Page 54 of Unsaid Things

Chapter Twenty-Two

"Fuck! I can't believe him. I can't even—"

Abby's voice carried from the kitchen, her uncharacteristic cursing combined with the sound of things banging together Lance's clue that something was wrong. "Abby?"

Silence greeted him. He closed the door behind him and set his keys on the table by the door before moving to the kitchen. He found Abby in front of the sink, arms braced on the counter, head down and back bowed. She had her hair pulled up into a messy bun, chunks of it falling down to shield her face.

He stepped closer and ran a hand up her back. "Abby? What's wrong?"

She sniffed and lifted her head, running the back of her wrist across her nose, a wet sponge still clenched in her fingers. When she looked at him, her eyes were red and swollen, tear tracks fresh on her cheeks. His gut clenched, worry coursing through him. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Her lips parted and something between a laugh and a sob came out. "No. Yeah. I don't—"

"Come here." He gathered her into his arms, fitting her against his chest and rubbing her back. She clutched his shirt and sobbed against him, the wet patch on his shirt growing. While he held her, he glanced around the kitchen. A glass pan sat in the sink, the one that she'd been annoyed still had gunk around the edges after she'd made lasagna in it last week.

He waited until she quieted down. When she pulled back enough to wipe at her face, he pulled the sponge out of her hand and tossed it in the sink, leading her to the living room so they could talk.

Grabbing the box of tissues from the entertainment center, he settled next to her. She stared at her hands, which lay limp in her lap. He sat next to her sideways so he could face her, running the back of his hand down her arm in a gesture of comfort. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, mute.

“Sick?”

Another head shake.

“Is it one of our friends? Anyone we know hurt or sick?”

“No. No one’s hurt or sick.” It came out a hoarse whisper that he almost didn’t catch. But at least she was talking.

He took a deep breath and let it out. “Your mom?”

Her eyes flicked to his and away. She shook her head again. “My mom’s fine.”

Unable to watch her staring at her limp hands, he reached out and covered one of them with his, bringing it over to his leg, wrapping both his hands around her smaller one, still damp from either washing dishes or wiping at her tears. Or both.

He opened his mouth to ask about her brother, but closed it. Should he ask? Was now the time to push this? He studied her profile, her head still tilted down, her eyes trained on her lap. If not now, then when?

“What about your brother?”

She looked away again. It was almost funny how she’d clam up when faced with a question she didn’t want to answer. He’d heard her complain over the last few months about her brother doing that and how infuriating she found it. Didn’t she realize she did it too?

“Abby? Did something happen with your brother? Is that why you’re upset?”

This time when she met his eyes, cold fire blazed in hers. “I’m not upset, I’m fucking pissed.”

“What’d he do?”

She pulled her hand from his and stood, pushing the hair back from her face with jerky movements, moving to the other side of the coffee table where she paced like a caged animal, not looking at him. Taking a deep breath, she stopped and opened her mouth, then deflated, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He waited. She squared her shoulders and faced him, her arms crossed over her chest. “He asked me for money.”

He raised an eyebrow. Again? Or was she talking about the first time? “Today?”

A jerky nod.

“How much?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t let him get that far. I told him that—“ She cut herself off, rolling her lips between her teeth.

He studied her and waited. She wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t say anything. “What did you tell him?”

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