Abby.
I sprint to the door, tripping over a pair of my suitcase and a half-folded laundry basket I gave up on three days ago. I unlock the bolt with shaking hands and yank it open.
And there she is.
All five-foot-two inches of smoky-eyed, curvy perfection. Black leggings, a hoodie that saysHex the Patriarchy,combat boots, and an armful of chaos. In one hand, she holds a bottle of tequila. In the other—a fresh box of tissues.
Grinning, she steps aside.
Behind her sits a suitcase.
“I packed the essentials,” she says with a wink. “Enough to perform either a love spell, a hate spell, or a moving-on spell.” Waving the alcohol, she adds, “And the courage to pick one.”
I throw myself into her arms, sobbing.
“Abby,” I cry, collapsing against her like the wreck I am. “I fucked up.”
She sighs, hugging me tight, her familiar perfume hitting my nose like a wrecking ball.
“I know, babe,” she whispers, her chin on my shoulder. “Let’s fix it.”
The tequila bottle’s half-empty and my heart feels the same.
I’m curled into the far corner of my sagging couch, wrapped in the softest blanket I’ve ever felt, wearing the new pajama set Abby brought me. It’s navy with moons and stars and saysManifest That Shitacross the chest. The irony is not lost on me. The blanket matches. So do the slippers.
I have the best friend in the world.
Abby’s got her feet in my lap, her green satin robe slipping off one shoulder. Her toenails are painted black and chipped to hell, her eyeliner smudged like she’s in a rock band, and her mouth is full of gluten-free tortilla chips that she’s shoveling in with tequila-shot timing in mind.
“You’ve got crumbs in your cleavage,” I mutter, voice raw from crying and drinking.
She shrugs. “Built-in snack tray.”
I laugh. It’s wet and pathetic, but it still counts.
She tops off both our glasses, squinting one eye shut like that helps her aim.
“When I didn’t hear from you for a while, I figured you were off somewhere finally hooking up with the cowboy.”
I snort but it turns into a drunken sob.
“I’m not that obvious,” I cry. “Maybe I found someone else to fuck.”
Abby scoffs. “Georgia, you talked about him like he was some combination of John Wayne and Jason Momoa. Of course it was obvious.”
“I hate John Wayne.”
She rolls her eyes and sips her drink. “No one hates John Wayne, but that’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point, Abby?” Sniffling hard, I give her a desperate look. “Because I don’t understand it anymore. Don’t understand any of this. How did I get here?”
“You fell in love, Georgia. That’s how.”
I nod slowly. “I really did.”
She shifts her feet, drawing her knees up, voice gentler now. “And the baby? His little girl?”
“Aurora.” I swallow thickly, tears pressing behind my eyes again. “She’s mine.”
