“Travis . . .”
“In four, or maybe five years,” I said, inwardly cringing that I went that far.
Abby took a breath. “We need to slow down. Way, way down.”
“Don’t start this, Pidge.”
“If we keep going at this pace, I’m going to be barefoot and pregnant before I graduate. I’m not ready to move in with you, I’m not ready for a ring, and I’m certainly not ready to settle down.”
I gently cupped her shoulders. “This isn’t the ‘I wanna see other people’ speech, is it? Because I’m not sharing you. No fucking way.”
“I don’t want anyone else,” she said, exasperated.
I relaxed and released her shoulders, turning to grip the railing. “What are you saying, then?” I asked, terrified of her answer.
“I’m saying we need to slow down. That’s all I’m saying.”
I nodded, unhappy.
Abby reached for my arm. “Don’t be mad.”
“It seems like we take one step forward and two steps back, Pidge. Every time I think we’re on the same page, you put up a wall. I don’t get it . . . most girls are hounding their boyfriends to get serious, to talk about their feelings, to take the next step . . .”
“I thought we established that I’m not most girls?”
I dropped my head, frustrated. “I’m tired of guessing. Where do you see this going, Abby?”
She pressed her lips against my shirt. “When I think about my future, I see you.”
I hugged her to my side, every muscle in my body immediately relaxing with her words. We both watched the night clouds move across the starless, black sky. The laughter and humming of the voices below sparked a smile across Abby’s face. I watched the same partygoers she did, huddling together and rushing into the house from the street.
For the first time that day, the ominous feeling hovering over me began to fade away.
“Abby! There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!” America said, bursting through the door. She held up her cell phone. “I just got off the phone with my dad. Mick called them last night.”
Abby’s nose wrinkled. “Mick? Why would he call them?”
America raised her eyebrows. “Your mother kept hanging up on him.”
“What did he want?”
America pressed her lips together. “To know where you were.”
“They didn’t tell him, did they?”
America’s face fell. “He’s your father, Abby. Dad felt he had a right to know.”
“He’s going to come here,” Abby said, her voice swelling with panic. “He’s going to come here, Mare!”
“I know! I’m sorry!” America said, trying to comfort her friend. Abby pulled away from her and covered her face with her hands.
I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on, but I touched Abby’s shoulders. “He won’t hurt you, Pigeon,” I said. “I won’t let him.”
“He’ll find a way,” America said, watching Abby with heavy eyes. “He always does.”
“I have to get out of here.” Abby pulled her coat tight, and then pulled at the handles of the French doors. She was too upset to slow down long enough to first push down the handles before pulling the doors. As tears fell down her cheeks, I covered her hands with mine. After helping her open the doors, Abby looked at me. I wasn’t sure if her cheeks were flush with embarrassment or from the cold, but all I wanted was to make it go away.
I took Abby under my arm, and together we went through the house, down the stairs and through the crowd to the front door. Abby moved quickly, desperate to get to the safety of the apartment. I had only heard about Mick Abernathy’s accolades as a poker player from my father. Watching Abby run like a frightened little girl made me hate any time my family wasted being in awe of him.
Midstep, America’s hand shot out and grabbed Abby’s coat. “Abby!” she whispered, pointing to a small group of people.
They were crowded around an older, slovenly man, unshaven and dirty to the point where he looked like he smelled. He was pointing to the house, holding a small picture. The couples were nodding, discussing the photo among themselves.
Abby stormed over to the man and pulled the photo from his hands. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
I looked down at the picture in her hand. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, scrawny, with mousy hair and sunken eyes. She must have been miserable. No wonder she wanted to get away.
The three couples around him backed away. I glanced back at their stunned faces, and then waited for the man to answer. It was Mick fucking Abernathy. I recognized him by the unmistakable sharp eyes nestled in that dirty face.
Shepley and America stood on each side of Abby. I cupped her shoulders from behind.
Mick looked at Abby’s dress and clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Well, well, Cookie. You can take the girl out of Vegas—”
“Shut up. Shut up, Mick. Just turn around,” she pointed behind him, “and go back to wherever you came from. I don’t want you here.”