She went to stand, then realized she was still on her feet, still frozen in place and staring at the empty hallway.
But her friends weren’t frozen.
They’d stood too, were gathering up glasses and bowls and napkins, carrying everything to the kitchen. CeCe began washing up, Sera loading the dishwasher. Bec returned snacks to the pantry, and Rachel had retrieved the re-useable wine stopper and was plunking it in the bottle of pinot grigio they’d opened, before stowing the plugged container in the fridge. In less than five minutes, they had the space spic and span again. Then they were bundling into their coats and slipping out the front door.
“We’ll give you some privacy so you guys can talk,” CeCe said, pulling her in for a quick hug.
“It’ll be okay,” Rachel murmured, hugging her after CeCe had slipped by.
Bec kissed her on the cheek. “Just talk to him,” she said. “He’s a good guy. He’ll understand where your head is.” Then she tugged lightly on the end of Abby’s ponytail and walked down the path to the driveway.
Sera stopped on the threshold, weaving their fingers together and squeezing lightly. “Honey.”
“I hurt him,” Abby whispered. “He’s been the perfect fucking husband, and I just hurt him.”
“I think you need to talk about exactly why that hurt him so much—”
“I—”
“Not with me,” she said, not unkindly. “With him. Because you two are the product of some pretty messed-up families. Not that mine is anything to write home about,” she added. “Because God knows, my parents are a special brand of dysfunctional.”
“I don’t think this is about our childhoods.”
Or maybe it was. Shit. This had just gotten so infinitely complicated.
Sera smiled, touched her cheek. “I think you just realized that maybe this is deeper than you first thought.”
Abby sighed, nodded. “I think you’re right.”
“I know I am,” Sera said lightly. “But, babe, what you need to think about more than my all-knowing rightness is whether you’re actually worried that Jordan is unhappy or if this has more to do with your dad’s special track record of making new families every couple of years.”
Abby sucked in a breath.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Because if Abby’s dad was bad about using women like tissue and discarding them just as easily, then Jordan’s dad was even worse.
And if part of her was worried, however stupid and illogical she knew that was—even in her emotional, hormonal state—that she might end up like one of those tissues . . .
Then Jordan must think that she thought he was like his father.
And that might be the worst insult she could ever give him.
Chapter Six
Jordan
He was pretending to sleep.
Like a child.
Lying in bed, the popcorn propped on his chest, next to his son, and pretending to drift off.
Because he knew that Abby was going to come up.
Her friends were too intuitive to not have recognized the wound his wife had unintentionally—and he knew it was unintentional because she was too damned nice to hurt him on purpose—but they were too smart to stick around after that.