Page 15 of Boyfriend
“All of them,” Abbi says quickly. “She made notes in them.”
Lila frowns, as if that answer isn’t to her liking. “I could box them up and put them in the basement, I suppose.”
“Thank you,” Abbi says tightly.
“Thanks for everything,” I say, finding my voice. “We’ve really got to run, though.” Before I maim your shitbag of a son. I can hear him behind me, where he’s opened the fridge. I hear the pull tab of a beer can as he goes about his shitbag day.
“Of course!” she says brightly. “It was so lovely to meet you. Come back anytime!”
I manage to make the right polite noises as we get the hell out of there. And two minutes later I’m standing outside Abbi’s car as she bleeps the locks open with a shaking hand.
“Hey. Can I drive?” I ask.
“Uh, sure. If you want.”
I take the keys out of her hand, and walk around to the street side of the car. It takes me a minute to move her seat back far enough that I can fit my body into the vehicle. Then I buckle up, start the car and locate the headlights. I pull away from the curb and navigate toward the main road.
Driving calms me down. It isn’t until I reach the intersection that I turn and glance at Abbi. She’s sitting ramrod straight in the passenger seat, eyes glassy, expression grim. Like a person in shock.
Right there at the intersection, I put the car in park. It’s dead quiet anyway. There’s nobody behind me. “Are you okay?” I ask softly.
“Yes,” she whispers. “I’m fine.”
She doesn’t look fine. And it’s just dawning on me that I failed her. “If I’d known why you needed a date today, I wouldn’t have let you out of my sight.”
Abbi glances quickly in my direction, and then away again. But not before I see tears in her eyes. “It’s embarrassing. I didn’t want to explain.”
I put the car back into gear and proceed onto the little highway that will take us back into Burlington. "That sucks, Abbi. And I don’t mean to pry. But is there any reason we didn’t march his stupid ass in front of your stepparents and tell them that he harasses you?”
She lets out a long breath. “I tried. Before he moved in, I told Dalton that he was always making inappropriate comments to me. And Dalton said that Price was just intimidated by me. That I was so much smarter and more successful, that he was just trying to get my attention.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Yeah, it is. But he’s newly married. He doesn’t want to hear me say anything bad about Lila or her thug of a kid. I’m not his daughter, Weston. I need him to help me with one more term at school. And I need to finish sorting through my mother’s things, before Lila throws all her stuff away. One year from now I’ll be free. Then I’ll never have to set foot inside that house again.”
“Oh. Shit.” That’s so depressing. But I can’t say I’d make a different choice if I were her. “Is Price the reason you moved out?”
“Yeah.” She wipes her eyes. “I’m pretty good at avoiding him. Dalton and I go out to lunch sometimes. That’s how I stay friendly with him and avoid Price. But Thanksgiving is hard.”
“What about Christmas?” I ask, worrying.
She shrugs. “I’ll think of something. A weekend away at a friend’s house, maybe. Or—worst case scenario—a pretend last-minute ski trip opportunity.”
That’s just grim. But I’ll be across the state, and in no position to help. “I’m sorry,” I say again. But it sounds useless.
“It’s really okay,” she says. “You put the fear of God into him anyway. Seriously. That was your best bit of acting, by the way.”
“Because it wasn’t,” I snort. “I was ready to rip his face off. A guy like that can’t get a woman to talk to him unless he backs her into a corner. And apparently that’s okay with him.”
“He’ll probably leave me alone now,” she says, just to sound upbeat. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Anytime.”
And to think that I had a tryst planned for the two of us. That’s not happening now. You can’t put the moves on someone who only needs you around so that she can keep a slimy asshole’s mitts off of her.
Abbi doesn’t need another guy trying to get her clothes off. She needs a pay raise and a night off and a new family. And none of those things is something I can help her with.
“But how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?” I joke. “Those dumplings really were excellent. Just saying.”
