The Breakaway: A Novel

Abby

1996

Are you ready?"

She wasn’t. But her sister and her brother had both learned how to ride their bikes before they turned six, and Abby was a few weeks away from her seventh birthday, and her dad had already spent twenty minutes taking the training wheels off her bike. She knew she had to try.

Okay, I’m going to hold the seat until you get your balance, and then I’m going to let go.

She nodded without turning from her perch on her bike’s seat. If she took her feet off the pedals she’d be able to touch the ground with her tiptoes. Still, she felt like she was in outer space, that the ground was a million miles away; that if she lost her balance she’d go plummeting to her doom.

Okay. Here we go.

She felt her daddy’s hand on the back of her seat, steadying the bike. She made herself push with her right foot. The pedals turned. The wheels spun.

Here you go! Pedal, pedal, pedal! You’ve got it! her daddy shouted.

And then he wasn’t there. It was just Abby, alone on her bike… and she wasn’t falling. She clutched the handlebars, not paying any attention to where the bike was headed, and she pedaled, pedaled, keeping her balance, and the wind was cool on her cheeks, brushing back her hair, and she was picking up speed, only wobbling a little, and she wasn’t falling. She was riding.

It felt like floating. It felt like flying. It felt like she was far away from everything that hurt her. The icy silences that stretched between her parents. The way her mom would always put a plate of cut-up carrots or bell peppers by her plate, and no one else’s, at dinnertime. How Dylan McVay at school had started calling her Flabby Abby, and now all the boys called her that.

Abby! Stop! Turn around! Don’t go on the busy street! Her daddy was yelling, chasing after her, his voice getting farther away with every rotation of the pedals. And Abby wasn’t falling. She was riding, on a bike that could take her anywhere. She was free.

Abby

New York City

April 2021

I’m getting married! Kara hollered into Abby’s ear. The words came borne on a gust of tequila-scented breath as Kara grabbed Abby’s hand and squeezed. I’m so happy! Are you happy for me?"

Of course I am, Abby said, guiding her friend over a crack in the sidewalk. If you’re happy, I’m happy.

I AM! Kara shouted into the Brooklyn night. I AM happy!

Maybe let’s be happy a little more quietly, Abby suggested as Marissa, another member of the bridal party, came teetering toward them and slung her arm around Abby’s neck. At the beginning of the night, Marissa had given each of the women a pink feather boa, and they had started to shed. Abby saw pink feathers floating in the air, drifting gently down onto the pavement.

You’re next, Marissa said, poking her finger against Abby’s chest. You and Mark.

Mark and I have been on exactly two dates, Abby said, bemused.

Doesn’t matter, Marissa said, and looked Abby in the eye. He loves you. He’s been in love with you since he was thirteen! That’s… Marissa wobbled to a halt, her cute nose wrinkled, incapable of walking drunk in high heels and doing math at the same time.

Eighteen years, said Abby, who was not precisely sober but who was also not anywhere near as tipsy as her friends. But we’ve only been back in each other’s lives for fifteen minutes.

Doesn’t matter. Marissa gave a dismissive wave of her hand. He loooves you.

Abby surveyed the rest of the party. There were Kara’s college friends: a trust and estates lawyer, a crisis communication expert, a banker who lived in San Francisco. There were a few other summer camp friends—Marissa, who lived in a suburb of Chicago with her husband and two little girls; Hannah, a physician’s assistant; and Chelsea, who worked as a public radio producer in Portland, Oregon. Then there was Abby, an employee of a doggie daycare called Pup Jawn, a freelance dog-walker and sometime Uber driver, who’d started and dropped out of two different master’s degree programs, one in early childhood education, the other in library sciences. Abby had gotten used to being the biggest girl in a group, but now she’d arrived at a point where she was both the biggest and the least accomplished. This development did not fill her heart with joy.

As Kara wobbled and Marissa giggled, Abby realized that she had two choices: either she was going to have to stop drinking until she felt less maudlin, or keep drinking until her brain turned off. She adjusted her own boa, arranging it to lie against the V-neck of her tee shirt, which was black, with the word BRIDESMAID spelled out in crystals on the chest, and followed the group into a bodega, past the cash register and the indifferent clerk behind it, down an aisle stocked with ramen and crackers and candy bars, boxes of steel wool scrubbing pads, and bottles of Fabuloso, then out its back door. Their night had started six hours ago with dinner and cocktails at Nobu. There’d been more cocktails at a dueling piano bar, a club in Manhattan, and a dive bar in Park Slope. Abby prayed this would be their final stop of the night. I’m too old for this, she thought as Marissa led them down a trash can–lined alley, pausing once or twice to peer at her phone.

Are you sure this is right? someone asked as Marissa stopped in front of a dingy metal door and knocked three times. When a slot in the door’s center opened, Marissa gave a password and collected everyone’s IDs and vaccination cards. When the documents had been inspected, the door swung open, and Abby followed her friends into the thumping, crowded darkness. The music was deafening, the bass so loud that Abby could feel it vibrating through her fillings. Girls in bodysuits and booty shorts with trays of shots around their necks threaded their way through the crowd, twisting like contortionists to serve customers lounging on the couches. The dance floor was packed with people, dancing and hollering along to the music.

Abby was throwing her arms in the air with the rest of the bridesmaids, gyrating happily and singing along to a remix of Cher’s Believe, when she noticed a guy standing in the corner, staring at her. He wore dark jeans and a short-sleeved tee shirt. His thick brown hair fell over his forehead just so, and his pale skin looked almost luminous in the club lights.

Abby turned away. She kept dancing, but her gaze kept landing on him, taking in a new detail each time—his full lips, his thick, straight eyebrows. She knew she was staring, but she gave herself permission. Looking at this guy was like looking at a two-thousand-dollar gown on the Neiman-Marcus website: a gorgeous thing she could appreciate, while knowing she would never take it home. And home was a hundred miles away, which made the likelihood of bumping into this handsome stranger at a dog park or a coffee shop unlikely. Abby could stare to her heart’s content.

Except, strange but true, it seemed like the guy was looking right back at her. Looking at her and smiling.

Abby watched as he detached himself from the wall and moved through the mass of dancers, until he’d arrived to stand right in front of her.

Bridesmaid? he mouthed, pointing at her chest. Abby nodded, and he leaned in close, saying something she assumed was his name. She felt the warmth of his breath on her neck, and he smelled delicious, musky and spicy and sweet.

Abby shouted her name at him, which was all the conversation the music would allow—a good thing, because his next question would have probably been Where are you from, and at some point he’d follow up with What do you do, and Abby would have to choose between lying or stumbling through an explanation about the gig jobs she took to pay her bills. It was embarrassing to be her age, to have made so many false starts and still not be any closer to figuring out what she planned on doing with her one wild and precious life. She reminded herself that her indecision, while unseemly, wasn’t actively harming anything or anyone.

Somehow, she and the guy had drifted away from the rest of the bridesmaids until they were dancing as a couple (Marissa, the only member of the bridal party who’d noticed this development, gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up, which Abby hoped the guy hadn’t noticed). He was close enough for her to feel the heat of his body. His scent made her mouth water; made her want to press her lips against him and taste the skin of his throat. After two songs, he started to touch her—reaching for her hand, letting his hand rest on her hip, always looking at her, eyebrows raised, waiting for her nod. Abby could feel herself flushing with each brush of his fingers, her skepticism—Me? This guy’s into me? Really?—warring with her desire.

After another three songs, he took her hand and inclined his head toward the corner. Abby let him lead her into the shadows, thinking Do with me what you will. She knew this was borderline scandalous behavior. She also knew that the guy might think she was acceptable, kissable, sleep-with-able, at two in the morning in a dark bar, with loud music and limited options and God only knew how many drinks inside of him, but that he might find her less impressive when he was sober. And there was Mark, back in Philadelphia. They’d been on only two dates since they’d found each other again, but maybe Marissa was right. Maybe there was potential for something serious.

Abby knew all that. But this guy smelled so good, and his hands were so warm, and Philadelphia had never felt farther away. As soon as they’d made it to the corner, Abby stood on her tiptoes, and the guy bent his head and reached down to cup the back of her neck and bring his mouth down against hers. The first brush of his lips was gentle, respectful, a careful taste. Abby was the one to deepen the kiss, the one to slip just the tip of her tongue into his mouth, shivering as she’d felt, more than heard, his groan.

He brought his mouth down to her ear. Come home with me. Abby felt her body flush as the words vibrated through her. Immediately, she nodded. It had been years since she’d kissed a stranger in a bar, and she had almost never gone home with a guy she’d just met. But, somehow, this felt inevitable, like it was the only choice she could possibly make.

When they were outside, the silence rang in her ears. Without the crush of the crowd or the DJ providing a distraction, now that the guy could really see her, Abby felt awkward and unsure.

It’s Abby, right? he asked, after he’d used his phone to summon a car. I’m Sebastian, he said, which saved her from asking, and let her appreciate his exceptionally resonant and deep voice. He had a birthmark, like a single dark freckle, right in the center of his throat, and she couldn’t stop thinking about kissing him right there.

She gathered enough sense to text Marissa that she was leaving. She used her phone to take a snapshot of his driver’s license, which she sent to Lizzie, her best friend back in Philadelphia. So if you kill me and cut me into pieces they’ll know where to start the search, Abby said.

Sebastian rolled his eyes a little. If I kill you and cut you into pieces I’m not going to keep the evidence in my apartment.

You might, Abby said, shrugging. Some serial killers take souvenirs.

He stared at her for a moment. Abby waited to see if she’d freaked him out, but all he did was grin and shake his head.

I can tell you’re a romantic.

Safety first, said Abby. She put her hands on his shoulders, pulling him close, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him.

They kissed on the street while they waited, then they continued kissing in the backseat of the Uber, and they barely stopped kissing after the car pulled up to the address he’d given and he took her hand again and led her down three steps and into his apartment. Abby had a blurred impression of a small kitchen, a short hallway with a high-end-looking bicycle hanging on the wall. At the end of the hallway, there was a bedroom so small that the queen-size bed filled every inch of the space. There was a thin-looking comforter on the bed—black on one side, gray on the other—and four pillows in white pillowcases, piled at its head.

Abby flung herself onto the bed, giggling, still barely believing that this was happening, that she was doing this. Sebastian lit a few candles on the ledge of his windowsill and lay down on his side, facing her. He slipped his hands up the back of her tee shirt, and Abby’s brain went quiet. He pressed her back against the pillows and kissed her for long, dizzying moments, licking her lips and sucking her tongue and nibbling at her neck as he stroked his thumbs against her cheeks and ran his fingers through her hair. He smelled incredible. His hair was so soft as Abby touched it, then tugged it. His deep voice sounded as lovely as she’d thought it would as he groaned and murmured compliments against her skin, and his body felt so good, so unbelievably, outrageously good, pressed against her.

When she couldn’t wait any longer, she helped him pull off his shirt. She rubbed her hands over his shoulders, his chest, admiring him in the candlelight. She asked, Can I? and waited for his nod before unbuttoning his pants and helping him work them off, until he was just in a pair of stretchy gray boxer briefs, and Abby was just in her panties. She thought he’d take off his underpants, or maybe hers. Instead, he pressed the length of his body against hers, and took both of her wrists in his hand, pinning them over her head, making a noise that was almost a growl against her neck.

Oh, God, Abby breathed, flushed and trembling all over, so aroused that the throbbing between her legs was almost an ache. She lifted her hips, trying to press herself into him, but every time she tried to move things along, to reach down and touch him, to try to take off her underpants, or his, he would hold her wrists down again. Gently but firmly, leaving no doubt as to who was in charge. Please, Abby moaned, thrusting her hips, pressing herself against him shamelessly. Oh, God, please, please, please…

She hadn’t been to bed with too many guys, and usually, during sex, it was hard to get out of her own head. Abby was curvy. Rubenesque if you liked your euphemisms, obese if you were a doctor, fat, which was what Abby called herself; a word she’d forced herself to use, over and over and over, until all the sting had been leached away and it no longer felt like a slap. She was soft and warm and yielding. She was strong and she was healthy, no matter what the bullshit BMI charts said. And, the world being what it was, she knew that there were more important things to change than her body. But even so.

In college, there’d been a guy named Chris, who had definitely not been her boyfriend, nor even a friend with benefits. He’d been no kind of friend at all—just a guy who’d been willing to sleep with her. Chris would call her after midnight and invite her over, or show up at her room at two in the morning and creep out of her dorm before the sun came up, so that no one would ever see them together. It had left a mark. In the post-Chris era, when Abby went to bed with someone new she would keep her clothes on for as long as she could. She’d keep blankets or, better, if there was one handy, a pillow over her midsection, and she preferred to make love in the dark. She worried about how she smelled, how she sounded, how her body felt, how it looked. It was almost impossible for her to stop thinking about all of that, to be, as her yoga teacher said, present in the moment.

But that night was different. Maybe it was the booze, and maybe it was being in a different city, with a stranger she’d never see again, but Abby felt half out of her mind with desire, her brain a humming white blank. She wasn’t thinking about the curve of her belly or the cellulite on her thighs or how her breasts looked different without the benefit of industrial-strength underwire. All she could think was how badly she needed Sebastian to touch her, and when he’d finally, finally, slipped his thumb under the leg band of her panties and brought it up, unerringly, exactly where she needed to feel it, she’d let out a yelp that was loud enough to be shocking.

Shh, he said against her neck, his thumb flicking, teasing, rubbing firmly, then lightly, circling her clitoris, then descending down again to trace her lips. Pretty thing.

Abby felt her eyes fill with tears, even as her hips arched off the bed. Pretty thing. She felt like she could count the times a man had made her feel pretty, or dainty, or cared for and small on one hand, and still have fingers left over.

Sebastian pulled off her panties and put one warm hand on each of her legs, easing them apart, and then he rested his head on the inside of her right thigh and breathed on her, warm and steady, one long exhalation. When she felt the first brush of his tongue, Abby forgot that she knew words, and when he slipped his fingers inside of her, she forgot to breathe. How are you so good at this, she gasped at one point, and felt, as much as heard, Sebastian’s amused hum in response. Abby forgot to worry about how she tasted or how long she was taking or anything, because he seemed delighted to be right where he was, doing just what he was doing. He made her come that way, and then he produced a condom from somewhere and rolled it on, kneeling in front of her, looking unreal in the candlelight, like he’d been carved instead of born.

Abby held her arms out, and he slid inside of her on a single stroke that took her breath away. Sebastian set a slow, almost decadent pace, and for long moments they rocked together, panting, and kissing. Abby tried to get him to go harder, or faster, but Sebastian refused to be hurried, no matter what she did, or how she begged. When she swiveled her hips against him, he’d pull out until he was barely inside of her at all, waiting until she went still, then started again.

Abby could feel sweat gathering at her temples. Her legs were locked around his waist, her arms wrapped around his back, and finally, finally, she could feel his control start to waver. His hips pumped, hard, and her own hips rose up to meet him. Their bodies slapped together, and he was groaning, and she was crying out, thinking she’d never known it could be like this, that she’d never even imagined. She had her second orgasm on her back, which hardly ever happened during intercourse, and then, he’d rolled them, so that he was on his back and Abby was on top of him, with his hands cupping her breasts, his eyes wide open, both of them breathing hard. She remembered how his face and lips and hands had all tasted of her when he pulled her down for a kiss. They finished in that position and fell back, sweat-slicked and breathless, against the pillows. Sebastian looped one of his arms around Abby’s shoulders, pulling her close. She let her head rest on his chest.

Jesus, he said.

Mmm, Abby agreed. She felt confident she’d remember words at some point, but, at the moment, sounds were all she had. Sebastian disposed of the condom, then pulled her close, spreading the comforter out and letting it settle against them, soft as a sigh. Abby gave a contented hum, and they both fell asleep.

It was still dark when Abby woke up. She was lying on her back with Sebastian curled around her. They turned toward each other wordlessly, mouths meeting, hands roaming. The second time was slower, sweeter, full of pleased murmurs and gentle caresses and something that felt like tenderness. When Sebastian brushed her hair back from her face, when he braced his body up and leaned close to drop kisses on her cheeks and forehead, or gasped Sweetheart, with his mouth against her neck, she felt closer to him than to any of the four other guys she’d been with.

When it was over, they flopped back against the pillows again. And then, just when Abby thought things couldn’t get any better, that she’d hit the absolute peak of her sexual experiences, maybe even the peak of her entire life, Sebastian asked, Are you hungry?

Trick question, Abby thought. Just as she’d struggled with sex, she’d also struggled with eating in front of guys, with what she’d allow herself, and how much of it, but in Sebastian’s bed, the combination of the liquor and the postorgasmic endorphins buzzing through her bloodstream erased any self-consciousness.

"I’m starving," she said emphatically before she could overthink it.

Sebastian looked pleased. He got up and padded, naked, into the kitchen. Stay there, he said. Be right back. Abby snuggled under his comforter, which was not too heavy and not too light, and smelled like fabric softener and Sebastian’s subtly spiced cologne.

He didn’t have a headboard, but he did have a top sheet and a fitted sheet, plus the four pillows pushed against the wall. Points for that, Abby thought and began arranging pillows in her customary fashion, one behind her head, two more parallel to the edge of the bed, a bulwark between her body and the floor. She’d slept that way since she’d been a little girl and had developed an irrational fear of rolling out of her bed in her sleep. Building your burrow, her father had called it. He’d called Abby his little badger. It had been a much better nickname than Flabby Abby.

When Sebastian came back to the room, holding two steaming bowls of pasta that smelled deliciously of garlic and cheese, he looked at the pillows, then at her. It’s my burrow, Abby said without thinking.

Got it, he said. Abby sat up, and he handed her a bowl. "Pasta alla mamma," he said. Abby twirled a forkful of noodles. The pasta had a perfect bite, and the sauce was creamy and salty and meltingly rich.

You just made this? she asked. Just, like, went into the kitchen and whipped it up?

Sebastian looked pleased. It’s just leftover pasta. You crack an egg into it, and grate in a bunch of cheese, he said modestly. Oh, and garlic and fresh cracked black pepper. He cleared his throat. It’s actually the only thing I know how to make, besides ramen with an egg. But it’s good, right?

Abby took another bite and groaned. Why don’t you have a girlfriend? she asked, with her mouth mostly full, because she didn’t want to stop eating. Or a wife? She took another bite. Or a harem? She swallowed and licked her lips. Why has no one chained you to her stove and made you cook this every night?

He smiled, and said, Do you want to chain me to your stove? He’d put on pajama bottoms and a white undershirt, and he was almost unbearably appealing like that, so handsome and endearing that Abby couldn’t look at him directly for too long. She contented herself with taking peeks as he climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged beside her, balancing his own bowl on his knee.

I don’t know, Abby said. Are you available?

Instead of answering, Sebastian twirled her a forkful of pasta from his bowl and offered it to her. Abby opened her mouth and sucked the fork clean. She told herself it didn’t matter if the guy thought she was a disgusting pig. She’d never see him again. She could even ask for seconds! She smiled at the thought, and Sebastian smiled back, reaching out for one of her curls, pulling the light-brown strands straight and letting the curl re-form and bounce against her temple.

So, what do you do when you’re not cooking pasta? she asked.

I’m a writer, he said. For a website, right now. I do investigative reporting.

Impressive, said Abby.

And what do you do when you’re not at bachelorette parties?

She paused, reminding herself that she’d never see this guy again, that she could tell him anything she liked. She thought about making up a story, saying she was in medical school, or in law school, or learning to be a teacher, or that she was a grad student, which had been the truth at one point, years ago. Instead, she said, Right now, it’s a little bit of this, a little bit of that. I’m still figuring it out.

It’s a lot, he said. He’d been rubbing her back, long, slow strokes, with the perfect amount of pressure, not too hard and not too light. Come here, he said, setting the bowls on his windowsill and more or less scooping her into his arms, until the top of her head was tucked under his chin, her cheek and right arm on his chest. Your skin is so soft, he said, his voice a low rumble that she felt in her bones. Like velvet. Or satin. Whichever’s the soft one.

Abby wanted to say the most ridiculous things. She wanted to call him honey and darling. She wanted to tell him that she’d never felt this way about anyone, and hold his hand, and cuddle him as he fell asleep. And the strange thing was, she thought it was possible that he wouldn’t freak out if she said those things; that maybe he was feeling the same way. Which, of course, was ridiculous. It could not possibly be true.

He started kissing her neck again, his hands still on her back, moving insistently, sliding down to cup her bottom, fingers spread wide, like he wanted to touch as much of her as possible. Like he couldn’t get enough. Like he would never let her go. Abby thought she had never felt so lovely, so desired, so treasured. Sweetheart, he said again, and that, even more than the pasta, even more than the orgasms, that had been the best part, the memory she’d tuck away to cherish.

He was holding her when she woke up for the second time. The sun was rising. Abby could see the faint light filtering through the slit of his window. She could feel a hangover pulsing in her temples, settling into her belly, and a wave of guilt, like scummy gray dishwater, rolling in with it. She imagined Mark sleeping blamelessly in his bed in Philadelphia, with his phone plugged into the charger beside him, the alarm set to wake him up in plenty of time for his shift at the hospital. She was sure that if she looked at her own phone, she’d find texts from last night: Say hi to everyone and Have a great time.

Sebastian muttered something and rolled onto his back. Abby looked down at him. She touched her fingertips to her lips, then pressed them quickly against his bare shoulder, a kiss by proxy. Quietly, she gathered her clothes and carried them to the bathroom—tiny but clean—where she dressed and splashed water on her face. She thought about leaving a note—Thank you for a lovely evening?—or her number. In the end, she decided not to do either. The night had been perfect. Abby didn’t want to taint it, and it seemed greedy to hope for more. She didn’t want to wait for a call that wouldn’t come. Nor did she want to meet up with him somewhere and watch him try to hide his disappointment when he saw her, without beer goggles, sober and in the light. Better to leave before anything could go wrong, to go back to her real life.

She stepped outside, wishing she could lock the door behind her, hoping that Sebastian would be safe. On the sidewalk, she called for an Uber, and watched the sun rise as the car drove her over the Brooklyn Bridge. Back in her hotel room, she chugged a bottle of water, swallowed two Advils she’d had the foresight to pack, and tucked herself into her bed. She fell asleep immediately and didn’t wake up until Marissa pounded on her door at ten o’clock to tell her they were meeting in the lobby in half an hour for dim sum, and that Abby needed to get up, because Marissa wanted details of her night.

Abby kept it vague with Marissa, feeling, somehow, like if she shared too much about what had happened it would lose its luster, and sound tawdry or porn-y instead of the way it had felt, which had been romantic and magical. She managed the brunch, nibbling at pork buns and shrimp dumplings, honey-basted spareribs and congee, listening to the group moan about their hangovers or talk about the wedding, or their own husbands, and their kids.

She and Mark had plans for Saturday night. It was going to be their third date, which meant, she guessed, he’d be asking her to come home with him, unless she asked him to come to her place first. Mark had changed a lot since they were teenagers at summer camp, but he was still appealing, with the same sense of humor, the same sweet smile. Mark was plausible. Mark made sense. They had a shared history, similar backgrounds, and they lived in the same city. He’d been the first boy she’d ever kissed, the first boy who’d said he loved her. Maybe Mark didn’t light the same fires that Sebastian had; maybe she didn’t feel as desperately drawn to him. In spite of that—maybe because of that—Abby had no trouble imagining herself and Mark starting up where they’d left off, falling instantly in sync, moving forward smoothly and in tandem.

But God, last night had been so good. For the entire bus ride back to Philadelphia, Abby kept her eyes closed, and thought about how Sebastian had touched her; the sound of his voice, the way he’d looked at her. How it had felt to be so desired by someone who was, himself, so desirable. How perfectly in tune they’d been. It felt like, for a handful of hours, she’d stepped into someone else’s skin, even someone else’s life, and it had been wonderful.

Abby replayed every minute, from their first kiss to the last touch of her fingers to his shoulder, determined to inscribe every detail on her mind. When the ride was over, she deleted the photo of the guy’s license from her phone, pulled her backpack down from the overhead rack, stepped out into the diesel-scented sunshine, and headed south, toward her apartment, toward the dogs who’d be waiting for her on Monday morning, and the guy who’d be waiting on Saturday night.

Abby

Philadelphia

August 2023

Give it to me," Abby said in her sultriest voice.

Mark shook his head, feigning reluctance. I don’t know. Are you sure you’re ready?

Oh, I’m ready, Abby purred.

Mark hesitated, then pulled his phone out of his bag. Okay, standard disclaimer. This is not my patient, or a patient at any institution with which I am affiliated. No one’s HIPAA rights were violated.

Just hand it over. Abby reached across the table, palm extended. She was in a wonderful mood. She and Mark were at Estia, one of their favorite restaurants. He’d come with pictures, and they had the entire weekend ahead of them.

Mark shook his head, giving her a rueful look before handing Abby his phone. She turned it around and looked at the picture of a foot with a big toe’s nail that had gotten so long it had curved down, completely covering the tip of the toe, curving toward the sole. She squealed. Ew!

Yeah, that’s one for the gallery, Mark said modestly.

How did that happen?

How does anything happen? Mark replied. You just decide to let it go for a few days. And then a few days turn into a week, and a week turns into a month, and the next thing you know…

… you’re wearing toenail slippers. Abby texted the picture to herself, picked up her own phone, and added the image to her Nasty Feet album. Have you ever seen anything like this? Mark was a podiatrist, which meant it was at least possible that he had.

No comment. He patted his lips with his napkin, then sighed. You know, sometimes I think you just love me for my photographs of medical oddities.

Abby made a show of thinking it over. Nah, she finally said. I also love you because you talk to my mother so I don’t have to.

I do, said Mark.

And you’re handy for getting things off high shelves. Mark was only a few inches taller than she was, but it made a difference.

I got that jar of pickles open that one time, he said. Don’t forget that.

As if I could. Abby reached across the table and, tenderly, touched Mark’s cheek. "If it wasn’t for you, I might still be there, standing