terms with that. The continual rejections were hard to shoulder alone. The same way renovating their childhood home in Queens without help was hard. But the hard work would be worth it if he succeeded. And lately, he’d become less and less satisfied with being stagnant. He needed to move.
No idea what to expect, Russell had gone into the first bank meeting blind, with little more than their accounting ledger and a rough financial plan. He’d thought the company’s rapid growth would speak for itself, but he’d been dead wrong. Chalking up the first go-round to a learning experience, he’d scheduled another meeting and been far more prepared the second time, not expecting that first rejection to hurt him. But it had, following him from meeting to meeting, closing doors in his face. He suspected his rough edges weren’t helping either, but he couldn’t do anything about those. All options had been exhausted, save one, and he’d been doing research whenever he had free time, intending to make it count.
His brother started in again about an obstacle course, but when more sirens approached, Russell couldn’t focus on the conversation any longer. As Alec looked on curiously, Russell dug his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Abby’s number. He got no answer, so he dialed again. When Abby answered on the second ring, he deflated against the truck.
“Hi, Russell.”
“Abby.” Why was he shouting? “Everything all right?”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?” He was shouting again.
Her hum reached him down the line, warming his ear. “There’s a gas leak at the building across the street, and they’re evacuating us. Maybe the whole block.” A commotion in the background, the din of voices. Abby’s high heels clicking. He knew that sound too well. “They’re telling us to go home.”
“Okay.” A door slammed loudly in the background, and he swallowed hard. “Don’t take the train. If something happens with the leak, you shouldn’t be underground. Walk west and hail a cab.”
“On it.”
By unspoken agreement, they stayed on the line. Russell walked away from the job site, toward the street, looking downtown. From his vantage point, he could see the massive group of flashing red lights. Several people were stopped on the sidewalk beside him, watching the far-off scene as well. For some reason, that made him twice as nervous. “You still there?” he said into the phone.
“I’m—”
He saw and heard the explosion simultaneously. Like fireworks they’d watched less than forty-eight hours ago, white light shot out and tracked down in sweeping arches, moving in slow motion. No. No . . . Abby. Fear hit Russell with the force of a cannonball, propelling him backwards several steps. His work boots crunched on gravel from the worksite, a ringing resonating in his ears. He yelled into the phone, but nothing. There was nothing on the other end. I didn’t do enough. I let her down. Can’t take another loss. Not when it’s her. Not her.
Something banded around his arm, and he spun to find Alec right in his face, mouth moving, but no sound. Jesus, was she hurt? Worse? He tried to breathe, but the air had been sucked out of the atmosphere.
Having grown up with his brother, Russell should have seen the right hook coming, but his head was filled with visions he couldn’t deal with, flashbacks of his early home life—that one day he wanted to erase, along with all the shitty ones leading up to it—merging with new, even worse images, crowding out logic. A second after Alec’s fist connected with his face, the world snapped back into place. Sound and color rushed back in.
“There you are.” Alec shook him. “What the fuck, man?”
“I need the truck,” Russell managed.
WHEN ABBY WAS twelve, her father had remarried after a whirlwind courtship with his business partner. Abby’s mother had given up custody in the divorce when Abby was too young to remember, moving back to California with her sizeable divorce settlement. Looking back, she recognized that her father and stepmother had distracted her from thoughts of her mother, sending Abby to music and language lessons. Dance class, painting courses, minivacations. One summer, her parents—father and stepmother—sent her to “gifted” summer camp. One of her tutors had recognized her aptitude for numbers and suggested the trip, and since her stepmother had been in the middle of her let’s-rediscover-my-Italian-roots phase, she’d been all too eager for a two-week sabbatical from parenting not only Abby but her own similarly aged son. She and Abby’s father had gone to Florence, and