrown the car into reverse. I’m pretty sure she shouts at me, but I drown it out as I gas the engine.
I fly through town, each mile shedding more weights of unease and dread. By the time I reach Moonlit Gables, I’m lighter, happier, freer.
“Abs,” I call out as I burst into the townhouse. “Honey, where are you?”
I find her in the kitchen making a grilled cheese sandwich. She whirls around, hand to her chest and a spatula in the other.
