He covers his eyes with his hand and I think he’s going to cry. He’s not supposed to be the one to cry. But he takes his hand away and blinks a few times, and he just looks hollow, not tearful. “All right, Abby,” he says quietly. “I’ll leave you alone.”
He watches me collect my things and tells me he’ll drive me home. I try to protest but he cuts me off. “I’m not arguing with you about this. Go down to my car so I can drive you home.”
We ride in silence. There’s a spattering of rain against the windows and I watch the droplets being forced across the glass in the wind.
Before I get out of the car he grabs my hand. “Please try and find a way to tell them who you are. Even if you can’t be with me, I just want to know that you can be happy someday. Please, babygirl.”
I pull out of his grasp and get out of the car, and then I run up the steps to my house.
* * *
The next day I hand my notice in. Gregory gives me a long look as I hold out the envelope to him, like he somehow knows what’s coming. I haven’t got the energy to explain why and I pray he’s not going to ask me to.
It seems I don’t need to, though. “Is this because of you and Mr. Kingsolver?”
I stare at him.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I don’t think anybody else knew. I just noticed... You both seemed so happy.”
“We were.” My voice is hoarse.
“And now?”
I shake my head.
He sighs. “Well, I’m sorry to lose you. I hope I work with you again in the future. You owe us two weeks, but I might be able to replace you in a couple of days. Would you like that?”
“Yes, that would make things much easier, thank you.”
“I’ll see you’re paid out for the full two weeks no matter what. Take care, Abby.”
Chapter Eleven
“How are you, Abby-bean?”
My father sinks down on the couch next to my feet. Abby-bean is the nickname he used to call me when I was little. He hasn’t called me that in years.
It’s been three weeks since I quit the Palais. Gregory was able to replace me in two days and I was grateful for it. He must have told Rufus I was leaving, but he avoided me. I don’t know if it was out of respect for my wishes or because he’s angry with me for being so spineless. My parents haven’t asked me what I plan to do now I’m unemployed, though the house has been put on the market and it’s only a matter of time before it’s sold.
“I’m okay,” I say, watching the television as Maleficent slinks toward Aurora’s cradle.
“Your mother told me that your young man wasn’t what he seemed to be. She wouldn’t tell me anything else. Did you, ah, want to talk about it?”
Two days ago I went through my phone, deleting every text message Rufus ever sent me, my insides roiling with shame. I made myself read every single filthy, inappropriate text as I went, reminding myself that my mother had only seen one of these and my father was blissfully unaware of them. The relief at this finally won out against the shame, and I knew I was doing the right thing. When I was finished I changed Rufus’s name in my phone from Daddy to Do Not Answer.
Do I want to talk about it? Like hell. I shake my head, still looking at the television.
My father sighs. “All right, honey. You come and find me if you need to.”
In the afternoon my mother sends me out to the supermarket for fresh bread and some greens to have with our dinner, but I’m sure it’s an invented errand just to get me out of the house. I haven’t even been doing my morning workouts and my body feels stiff and creaky. I hide from the blazing sunshine behind dark glasses and my head feels like it’s filled with builders’ foam.
I’m back on our street, clumping along with the shopping bag thumping and twisting against my right leg, when the for-sale sign outside our house stops me in my tracks. I stare at the large, glossy pictures of the living room and patio, and the little icons proclaiming that there are four bedrooms and two bathrooms. It looks good, our home. The street’s quiet and there’s a primary school around the corner. My old primary school, with the yellow-and-red monkey bars and the lilac tree in the middle of the playground. The sale is going to happen, and I’m sure that it will be sooner rather than later.
Where does that leave me? I force myself to think despite the sluggishness that’s invaded my brain. If I don’t find a job and somewhere to live by the time the sale goes through, I’ll have to move to the country with my parents. I recall the silent, tense looks that have been passing between them the past few days and I realize that’s exactly what they’re worried about: being lumbered with me. I know they love me, but this is their new life and I’m squatting right in the middle of it, shedding misery like fur from a molting cat.
But I’m too tired to do anything about it today, I tell myself. I’ll start looking tomorrow.
The excuse is pathetic. I won’t feel any different tomorrow so what’s the point of putting it off? I can either wilt like a cut flower, or I can drag myself slowly out of my funk, starting now. I turn around and go back to the supermarket, and buy every daily newspaper they have.