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Chapter Five

Abby

By all measures, she should be furious at her husband.

Inviting people over when she was exhausted and had given birth just a few weeks before—six was a few, right?—but regardless, the house was a mess, her body was a mess and—

They were her best friends in all the world.

And Jordan had invited the cackling group of six over then had entertained them for a glorious two hours when they’d forced her into a nap.

The house sparkled—or if not that, then it had at least been picked up and organized. How long it would stay that way was questionable, given that it was now home to three kids, but they’d come, they’d cleaned, they’d made her rest, and Jordan had cooked and fed everyone.

Her reheated plate was in front of her, along with a small glass of rum, copiously mixed down with Diet Coke. Sera had said she’d checked the measurements carefully so as not to interfere with her breast milk.

Which was beyond sweet.

Her friend, not the milk. But then again, it wasn’t like she went around tasting it. Her milk could be sweet and delicious and—

Her mind threw the brakes on that particular train of thought.

Maybe someone would get their jollies off it, but she’d spent the better part of the last few years feeling like a cow—either because she was nursing or because she was pregnant and as large as one.

It didn’t feel very jolly.

Or sweet.

But her friends and Jordan were.

He’d taken the kids upstairs, put the littles to bed, and he and Hunter were camping out in the bedroom rewatching the latest season of The Mandalorian before it was his turn to go to sleep.

Abby had to admit she was a little jealous to not be part of the rewatch party—it was so good—but also, it was nice to be hanging with her friends.

She’d sat and let the chatter wash over her, a Hallmark movie playing in the background, listening to Bec talk about a new case—and the other lawyer’s attempts to circumvent her.

“Which won’t work, of course,” Bec was saying. “It’s practically a juvenile move, and I’d already prepped my clerk to file if he made that move.” She cackled and rubbed her hands together. “I only wish I could see his face when that filing goes through.”

“You’re too smart for your own good,” Sera said.

“Nonsense,” Heather said, her voice slightly tinny as it came through the speakers of CeCe’s phone. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed in Berlin, dressed for the day and wisely abstaining from a drink, as it was breakfast time there. “It’s never a bad thing to be smart.”

“So says the two smartest women I know,” Rachel said.

Bec buffed her knuckles on her chest. “It’s a hard cross to bear, that’s for sure.”

Sera swatted Bec on the shoulder. “Hush you.”

“Hey!” Bec swatted her back.

“How’s the real estate market right now?” Abby asked quickly, before they could digress too far down the swatting track. She, Bec, and Sera had all been friends since boarding school—and sometimes they still acted like it.

Sera lifted a brow, but her lips were curved. “Putting your mom powers to use?”

“I’ve become an expert at breaking up fights.”

CeCe tsked. “My little squishy and Hunter don’t fight. They’re angels.”

“Hmm,” Heather said.

Abby snorted.

Rachel giggled.

And Sera spent the next few minutes telling them about her latest sales—then a few more complaining about a couple of very challenging clients.

After which, Abby tried to turn the conversation to Rachel.

Because if she could just delay enough, give the other women their turn to talk, Heather would have to go to breakfast, and she wouldn’t have to give her recap of her life.

Which was a mess.

And not in terms of the state of her house.

Her mind was muddied, tangled and twisted, and she kept going in circles, warring with herself about things she should know logically didn’t matter, but things that still continued creeping in anyway.

She wasn’t ready to divulge those thoughts.

Not when she was in a room of happy, smart, beautiful women.

Not when she felt none of those things.

Not when she knew she should be feeling all of them because she was so fucking lucky and privileged and—

“The reason you have that look on your face is why I’m not going to answer the question,” Rachel murmured, reaching over Sera and squeezing her hand. “What’s going on?”

What was going on?

So much and yet nothing she could pinpoint.

Annoying and destructive thoughts and yet a wonderful husband and family.

No sleep and feeling like a cow and—

She started crying.

“Oh God,” Abby said, wiping frantically at her eyes. “Ignore me. I’m fine. I just—” A sob bubbled up in her throat. “I’m just tired and hormonal.”

“Maybe,” Bec said, “but it’s not just that. Otherwise”—she waved a hand in the direction of Abby’s face—“you wouldn’t look like that.”

“Like what?” Abby asked, affronted.

“Miserable,” Sera said. “Do you think you have PPD?” she asked. “You got pretty blue after Carter was born.”

Abby’s first inclination was to immediately deny she felt depressed. Not because it was a negative thing. She knew it was common, and she truly had felt very sad after Carter’s birth, perhaps even depressed. But Carter had slept better than Emma, and she’d had CeCe around to help.

So maybe it was just fatigue.

Maybe she should hire the night nurse like Jordan suggested.

But then she would be doing even less, and the scales would be tipped even more in her favor and . . . she wouldn’t be doing anything or enough or—

“I don’t think I’m depressed,” she murmured, wiping the tears away.

“Then what, honey?” Sera asked. “For all intents and purposes, you have everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Abby stared at her hands. “Then why does it feel as though it’s all going to get torn away?

Like any second it will be gone, or Jordan will get tired of me and move on, or my kids will get sick or I will, or we’ll all get struck by lightning!

” She sighed. “I know it’s ridiculous,” she said.

“But every instant of the day, my thoughts are in this cycle. What if Jordan doesn’t like my body now?

I’m heavier and stretched out and—God—he saw me poop twice on the delivery table. Twice!”

“Abbs,” Sera began.

“And I know it’s ridiculous,” she repeated. “Jordan loves me and doesn’t care what I look like. But he’s a fucking Greek god with a six-pack and I’ve got a flattened, lumpy keg! And—”

“Didn’t he used to have the mystical eight-pack?” Heather asked.

A strange question from the man’s sister.

Abby blinked and glanced down at the phone. “Um . . . yes?”

“And you don’t love him less just because he has two less . . . packs?” Heather asked.

It was such a ridiculous question that Abby just looked at her.

Then eventually answered, when Heather stared back through the screen at her, brow lifted, inscrutable expression in place.

“Of course not,” she finally said, albeit a bit mutinously.

“Well, that’s that,” Heather said, rubbing her hands together.

“He loves you, sickeningly, so if he’s willingly invited our lot into your place to take over and fuss and eat and drink him out of house and home.

And that’s just from a friend perspective,” she added when Abby began to shake her head.

“From a sister perspective, I know I’ve never seen my brother happier. ”

“It’s true,” Sera said. “Even from that first night in the bar, he’s never had eyes for anyone but you.”

“And,” Rachel murmured, “the way he looks at you is . . . right. He’s not worried about the varnish on the surface, he loves what’s within.”

Silence.

Then Bec grinned and shook her head. “Damn Morris, you’re good.”

Rachel smiled. “It’s Scott now, but I’ll take it.”

“I thought you were going to stay Morris?” Abby asked. Rachel had been married before, to a man who was a special brand of asshole. She’d vowed to never change her name again.

“I’ve decided I like being a Scott,” she said, eyes full of love.

“I bet you do,” Bec chortled.

“How’s Luke?” Rachel asked innocently.

They all laughed when Bec’s—or Becky as Luke called her—cheeks went pink, but she was a true New Yorker and didn’t back down, teasing Rachel about Bas and Sera about Tate, and Heather about Clay, just for good measure.

“Also, fuck the notion of having to do it all,” she said, turning her laser-sharp focus onto Abby.

“That’s just some bullshit patriarchy hangover.

Jordan isn’t working, but you are, or will be soon.

He can definitely pick up the slack. And even if he was working and you weren’t, you just spent the last nine months puking your guts up and then pushing a watermelon out of something that’s the size of a lemon”—here, she shuddered—“and you’ve been playing milkmaid with all the nursing and then when you go back to work, I know you’ll be pumping.

He can do some of the work around here.”

“It’s more than some.”

“So what?” Heather said. “Plus, my brother has never been shy about expressing himself. If it gets too much, he’ll tell you.”

Abby bit her lip. “He wanted to hire a housekeeper to come in once a week and maybe someone else to do the laundry, but I told him no.”

“So no to the night nurse, no to the laundry service—which sounds amazing, by the way—and no to the housekeeper,” Sera said, ticking the items off on her fingers. “Why don’t you want the extra help?”

“I—” She sighed. “It’s just such a waste of money, and I should—”

“And there goes my bullshit meter, scaling right off the charts,” Bec said. “Jordan sold off his multi-billion-dollar company a few years ago to sit on a beach. He found you instead and wants to make your life easier.”

“But that’s just it exactly,” Abby said, jumping to her feet. “He wanted to be on a beach and instead, he got me pregnant and now he’s saddled—”

She broke off.

Not quite able to finish the statement.

Unfortunately, someone else did.

“Saddled with you,” Jordan said from the hall, a bowl of popcorn in his hands and hurt marring his expression. “You think I think I’m saddled with you?”

“Oh shit,” Heather whispered.

Abby’s heart sank. “That’s not what—”

“Dad?” Hunter called. “Is the popcorn done?”

He swallowed, glanced up the stairs and smiled. “Just finished. Be right there, but it’s probably only one more episode before bed.”

“Aw, man!” But his voice faded, his footsteps drifting back down the hall.

“That’s not—” She broke off again, took a step toward him, and stopped.

“That’s not what you meant?” he asked quietly. “You don’t actually think that?” His eyes were hopeful, as if he wished she’d just been spewing nonsense in the heat of the moment and none of it really meant anything.

She wanted that, too.

Except, she couldn’t quite bring herself to say that she didn’t mean it.

Because deep down, some part of her did wonder if he wished he’d ended up on that beach in the tropics instead of her working for his former company, their home just miles away from what had once been his office, their family growing by the year.

Maybe he wanted mai-tais and margaritas instead of leaking nipples and poopy diapers. Maybe he wanted his freedom instead of being tied to the school calendar and extracurriculars. Maybe he wanted to find someone who wasn’t a nerdy, sock-loving, pajama-wearing cow-equivalent.

Maybe he wanted more than her.

And he must have seen those thoughts on her face because he swallowed again, and it looked painful, even from the far side of the room.

“Jordan,” she began.

“I should get Hunter the popcorn,” he said, lifting the bowl.

She bit her lip but didn’t know what to say, how to make him understand this wasn’t about him.

It was her.

All her.

He held her gaze for another few seconds then nodded and disappeared. She listened to his footsteps on the stairs, disappearing down the hall, until finally, the bedroom door clicked closed.

“Shit, Abbs,” Bec said, breaking the silence that had fallen.

“I know you didn’t mean to,” Sera whispered, “but I think you hurt his feelings.”

Abby knew she had, and she felt awful about it. This whole thing was supposed to be about her and her messed-up head. Jordan had been nothing but wonderful and understanding and helpful and . . . now she’d hurt him, made him think that she thought that—

Fuck.

She needed to untangle this mess of thoughts in her mind and go fix things with her husband.

Now .

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.