“I'm second-in-command. My brother Rye, he's a few years older. I'm 26. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.” She twists her lip. “So you got a big old family, a mother who somehow managed all of you, and a little sister who is ready to go spread her wings. Okay. Should I know anything else before we go to this family dinner?”
“Have you been to many family dinners?” I ask.
“Family dinners?” Abby repeats. “Well, my family was pretty close growing up. I mean, they are still close.” Her words falter a bit.
“But you're not with them. Do they know where you are?”
“No, not exactly. I needed some space is all,” Abby says, her fingers fidgeting, running along the hem of her jacket. “I needed to clear my head. I needed to spread my wings. Maybe I'm like Fig.”
Laughing, I look over at her. “You're not like Fig.”
“I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing,” Abby says, laughing. Her laugh, it's a good one. Big and bright.
Our eyes catch. “I love Fig to death, but she’s a little spoiled, being the baby and all. You don't seem spoiled. You seem like your head's on straight. Like you've been through some shit and you're not taking any of it for granted.”
“Guess that's not the worst assessment of me considering we just met,” Abby says, “and you seem like you'd be the oldest brother considering you run a hardware store. You're so responsible that you take in stray dogs and girls.”
Now it’s my turn to smile. I want to reach for her hand. I want to hold it. I want to do more than hold it. I want to holdher. Hug her, take care of her. She seems lost, but not in a fragile, breakable way. She seems lost in a way that says she really does need to come home, here.
“Rye is certainly the oldest. You'll know that when you meet him, but he is different than me. He's an ass, if I'm going to say it bluntly. Me? I'm the nice guy. The guy who plays it safe. Who always does what he's told and who makes his mama happy.”
“Ah, I see. You're a mama's boy,” Abby teases.
“Hey,” I say, pulling up to the big old house where I was raised. Abby's eyes widen as she takes it in. The house is huge. “My parents own a construction company called Rough House,” I clarify. “My hardware store, Hammer Home, was my dad's shop for years, and their office is above my store. They build custom homes all over the mountainside. My dad built this home with his own two hands.”
“It's incredible,” Abby says.
The headlights on my truck show off every big bay window of the two-story house, with attic rooms. There's a big barn and a garage with a rec room over the three bays.
I open my car door and jog around to open hers. “I'd say, for being the Rough family, we're pretty gentle, but I wouldn’t want that rumor to spread.”
“Says the mama’s boy,” Abby teases.
I take Hijinx from her and hold him in my arms, not wanting her bandages to tear. “You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah. I mean, I have no idea what I’m in for, but I appreciate the invitation.”
“It would have been terrible for you to go eat by yourself at the diner tonight.”
“I’ve eaten plenty of meals alone.”
“I thought you did a bunch of things with your family?” I ask, looking for clarification, trying to understand what Abby’s life is really like.
“Yeah, I did. But you know how you can be with people and still feel really alone?”
I shake my head. “Actually, no, I’ve never felt like that.”
Abby's lips twist into something wistful. “You're lucky, Bartlett,” she says. “And right now, I feel pretty lucky to be here with you.”
Walking inside the house, I’m suddenly nervous. I’ve never brought a woman home – and I have this deep need for my family to like Abby. To love her. She looks over at me as I close the heavy front door, and we stand in the big foyer, alone for a moment. A rare quiet moment in this loud, rambunctious house. There is a big staircase leading upstairs to the bedrooms, a hall leading to the kitchen and my dad’s den. To the left are the big family and dining rooms.
But the foyer is filled with shoes and coats, a closet overflowing with decades of hunting jackets and rain boots, clogs and sweaters. I watch as Abby takes it all in.
“This feels like a real home,” she whispers as we both slide off our shoes, adding them to the pile by the door.
I take her hand protectively. “You okay?”