But a peace had settled in her gut the moment she’d headed east on 74. The weight had lifted. She was doing the right thing, she knew it. If her heart hadn’t quite caught up with the idea, it was only because she feared she’d already lost Ryan for good.
She’d spent the last hour trying to find his new address, but her normal sources had failed her. His move had been too recent. She knew where PJ’s house was, though, and of all the McKinleys, PJ had always been her biggest ally. She’d tried to call the restaurant, but she’d gotten voicemail.
PJ might be in the middle of dinner service; or, Abby thought, checking the time, maybe the restaurant was closed, and she was in the middle of cleanup. Either way, her former sister-in-law would be glad to see her and happy to tell her where Ryan lived.
She pulled to the curb in front of the house and put the car in park. The illuminated sign read “Wishing House Grille.” The exterior of the mansion was washed with light, though only darkness lurked inside.
Maybe she’d come too late. The words took on a double meaning, and fear pinched hard inside her chest.
No. You are not going to chicken out, Abby.
She turned off the car. Boo barely stirred on the passenger seat as she stepped outside. She crossed her arms against the September chill as she mounted the porch steps. It was a grand house with a wide veranda and a wooden front door that looked as if it had come straight from a fairy tale.
Remembering what Ryan had said about the foster kids living upstairs, she ignored the doorbell and knocked instead. No sense waking the whole house.
A few moments and two knocks later she was giving the doorbell serious consideration. But then the door swept open.
Joanne McKinley stood in the doorway, her blue eyes widening.
Abby’s smile froze on her face. “Mama J—I mean, Joanne. I—didn’t expect to see you here.”
The woman looked like she’d just been hit upside the head. “Abby.”
PJ must be having company. Maybe the whole McKinley clan was inside. She wanted to see Ryan, but not in front of his family. And anyway, all was silent on the other side of the door. No McKinley gathering had ever been that quiet.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I—I was wondering if I might speak with PJ.”
“She’s not here.”
In her own house. At this hour. Sure she wasn’t. She knew better than to ask Joanne for Ryan’s address. She’d sooner give Abby directions to the other side of the planet.
“I see. Well. Thanks anyway.” Abby turned to go.
“Abby . . .”
She turned at the top of the steps, one hand on the railing.
“Maybe I can help you?”
Abby gripped the railing tighter, surveying Joanne’s face for any trace of pretense. She didn’t detect any, but the woman’s face was in the shadows.
“PJ got married tonight,” Joanne said, a smile in her voice. “She and her new husband are on their way to Bloomington as we speak. I’m holding down the fort for a few days.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
She wasn’t sure why Joanne had told her any of that. Abby should say something. It was her turn to speak, but her mind was blank. Everyone loved Joanne, but Abby had always found her intimidating. Maybe for no other reason than she was Ryan’s mother.
Joanne opened the door wider. “Would you like to come inside?”
There was nothing she’d like less. “Um, thank you, but it’s getting late, and I think I’d better go.” She’d get a hotel room and worry about finding Ryan tomorrow. It would be a long, sleepless night.
She started down the steps, her feet suddenly heavy.
“Ryan lives just down the street, you know.” Joanne’s voice stopped Abby in her tracks.
“I—no, I didn’t know. I was—hoping to find him.”
“His address is 425.” She pointed up the street. “Just a few blocks that way. You can’t miss it.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Her heart started beating again, making up for lost time. “Good night.” She took the stairs on shaking legs, her thoughts already on Ryan, 425, 425.
“Abby . . .,” Joanne called through the darkness.
Abby turned at the sidewalk.
Joanne looked small standing in the grand doorway. She tilted her head, her short, blond hair sparkling under the porch light. “I hope everything works out.”
Abby stared at her former mother-in-law. She didn’t know what had changed, but something had. An olive branch had been extended, and Abby grabbed hold of it with both hands.
“I—thank you, Mama J—Joanne.”
The woman gave her a genuine smile. “I think you had it right the first time, dear.”
A few minutes later Abby was crawling down the street in her Fiat, reading the street numbers painted on the curb. She’d narrowed it down to the right side of the road, and she was getting close.
She wished she looked better. She’d dressed for travel in yoga pants and a green T-shirt that had seen better days. Her hair hung in a riot of messy curls, and she’d hardly bothered with makeup this morning. Her freckles probably stood out like a neon sign.
Nothing she could do about it now.
411 . . . 419 . . . 425.
There it was. Abby pulled to the curb and turned off the ignition, looking up at the house.
Her heart gave a stuttered beat. Her breath tumbled out. Even under the velvety cloak of night she recognized the place. The charming brick Craftsman hunkered on a small knoll, its wide front porch well lit. Giant oaks towered overhead. Mere silhouettes at this hour, she knew they shaded the lawn on bright, sunny days, providing a reprieve from the heat of summer.
It was their house. Their dream house. They’d passed it a million times going to and from town.
“I want to live there someday,” she’d said one day early in their marriage.
“That one?” Ryan pointed at the house.
“Look, there’s a tire swing in the backyard. See, it’s all ready for our kids.”
His eyes dropped to her tummy, where a tiny bump pushed against her snug shirt. A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “You’re already planning more, huh?”
“Well, not right now, but eventually. I’ll bet that house has at least four bedrooms. I want a garden out back and pretty furniture on the porch where we can sit outdoors and talk while the kids play in the yard.”
Abby snapped back to the present. With the porch lights so bright she couldn’t tell if the lights inside were on. Her hands tightened around the wheel. Her chest felt so tight she couldn’t breathe.
Please, God. Don’t let me be too late.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
RYAN FLIPPED THE TV CHANNEL, FINDING A NOTRE Dame football game that was in the last two minutes. He should get out of his suit before he messed it up even more, but he couldn’t find the motivation.
He pulled at his tie, lifted it over his head, and unbuttoned the top two buttons. He tried to think happy thoughts. His sister’s happiness, his family’s health, Notre Dame’s big lead. Instead, the familiar melancholy swept over him like fog over the river.
Why can’t I move on, God? It’s been three years. Three and a half if he wanted to get technical. Why can’t I just accept she doesn’t want me?
His gut twisted at the thought. Memories played out, unbidden. Abby riding shotgun, her hair blowing in the breeze. Abby looking up at him as he tickled her, her eyes sparkling. Abby wrapped around him on the four-wheeler, her melodious laughter in his ear.
Is that all he had now? Memories? Would they be enough to keep him company during the long, lonely nights? He knew the answer to that one.
He flipped off the TV—he wasn’t watching the game anyway. Darkness surrounded him. Total silence devoured the room. Not even the clock ticked. It had been three eighteen for weeks now.
He’d gone through the motions, jogging in the morning, school, football practice, dinner, grading, then bed. The bed part he put off as long as possible, knowi
ng he’d toss and turn until his brain was too tired to function—it was why he sat up now, staring at the wall. Then he’d get up and do it all again the next day.
His grip on the pillow tightened. Why did she have to be so stubborn? Why couldn’t she just give them another chance? He knew all the reasons, he wasn’t stupid. But the anger was there anyway, simmering just below the pitiful desperation.
He’d done everything he could short of dragging her here and holding her hostage. Didn’t she see how much he loved her? Why couldn’t she just take a leap of faith and trust him to catch her? Why did he have to give his heart to someone who couldn’t love him back?
A knock sounded at the door. He closed his eyes, his head falling back against the cushion. Had to be his family. He’d forgotten something at the reception. Or his mom hadn’t bought the fake smile he’d worn all evening and was coming to confront him about it.
Another knock sounded. He grabbed the pillow and put it over his face. If he ignored it, they’d think he was asleep. Maybe he would go to sleep. Maybe he’d just lie down right here.
The knock was louder this time. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? Or be a normal person and shoot him a text? He grabbed the pillow, smacking it down on the couch, and pulled himself off the sofa. He stalked toward the door, the forced smile long gone, his patience stretched to its limits.
He reached for the handle, giving it a hard yank.
Abby jumped when the door flew open. Ryan’s jaw was rigid, his eyes squinty. The glower wasn’t as sexy when it was aimed at her. She shifted under his direct gaze.
His lips went lax and his eyes widened. He blinked twice, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
“Abby,” he said, her name releasing on a long exhale.
“Hi.” Her voice was breathy. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. “I—I hope I didn’t wake you,” she said, then felt supremely stupid because he was wearing a suit.
PJ’s wedding, she remembered. He looked impossibly handsome, his face clean-shaven, his hair mussed. She wondered who he’d gone with and felt the sting of jealousy.
“What are you . . .”
She couldn’t do this out on the porch, where he could just close the door in her face. She probably deserved it.
“Can I come in?”
After a moment’s hesitation he opened the door wider and moved aside. The woodsy scent of him enveloped her as she passed. She breathed deeply. The room was dark, only the porch light filtering through the windows. The door snapped shut behind her, and a lamp came on as he flipped a switch. Her eyes swept the room. It felt homey, despite the lack of furnishings, with its warm wood floors, cozy rugs, and fireplace. Just as she’d imagined.
“The house . . .”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. And she could’ve sworn that was a blush rising from the collar of his shirt.
He rubbed his jaw. “It came up on the market. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, I don’t—”
“I’ve got sweet tea. Be right back.”
She watched him go, his deliberate strides eating up the space quickly. He couldn’t get out of the room fast enough. Not good. He disappeared into what she presumed was the kitchen.
Not good at all. Help me, God. I don’t want to blow this.
She drew a deep breath and blew it out, trying to be thankful for a moment to collect herself. What was she going to say? She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. His face was a stone wall.
Was he angry she’d ignored him all these weeks?
Of course he’s angry. My gosh, you made him think you were giving your relationship another chance, then you fell off the face of the planet.
She twisted Nana’s ring on her finger, then began pacing the room, too unsettled to even think of sitting.
Her legs quaked under her, and her hands trembled. She whispered another prayer that consisted mostly of help, help, help.
When she reached the grandfather clock she noted the still pendulum and stopped. She opened the cabinet, the old habit returning, glad for something to do with her hands. She wound the clock until the weights came to the top, swung the pendulum, and shut the door, somehow comforted by the familiar ticking.
There were noises coming from the kitchen. Ice clinking in a glass, the fridge door opening and shutting. He’d be back soon, and she still felt off balance. Unsure. Vulnerable.
The door swung open, and he walked toward her, his face as impassive as before. Her eyes swept his form. He’d always looked so good in a suit, and somehow, the undone buttons only added to the effect.
She took the offered tea and sipped, suddenly aware of how dry her throat was.
“Where’s Boo?” He tucked his hands in his pockets.
She blinked, realizing she hadn’t even thought of her dog. “In the car.”
“You can bring her in.”
“It’s okay. She’s sleeping.” Plus things might go badly. They might go very badly, and then Boo would tinkle on his nice wood floor.
She set the tea on an end table, then wished for it back because she had nothing to do with her hands. She tried to stuff them into her pockets, then remembered she was wearing yoga pants. Her hands flittered about with no place to land. Finally she crossed her arms.
Ryan gestured toward the sofa.
She was too nervous to sit, but standing was awkward.
He still had the same living room suite, she thought, as she sat. A bulky set, upholstered in soft brown fabric, that his parents had gotten them as a wedding gift. It had dwarfed their little living room on Orchard, but it looked just right here. She took in the room, the heavy mantle, the thick maple trim, the rugs, offering a splash of color here and there.
“I love the house.” Like he doesn’t know that, Abby. Heat crept into her cheeks. “The inside, I mean. It’s homey.”
“It’s just a house.”
She didn’t know what he meant by that and didn’t know what to say. Her breaths had turned shallow, and she worked hard to regulate them.
He sat in the recliner across from her, perched on the edge as if he might leave at any moment.
He planted his elbows on his knees. “Why are you here, Abby?”
Their eyes aligned and her heart pounded. She should’ve given this more thought. She was good at the written word; the spoken one not so much.
“I—a lot’s happened since we spoke last.”
“I heard about your promotion. Congratulations.” The well-wish came out flat.
You can’t blame him, Abby. “Thanks. I’m—my stuff’s all packed. My car’s loaded down, actually.”
He studied her until she squirmed. “Geography’s not my best subject, but I believe St. Paul’s in the opposite direction.”
She gave a hollow laugh. “It is.” This wasn’t going the way she’d hoped. He was still across the room and looking at her with those unreadable eyes.
He clasped his hands between his knees, waiting. He might as well be tapping his foot.
“I was on my way there. I got as far as, well, not even out of Indiana, and I stopped. There was traffic and Boo—” She remembered the picture. She fished in her purse and pulled it out, glancing at it. “I found this.”
She handed it to him, and their fingers brushed. She pulled away reluctantly, watching as his eyes locked onto the photo. His jaw clenched. His lips pressed together.
He set the picture on the end table. “You didn’t drive all the way here to give me that.”
Abby swallowed hard, twisting her ring. “No. I—I came to tell you I was—I was wrong.”
She thought she saw something flare in his eyes. But then it was gone. Wishful thinking. Not her usual MO.
He arched a brow, waiting.
A knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach, and she pulled her purse against it. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your phone calls. Or your texts.”
“I came after you.”
Unlike last time, when you just let me
go without a fight.
She barely stopped the words. She bit her lip to make sure they didn’t come out, then she closed her eyes and breathed. It was so hard. Everything in her wanted to poke at him, make him angry.
Slow down, Abby. Think. Don’t provoke.
She opened her eyes, focusing on Ryan’s inscrutable face. “I—I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t ready—I didn’t realize—” She shook her head, wishing her thoughts would unscramble and make sense. There was so much to say. Where did she even begin?
Her heart was bashing against her ribs, and her chest was so tight she could hardly breathe. Her teeth began knocking together like she was sitting inside an igloo in the Arctic instead of a warm Indiana house in the middle of September. She locked her teeth tight. But panic crawled up her throat, clawing at her.
She had to get up. Move. Away from the awful blank stare in his eyes.
She popped up, moving toward the open room.
Ryan sprang to his feet and blocked her path. Their eyes met and mingled. She recognized fear in those stormy depths.
“Don’t go,” he said.
Empathy lapped at her, calming her own storm. He was scared too. She wasn’t in this alone. Somewhere under that impenetrable mask was a man who used to love her.
“I won’t,” she said.
Only the ticking of the clock filled the silence. He must’ve heard it too, because his eyes swung toward the clock, then back to her.
He studied her a minute, his face softening. “Talk to me, Abby.”
She locked onto his eyes, soaking up the warmth like the first rays of summer. If he’d just keep looking at her like that, she’d be able to say anything.
“It was my fault.” Her words sounded choked. “Our marriage, the way it ended, all our problems—my fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
She took a steadying breath and told him what she’d learned. It tumbled out of her like boulders down a cliff, her face heating with shame. About how the abuse had affected her. About how she’d subconsciously provoked him because, deep down, she thought she deserved to be abused—was waiting for him to hit her.
Married 'til Monday Page 23
