“You’re her favorite.”
“That’s a low bar. And you’re the one who called her a drunk.”
Faith kept her head bowed to hide her grimace. She used to compare their dinners to Real Housewives reunions. Rachel’s theory was that the Abbotts needed to argue because without it they wouldn’t know what to say to each other. Rehashing petty conflicts was the closest thing to a love language this family had. One of the many gifts of shedding the Abbott name would be avoiding a front-row seat to the way they tore each other to pieces.
She pulled out her phone to check the time and saw Nathan’s reply. His name on her screen was like a beacon guiding her to an Abbott-free shore.
Nathan: You should swing by and see for yourself. I’m here until ten.
It was almost nine. She looked around the room, and no one was paying her any attention. She looked at the text again, the address he’d sent. Her heart was pounding. She shouldn’t leave. But she couldn’t stay.
Faith pushed away from the table. “I have to go.”
Everyone stopped speaking. Herman cleared his throat. “So soon?”
“I promised a friend I would stop by before my train leaves tomorrow.” She looked at Rachel. “You said you would drop me off, remember?”
Rachel stood quickly. “Yes. Sorry, I forgot about that. We’ll be late if we don’t head out. Matt, you can get a ride, right?”
When they got into the car, Rachel froze with her finger on the ignition. “I have a thing to take care of. For the gala. Did you want me to take you home?”
“You can drop me off at Alesha’s. I’m still hungry and she made gumbo.” Faith paused. “Is something going on with you and Matt?”
Deep down, Rachel knew this was coming. All the clever scheduling in the world couldn’t hide the rancid air in their house. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s kind of obvious,” Faith said. “He’s always attentive, but this weekend he was hovering. And buying me stuff I didn’t need. Why do I have a sleeping bag now? I can’t take that on the train.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Rachel took a deep breath. “And you’re right, there is something going on that I’m not ready to talk about yet. But you and Matt are fine. You always will be.”
“How bad is it?”
Rachel tried to smile but her mouth trembled with the effort. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
Faith fell silent, studying Rachel’s face. “I know you’re strong, Mom. But if you can’t talk to me, promise you’ll find someone else to confide in. Someone who cares enough to really listen.”
As Rachel promised, she realized that the person who immediately came to mind was someone her daughter would never approve of. Faith had called her strong, but watching her walk up the stairs to Alesha’s house, Rachel felt weaker than she had in years.
The address Nathan sent was on a street in Southeast DC she’d never been to before. It was a redbrick building, with Annabelle’s written on the window in gold letters. The sign read CLOSED, but there were lights on inside. She saw Nathan’s car next to a small Toyota with a Bi Pride flag on the bumper.
Rachel started to check her hair, but then stopped herself. It was easier to pretend this was nothing if she didn’t care how she looked while doing it. But when Nathan opened the door, the wattage of his smile made her wish she would have at least reapplied her lipstick.
“Didn’t think you’d come,” he said.
“Curiosity got the best of me. I’ve never heard of this place.”
“My friend Bobbi works here. Come on in.”
The kitchen lights were on, but the dining room was still dark enough that Rachel stumbled over a chair. Nathan steadied her, telling her to be careful. She wanted to laugh. Like he wasn’t the real hazard.
Rap music blared from a phone, and the sound of pots and pans warred with shouts across the kitchen. Nathan introduced her to a tall East Asian woman with keenly observant eyes. She took in Rachel’s wool pants and silk blouse, then lingered on the pearls around her neck in a way that made Rachel feel uptight and ancient. “There’s grease flying all over this place,” Bobbi said. “I’ll get you an apron.”
Rachel pointed to Bobbi’s Annabelle’s T-shirt. “I’ll take one of those if there are any extras lying around.” Bobbi’s expression warmed, and she led Rachel to a small office with piles of branded swag. By the time they rejoined Nathan, Rachel was swimming in her new T-shirt. She had also peppered Bobbi with enough questions to learn how long they’d been friends, and how successful Bobbi thought Nathan could be if he believed in himself. The affection woven through her voice was obvious. Knowing he had someone like Bobbi looking out for him eased a worry Rachel hadn’t realized was there.
“I saw him whining about your food earlier,” Bobbi said. “Nathan’s my guinea pig for new recipes, so I probably created this picky-eating monster.”
“It’s called standards.” He nodded at Rachel. “She’s picky too. Just less vocal.”
“My daughter is at the Institute of Culinary Education,” Rachel explained. “I’m sure it’s the same with your family. They know just enough to be a chef’s worst nightmare.”
Bobbi glanced at Nathan. “Oh, I never went to culinary school.”
Rachel’s face heated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s fine. Lots of people make that mistake, but it usually comes after they’ve eaten my food. Because I’m fucking brilliant.” She smiled impishly and winked at Nathan. “Like this one and his art.”
Nathan rolled his eyes. “Okay…”
“You’re right. He is brilliant,” Rachel said softly. Their gazes caught in a brief tangle and slid away. She leaned forward to peek at Bobbi’s cutting board. “Are you making catfish?”
“Yeah. This place is southern fine dining. Fancy grits and shit.” She picked up a jar of cayenne pepper. “Nathan says you like things spicy.”
“Nuclear,” Nathan corrected. Bobbi added it to the fish batter, and Nathan signaled that she should add more. Soon they were dividing up the labor—Bobbi handled seasoning while Rachel cooked the fish. Nathan made a roux for macaroni and cheese and laughed when Rachel told him to sprinkle cayenne in the sauce.
“Your tongue is Teflon.”
She propped a hand on her hip. “Well, you have toddler taste buds.”
Nathan smiled and brushed a bit of cornmeal from her shoulder. “No, just a little sensitive. But that’s a good thing, right?”
Rachel stared at him, suspended in a heady moment that she knew was fragile and fleeting. For the span of a breath, she felt pure longing. To be someone else. To fully belong here, in this moment. To be able to reach up and straighten his collar without caring if anyone saw. Because he was hers.
It was torture, daydreaming of a different life, one with close friendships and trust. And love. Everything she wanted but couldn’t have.
Bobbi had stopped cooking to stare at them. She’d seen everything. She’d probably figured it all out the minute Rachel stepped into the kitchen.