A moment later the door opened and there stood Michael, staring at me with confused eyes and a mouth parted in surprise.
"Abbi," he whispered.
My name on his lips was like a pin prick on a zeppelin: I just fucking exploded.
"Are you thick?" I growled, pushing past him into the packed foyer. "Are you actually that fucking thick, Michael?"
Michael hurriedly closed the door after checking outside. If he was worried that I was going to disturb the neighbours, then he was goddamn right to be worried. I was going to disturb the whole city.
"I mean, how many times do you have to fuck things up before you get it?" I shouted, throwing down my wet bag and stalking into a narrow hallway to pace back and forth. "I thought you were supposed to be smart, and yet you have got to be the stupidest man I've ever met in my entire life!"
Michael hurried to me and tried to place his hands on my shoulders, but I shrugged him away.
"Abbi, please, if I could just—"
"No!"
I jabbed a finger against his chest. He retreated till his shoulders collided with the wall behind him, jostling some pictures in cheap frames.
"No, you're going to shut up and listen to me. You're not going to say a goddamn word."
Michael stayed plastered to the wall as I stomped past him one direction and then the other. My chest was tight and my heart was racing and I was just getting started.
"You really thought you could just disappear and replace yourself with money?" I said, pacing like a maniac. "Can Zara talk to money at night, Michael, huh? Can she go on hikes with a fucking wad of cash? Can your dau—"
"Abbi, if—"
"No!" I shouted, wagging my finger in front of his lips. "I get to do the talking. Can Zara take pictures with Mr Benjamin, Michael? Is that what you wanted for your daughter? For her to fall asleep with cold, hard cash?"
Michael glanced nervously toward the end of the hallway opposite the front door.
"Oh, are you considering running again?" I shouted. "Well, I guess you better go ahead and get out your wallet then. What'll it be this time when you leave me? A new car? A shiny piece of shit that means nothing?"
I paused to suck in a shuddering breath and I stopped opposite Michael. I shook my head and sighed.
"It's not your money I want, we want. It's not your position. It's not your title. It's not your things. It's you. It's you, you goddamn fucking asshole."
With a swell of anger, I shoved him in the chest.
"Why can't you get that through your thick skull? Huh? It's you. It's you. It's always been you. It's only been you."
I shoved him once more with a growl of frustration before sagging back against the wall. I pushed my soaking wet hair from my face.
"Goddammit, Michael," I muttered. "You make me so fucking mad."
I exhaled a shuddering breath.
"Do you want to hit me again?" Michael asked.
I looked up and stared at him for a moment. "Maybe," I finally said. "But not right now."
He nodded. "Well, okay," he said, each word like a tentative step around the rattle of a snake on the path. "Do you think I can say what I was going to say now?"
I snorted. I already knew exactly what he was going to say. "Go ahead."
Michael thumbed toward the end of the hallway opposite the front door and said, "Um, I was going to invite you to Sunday lunch with my family."
Shit. That was not what I expected him to say. My throat tightened and my cheeks went warm.
"What?" I croaked.
Michael scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck and avoided my eyes.
"Every Sunday my family meets at Ma's house for lunch," he explained. "To, you know, catch up, chat…eat."
As he spoke my eyes went back to the front door. My eyes widened in horror as I realised that all the signs were there. I noticed that I'd thrown my duffel over not just a pair of nice dress shoes, but nearly a dozen pairs of shoes, both little and big. On the wall behind Michael were not just pictures of a large family grinning as they all tried to cram into frame, but crayon drawings and macaroni necklaces.
I looked down the hall, in the direction that he had kept looking.
"Um, Michael?" I whispered.
"Yeah."
I tried to clear my throat, but it was no use. I could barely speak.
"Um, when does your family get here for lunch?" I asked, voice strained.
Michael shuffled his socks at the edge of the muddy puddle my rain boots were making on the wood floor. "Well, that's the thing…"
I then stared in horror as head after head popped into view at the end of the hallway. Little toddlers gripped the corners with sticky fingers and giggled with messy mouths. I recognised Michael's younger brother, Eoin, near the top of the hall opening. He was grinning like a kid at the top of Splash Mountain. He swatted at the bun of a woman who appeared beneath him with a baby in her arms. Like gophers popping up in a field, there appeared a kind-faced man with scruffy hair the colour of Michael's, a dark-haired man with rugged good looks like James Dean, two women beside them, and then an older woman with sharp blue eyes and white hair.
My eyes darted in panic to Michael, who was fidgeting with a hem on the cuff of his shirt.
"They’re already here," he said.
