My heart does a little stutter, because that is definitely something I shouldn’t want to hear, but it pushes a smile to my face. “I’ll send you a selfie with my snazzy new phone.”
Another beat of silence, this one from the other end of the line. “Deal. I’ll look forward to it.”
“Thanks for checking in, but I should probably get organized for my day. Students will be arriving soon.” There’s actually more time than I’m suggesting, but getting caught up in Hank’s voice the way I am is a very bad idea.
“Right, well, have a good one.”
“You too, Hank.”
I’m about to end the call when his voice cuts back in.
“Hey, Abby?”
I don’t know what I want to hear next, but suddenly my belly is tensed as I wait. “Yes?”
“Who’s Wilson?”
HANK
IT’S BEEN MORE than thirty hours since I slept, and the fact that I can’t be sure of exactly how many more suggests I ought to save any important decision-making for tomorrow. The SpaceWalk deal is slipping through my fingers and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Walker’s the eccentric type. Everyone knows about his propensity to make sweeping business decisions based on whims going in, and because he’s the leader in privatizing space travel, we’re all willing to risk it anyway.
But after a year of dancing around with this guy, I was confident we had this deal locked down. Then this weekend, he started huddling at the far side of the conference room, shooting furtive glances Team Wagner’s way.
Something spooked him. And two days later, I’ve met with everyone I can meet with, done everything I can do. It’s 7:16 a.m. Monday and I ought to be doing what everyone else is… heading home for a shower and an hour of sleep before going back to the office and getting started on the next plan. But instead I’m back at the place I successfully avoided for the past ten years, for the third time in less than three weeks. Bearings High. South Hall.
The blood drive banner has been replaced with a book fair banner that looks like it’s the same one they were using when we were students. The halls are quiet, but I can hear some wretched singing spilling out of the open door on the right. Abby’s only getting about half the words to the chorus right, and this is one of those things it delights me to see hasn’t changed.
“Knock, knock.”
Abby’s head pops up from the file cabinet she was digging in and her eyes bug before she chokes out my name.
“Hank, what are you doing here?”
It’s not like I thought she’d throw herself into my arms and I’d swing her around, but still, not exactly the reception the less rational part of me was hoping for.
Only before I have to dig too deep, because a handily available excuse for this impromptu visit is one thing I didn’t come armed with, Abby’s expression pulls into a worried frown, and then she’s crossing the room to me in a rush. “I thought you were in India? Have you even been home yet?”
I stand a little straighter, because someone’s been keeping tabs. “Not yet, but I, uhh…” I catch sight of the Smart Board over her shoulder and grin. “I was thinking about your Smart Board on my flight back and figured I’d stop in and talk to Novak about upgrading the English department with some of the newer ones.” And then, because my brain actually has started working, I take it a step further. “Wagner can refurbish the existing Smart Boards and get them into some schools that don’t have the budget for them.”
She’s doing that thing where she clutches her hands and bounces on the balls of her feet again, and I grin.
“That’s incredible, Hank.” She steps back and cocks her head. “You had time to think about our Smart Boards, but not sleep?”
Not exactly. But this seems as good a time as any to change the subject. Which reminds me…
“What are you doing?” she squeaks, turning away from me as I bring my phone up to get her picture.
“Come on, Abby, I want one I took.” I want the look on her face to be one I put there. What I get is her screwed-up smile with one hand over half her face and the other outstretched in front of her as she tries to block my snap. But I can see the glint of amusement in her eyes and the pink in her cheeks and even that little freckle on her neck. I can see the smile she doesn’t want to give me, and I feel better about the last five minutes than I do about the entire last week.
When I put my phone away, she steps closer, her smile softening as she looks at me. It’s another one of those looks I haven’t seen in years and it makes me want more.
“Hank, how long has it been since you slept?”
She rests her hand against my cheek and brushes her thumb gently beneath my eye with the lightest, most soothing touch.
“Probably too long,” I admit. Definitely too long, because I’m covering her hand with mine, feeling my senses sharpen as I look back into her searching, beautiful eyes. Her breath catches and I’ve never been more alert in my life.
“Yo, Abs!” a voice cuts in from the hall. A male voice.
Abby steps back with a nervous laugh, smoothing her skirt over her tights before retreating to her file cabinet and leaving me with my empty hands clenched tight.
A second later, the guy’s sailing into her room, a grin that’s just a smidge too wide for my taste spread across his face, and a brochure for bundling his cable, phone, and internet in hand.
He gives me a double take and trips over a desk. I don’t want to feel good about it, but a shitty part of me really, really does.
“Wilson?” I’m sure it’s him, and I’m cataloging all the things that bother me about this poor sap who had shit timing to fuck up the most perfect moment I’ve logged in too far back to remember. Tall, blond, lean. Teacher. Lives in Bearings. Comfortable enough with Abby to blow into her classroom like… like… I would have, if MIT hadn’t happened. And for some reason that makes me really dislike the guy.
“Yeah,” he wheezes, coming to stand in front of me.
I extend my hand and introduce myself, only Wilson’s got the brochure in his right hand, and after looking around like he’s faced with a problem on par with solving world hunger, he finally sort of cups my hand in his left, giving me the most pathetic shake of my life. Which is saying something, considering the sheer volume of introductions I roll through every week.
I love it.
Almost as much as I love how he doesn’t throw an arm around Abby’s shoulders or touch her hand in one of those telling gestures of the intimately involved. But his eyes are ping-ponging between us in a way that has my Spidey-senses tingling.
A little too curious.
This guy just can’t stop racking up the marks against him.
“Hank Wagner. Wow, not what I was expecting first thing in the morning.” He looks between Abby and me again and frowns. He’s wondering if we came in together.
“Abby, I’ve got to run, unfortunately. But nice to meet you, Wilson.”
And then, because I’ve suddenly become a total raging ass, I walk over and let my fingers catch the back of Abby’s elbow as I lean in and give her temple a quick kiss. “Let Novak know I’ll have someone get in touch this week.”
If she notices what I’m doing, she doesn’t show it. Because her mind is stuck on something else. “I thought you came here to see him this morning.”
I give her a wink and I’m out the door.
ABBY
THE BELL SOUNDS and I finish my announcements to the screeching of chairs and rising of voices as my students head for lunch. The last straggler closes the door behind him, and I park at my desk where there’s a fresh stack of quizzes waiting to be graded after I check in with my mom.
It’s a lunchtime habit most women my age have long since outgrown, but having waited as long as I did for an actual mother of my own, I’m in no rush to give up the little things I missed through the majority of my youth. Like talking to the person who loves me best over lunch. Lauren Mitchel.
“I’m not sure about this new
variety of M&M’s,” are her first words upon connecting the call.
“You only ever like the peanut kind. Why do you keep trying the new ones?”
I’m met with the sound of munching and take a bite of my own lunch.
“Yeah, I don’t know about these. I’m going to hold on to the rest of the bag so you can try them before we go see your dad.”
I make the appropriate sounds because this is one of her favorite things to do. Find something distasteful and then save it for me so we can be grossed out together.
“So any surprise visitors this morning?”
Same question as yesterday. This is what I get for telling her about Hank showing up. Of course, even if I hadn’t, Helen would have spilled the beans in a heartbeat.
“No, and I’m sure there won’t be going forward. It was just Hank being Hank. You know how he runs with every idea he has, and we’re just lucky his idea involved BHS.”
Some noncommittal noises come from her end.
“Mom, I know how much you liked him, but really, don’t start reading things into this that aren’t there.”
“But how can you be so sure? Every time you see him or hear from him, you swear up and down there won’t be a next time.”
“I don’t want you to get your hopes up, is all.”
“You sure it’s my hopes you’re trying to protect?” When I don’t answer, she sighs. “There’s nothing wrong with having a little hope, Abigail.”
I flinch at the gentle words. They shouldn’t hurt me, but there’s part of me that will never stop being the foster kid hoping and believing even when she knew she shouldn’t. I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts I don’t want to make room for in the life I have now. I listen to the mother who wanted me tell me about the recipe Helen sent her the day before and push the past back where it belongs.
We talk for a few minutes more and I tell her I’ll see her after work.
I haven’t even set my phone down when it starts to jitter in my hand. I’m expecting to see my mom’s name again because she has a habit of remembering that one more thing the second she hangs up, but a glance at the screen tells me not this time.
Hank.
There’s a part of me that recognizes it might be easier if I didn’t hear from him. That Hank Wagner gets under my skin way too easily. But the greater part of me is beaming with delight at seeing his name on the as-yet-uncracked screen.
After answering, I laugh when he starts talking before I can even say hello.
“So Wilson. He makes quite an impression.”
“Give the guy a break. He was starstruck.”
“Hmm. Wilson Ellison. How long have you guys been friends?”
“You looked him up?” I squeak, too surprised to know quite how I feel about it.
A pause. “Well, I mean, on Google. Fine, Facebook too. I didn’t hire a PI or anything.”
I gape at my phone, half expecting Hank’s face to come up on the screen, laughing like he got me with a good joke. I told him Wilson was a friend when he asked last week, and he didn’t have a single thing more to say about it. And darn it, now I’m sitting here wondering why he wants to know.
Hank clears his throat. “Cut me some slack, Abby. The scales of readily available information are out of balance. You and the rest of the world can see who I date, where we went, and what I ordered when we got there in a single search. But you? The information available isn’t nearly so extensive. So I’m playing catch-up.”
“By looking up my friends?”
“Why not?”
God, this man makes me laugh. “Because it’s a little stalkerish, Hank!”
He sputters, coughing twice before replying. “The hell it is. A stalker would be calling from outside your office window and making references to how big a bite you took from your apple.”
I look at the apple on my desk with the single rather large bite missing, then roll my chair over to the window, searching the fields beyond.
“Where are you, anyway?”
“Idaho. Why? Did you have an apple today? That’s not enough. Let me take you to dinner tonight. I can be at your place by eight.”
Right. “Actually, I had an apple, a Potbelly sub, and half a pizza. I’m stuffed.” I only wish I had all that. I’m still starving. “Wait, you were on your way home from the airport on Monday. It’s Wednesday and you’re already in Idaho?”
“I was in Chicago overnight, but I didn’t actually make it home, home. I got here yesterday and we’re just wrapping up. There’s no way you ate all that.”
“Regardless, how about I’ll see you in another ten years,” I tease, because I’m afraid to think there’s even a chance he’s being serious. “I’ll be the one with more wrinkles… you’ll be the one with the creepily taut skin, spray tan and hair plugs.”
“Bite your tongue.” He laughs again, the sound so warm and deep, I feel it in the center of my chest. “I don’t have time to tan.”
That’s more like it. I kick back in my chair, spinning it one direction and then the other as Hank segues into some sob story about how he’s going to be forced to eat alone.
I ought to let it go, but I can’t resist the opening. “Why don’t you call up one of your supermodel girlfriends for dinner? Or maybe they don’t eat?”
My teasing is met with silence, which only makes me grin wider.
“Someone’s been reading the tabloids.”
“Someone doesn’t have to read the tabloids. Your dating exploits have hit the mainstream. I can’t turn on the radio, watch the news, or wait to see my dentist without some bit of gossip about the most eligible tech boy catching my eye. You’re quite the hot topic these days.”
I can practically see him squirming on the other end of the line. And when he doesn’t come back with a lightning-fast retort, I wonder if maybe I’ve gone too far. So I add, “Don’t worry. I don’t believe everything I read.”
Before reconnecting with him, I might have. But talking with Hank again, seeing him again—there’s too much of the guy I used to know to think that much has changed. And seriously, the man hasn’t even made it home in close to a month. He couldn’t have time.
“Not all of it is false, Abby.”
I stop my chair swiveling.
There’s no teasing in his tone. No apology or guilt either, not that there should be, but there is something else. Something serious. A warning, maybe?
And now I’m wondering what else Hank’s said that I should be taking more seriously than I have.
“Well, I’m not sure how exactly to respond to that. Congratulations?” My cheeks are heating and that bite of apple has soured in my stomach.
“I didn’t say it to—” He breaks off, and I catch a muffled curse before he’s back. “I just don’t want to misrepresent who I am.”
“And that is?” I shouldn’t ask. I don’t think I want to know.
“Someone who hasn’t had the time—hell, who didn’t want the time—for serious attachments. The only thing I put first is my work.”
Still the same Hank. Honest to a fault.
Even when he’s reminding me he’s not the same Hank.
“It isn’t really any of my business either way. I shouldn’t have teased you about it.”
“I’m used to the teasing. I mean, hell, you’ve met Jack. You think for one second I don’t get a call from him every time the papers report on the less technical side of my life?”
That I believe. But the turn our conversation has taken is making me uncomfortable. Because this isn’t Hank calling to make sure the press wasn’t giving me a hard time. It’s not just an old friend finding an unconventional means of catching up.
I pull at my wool skirt, straightening it over my tights. “I should probably get going.”
“You’ve still got fifteen minutes on your lunch break.”
“Stalker!” I gasp.
“Nuh-uh. Considerate. I checked the office for your schedule to make sure I didn’t call while you were in
class.”
“Thanks for the call, Hank. Good luck finding a date for dinner.”
ABBY
IT’S AFTER NINE by the time I’m heading up to my apartment. Mom was good, the strawberry M&M’s not so good, and Dad was essentially the same. It’s been two years since the stroke that wiped away the man who was the only father I ever knew, leaving a shell in his place. We visit three days a week and talk like we’re sitting around the little table in their eat-in kitchen, always including Dad in the discussion, addressing him directly and letting him know what a kick he’s going to get out of some bit of news we have to share.
It still breaks my heart every time I walk through the door to his room and there isn’t even a flicker of recognition. But I know it’s worse for my mom, because every once in a while his eyes will sharpen when he sees her, and for a few seconds she feels like she has her husband. It’s just enough to keep her waiting and hoping, wondering if this will be the day she sees it again or if those fleeting seconds of familiarity were the last… and no matter how long she waits, she won’t see them again.
I know what that kind of waiting is like. I remember all the meetings with social workers, the reports about the woman who wasn’t fit to be my mother… yet. How she was working to improve herself so one day soon she’d be able to come back for me. I remember the foster families who wanted me but had to let me go because my mom, the woman who couldn’t prioritize me above her addiction, wouldn’t.
I remember telling myself not to get my hopes up, not to get attached… but making the mistake again and again.
That kind of waiting takes a toll on a heart, and it kills me that the woman who ended that futile cycle of waiting for me fourteen years ago has to suffer it herself now.
I’m feeling a little bruised after our visit tonight, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to bribe Helen into hanging out with an episode of Castle. When I get to our floor, Helen’s door is open and the laughter spilling out into the hallway sounds girlish and delighted. It makes me feel lighter just hearing it.