When We're Thirty

by Casey Dembowski

  “Sorry about that, Abbott,” he said, sliding his hand into hers.

  She perked up at the nickname. In the five days they’d been married, he’d almost exclusively called her Mrs. Thorne, even though she wasn’t changing her name. It was cute, but she’d always been Abbott to him.

  “So why are you all stressed out about your clothing if you are not seeing your dad today or telling anyone that you got married?” she asked, nudging him with her hip.

  He’d explained it—that he wanted to tell everyone at once at the upcoming family weekend. Otherwise, the rumor mill would turn the story before it got to his father. She understood his trepidation, as she intended to tell her family never, but that didn’t explain his tension now.

  “Welcome to my life at Wellington Thorne.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “You being here is already making it better. Trust me.”

  A town car idled at the curb, and the driver stepped out, waiting by the back door for Will. Because Will took a town car to work.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a ride downtown?” he asked, his eyes imploring her to just get in the car already.

  She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she was already going to be early. Most of the Deafening Silence staff didn’t roll in until ten—except for Riley, who seemed to be there no matter what time of day it was. “The subway is more than fine.”

  “All right.” He kissed her on the cheek. Always her cheek. She worried how they were going to make people believe they were in love if their lips never touched and they didn’t even share a bed. Then again, apparently everyone had known they were in love in college even when they hadn’t.

  “See you after your show tonight,” he said with a tip of his imaginary hat.

  “You don’t have to wait up.” She thought about how late she usually got home and how much she smelled like stale beer and weed and sweat. And how they would go to separate rooms to sleep.

  “But I do.” He grinned and dropped his briefcase in the trunk. “It’s my husbandly duty, Mrs. Thorne.”

  “HANNAH?” RILEY’S VOICE rang through the small office, louder than usual considering no one else was in yet. She would suspect Riley slept at the office if Hannah didn’t know she had a husband and a toddler and couldn’t possibly fit on her office couch at nine months pregnant. But even Riley had her limits, and missing Cecilia’s bedtime was one of them.

  “Be right there!” Hannah dropped her bag onto her chair and poked at the wilting carnations. She’d left two at her desk in her Write Like a Motherfucker mug. Whenever her mother saw the mug—mainly in pictures whenever Hannah moved desks—she scoffed at its utter lack of professionalism. That it had come from Riley via an online journal they both loved or that it was one of Hannah’s most prized possessions was irrelevant. The carnations hadn’t fared well in the week she’d been away. Dumping them seemed callous—they were her first flowers from her now-husband—and the full bouquet hadn’t survived Binx and then the move.

  The sound of the overpriced, overcomplicated espresso machine pulled Hannah from the flowers. Riley leaned against the counter, a pen dangling from her lips as she read from a proof of the next edition. Hannah could see the red marks from across the room.

  “That’d better not be my section,” she said, walking over and reaching for the regular coffee grounds and percolator. Hannah liked lattes as much as the next person, but the machine they had made mud. That was coming from someone who had tasted all the roasts Starbucks had to offer via French press. And for the last eight months, it had been decaffeinated mud. Gross.

  “No, I finished your section last night. Henry’s story turned out better than expected.” She wrote something then, with a shake of her head, scribbled it out and wrote a hasty stet at the end of the line.

  “I know.” Hannah wondered when Riley would look up and notice the diamonds encircling her ring finger or even ask how her vacation had gone. She knew from experience it could be several more minutes. When Riley was editing pre-coffee, there was little else she noticed.

  “Do you think we should hire him after graduation?” She looked up finally, her eyelids heavy with lack of sleep. Hannah remembered Riley’s ninth month the first time around. There had been days when she hadn’t slept, kept up by back pain and heartburn. And Baby Sutton the Second didn’t like to cooperate, just like her big sister.

  “How long have you been here?” Hannah aerated Riley’s milk to tournament-quality foam.

  She shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep, and CeCe was having a sleepover at my mom’s, so I just came in... maybe around seven?” Riley accepted the coffee mug from Hannah with a contented sigh. “You always make the best lattes.”

  “Job security,” Hannah joked, angling her hand so her wedding band was out in the open. She should’ve worn the engagement ring too. No one could miss that thing.

  “How was your trip?” Riley asked, taking a seat on the battered couch they used as a coffee lounge. She put the proof down, but Hannah knew her mind was still going over whatever edit she’d left dangling. Stets didn’t last long in Riley’s world.

  Hannah sat down across from her, leaning her elbows on her knees. It was no use—not when Riley was in one of her moods. Nothing would draw her attention—not a sparkling diamond band, not any subtle hints.

  “Well, I actually—” Hannah took a calming breath. Despite Kate and Stephanie knowing, the official marriage license, and the honeymoon, saying it out loud at work made everything real. She plastered a giant grin on her face and held up her left hand. “I got married.”

  Riley blinked at Hannah’s outstretched hand a few times before meeting her gaze uncertainly. “You and Brian got married?”

  She’d walked into that one. The trial run with Stephanie clearly hadn’t taught her anything about prepping the announcement. At least Riley hadn’t assumed she was pregnant—out loud anyway.

  “No, Brian and I broke up.” Hannah ran through the story she and Will had crafted to perfection before letting it spill out. “His name is Will Thorne. We went to college together and reconnected a few months ago. It was totally platonic until it wasn’t.”

  “Sounds like the tagline to the next big rom-com.” Riley gave an exaggerated sigh, holding up her hands as if setting the scene. “Hannah and Will’s friendship was completely platonic... until it wasn’t. Flash to big heated first kiss followed by sad girl sitting in the window, sad boy out with his friends. Will things between them ever be the same again?”

  “Maybe I should write the screenplay.” Hannah sat back and took a sip of coffee, her heart rate finally coming down a few measures. Thank God for people like Riley—people who loved love and loved their friends, and just went with it. No matter what Riley might really be thinking, she wasn’t going to share it without a direct request. Sometimes you needed a Kate, and sometimes you needed a Riley—having both was a blessing.

  “A Deafening Silence production. Written by Hannah Abbott... Thorne?”

  “Abbott. At least for now.” Hannah didn’t have strong feelings either way about changing her name. She had always assumed she would change it—that was what people did when they got married and started a family unit.

  “Oh, you millennials and your contemporary notions. Next you’re going tell me that you and this Will character are creating a new last name. Thabbott or Abborne.”

  “Not exactly.” Hannah scrunched her nose at the names—they were awful. She’d have to present them to Will later. “But if I’m a millennial, you’re a millennial.”

  Riley stood up as quickly as someone with another person living inside them could, her hands on her hips. “You take that back, Thabbott. Take that back right now.”

  “Or what?” Hannah smirked as Riley’s countenance cracked. This was her favorite Riley. The Riley when the rest of the office wasn’t around, when she wasn’t worried about budgets and press checks and keeping solid writers without a benefits package.

  Riley look
ed her dead in the eye. Whatever she was about to say was a trump card. “Or I’ll let Henry run his Amityville story as the lead in your section.”

  Touché.

  Chapter 17

  Will

  Ten days. They’d been married for ten days. And even the last four back in society were excellent. Work pulled them in too many directions, but there’d been breakfast every day. And no matter what time Hannah rolled in, no matter what she smelled like, Will was awake and waiting. Those small moments made his days bearable. Even sans wedding ring, he felt it in his breast pocket, and it was enough. Work had been enjoyable, and Jon less grating—they’d even shared a lunch with Grayson where Jon had spent thirty minutes trying to find out why Will was in such a good mood. Well, in one more day, he would know.

  Getting out to the Hamptons on a Friday night was a bitch any time of year, but that didn’t stop their father from requesting an early arrival to maximize Saturday mornings. These were Will’s last hours as a secretly married man. Putting that ring on and never taking it off was going to feel amazing. How did other men feel trapped by their rings?

  Will watched the numbers rise as the elevator lurched to the top floor. It had been a trying day, spent buried in contracts and reports. All he wanted to do was fall onto the couch and watch bad TV, not get in the car and drive three hours. At least Hannah would be with him. His wife was his key to keeping his footing at Wellington Thorne and to proving he wasn’t the proverbial screwup his father had cast him as so many years ago.

  Will stepped out of the elevator, and voices floated down the hallway from the direction of their apartment. Maybe Mrs. Schumacher had finally come to meet Hannah. She’d mentioned it that morning when they’d passed in the lobby.

  But as he got closer, he could see the door to their apartment open and a few boxes of stacked outside. Most likely books or clothes since Hannah hadn’t wanted the movers packing either. That meant their visitor must be Kate.

  “You are so Tally Atwater,” Kate said.

  Will stepped closer as Hannah made some snarky reply. They stood in the doorway, Kate leaning against the jamb, Hannah standing just inside. They would’ve noticed him if they were paying attention. Kate and Hannah, in their element—it had been too long.

  “What?” Kate said, rubbing her arm. “It’s a compliment. You made it. You dreamed the impossible dream.”

  Kate and Hannah had to be the only thirty-year-olds to casually reference Up Close and Personal without being prompted. He hadn’t escaped their repeated viewings of it either. He’d immediately caught the reference.

  Hannah giggled, her gaze sliding past Kate to Will standing outside the doorway. She straightened, but her expression stayed light and playful. “Hey.”

  Kate turned around. “Hubs!”

  Will laughed. Only Kate. At least she was on board with it. They were going to need allies, and Kate had always been a good one.

  “We were wondering when you were getting home,” Kate said. The statement was so simple, and yet, nostalgia washed over Will. How often they’d said that to him in college, as if him sleeping on their apartment floor for a semester was completely normal.

  “Well, here I am,” he said, hugging Kate. He hadn’t seen her since the wedding and was surprised to find that he missed her. He turned his attention to Hannah just in time to see a blush fading from her cheeks. Was it from the “hubs” remark? Or had it been something else entirely? Sometimes he could read the world on Hannah’s face. Other times, those missing five years had created a chasm that he couldn’t cross. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “We should get those boxes inside before we go.”

  “I will. Kate brought them since there’s this dress I thought would be perfect for tomorrow. A good first-impression dress.”

  “Definitely a parent pleaser,” Kate added with a nod.

  “Plus, she needed to see Binx’s new setup.” Hannah gestured toward the kitchen, where they’d added Binx’s food station.

  “Are you sure you want to come all the way up here?” Will asked, calculating the cost and time for Kate to come uptown twice a day to feed the cat. “I’m sure Mrs. Schumacher would feed him.”

  “He’s still not used to the apartment,” Hannah said, picking Binx up as he rubbed against her legs. “I don’t want to add another stranger to the mix.” She paused on the word “stranger,” perhaps realizing she’d implied that Will was included on that list. Though in truth, he was. Binx might be far friendlier with him than others, according to what he’d heard, but their relationship still involved hissing. Will was nursing a nasty scratch from when he had tried to relocate Binx from the foot of his bed one evening.

  “It’s fine. Really,” Kate said with a shrug. “As long as you don’t mind me borrowing your flat-screen for a few hours?”

  “Kate doesn’t have cable,” Hannah added. “And the Jets are playing against Tom Brady on Sunday.”

  “Watching Brady get sacked in high-definition would be the highlight of my week.”

  “Then consider it yours,” Will said, finally slipping his bag off his shoulder. “Just no parties. As I’m sure Hannah told you, the place isn’t actually ours.”

  “She did, and noted.” Kate crossed her heart. “I promise to not throw a rager in your squatter’s haven.”

  Before he could even formulate a response to that comment, Hannah laughed. “Your idea of a rager is two bottles of wine and binging Dawson’s Creek on Netflix.”

  “A promise is a promise. I will not destroy your Netflix recommendations with my nostalgia.” She hugged Hannah and patted Will on the shoulder. “Goodbye and good luck, lovebirds.”

  The front door had barely closed behind Kate before Hannah fell back onto the couch, limbs akimbo. “Do we have to go? I never—and I mean never—have two weekends off in a row. Let’s go back to Florida, or just stay here. You, me, some beer, and bad TV. I’ll even let you pick the first binge session as long as it has nothing to do with a Kardashian.”

  “That’s not bad TV, that’s god-awful.” He slid in next to her, letting her legs drape across his lap. “Long day?”

  She ran a hand over her face. “We had to fire one of the interns. She was using our name to procure concert tickets for her friends. She didn’t take it well.”

  He squeezed her foot. “That sucks.

  “Yeah.” Hannah sat up, tucking her feet under his legs. She glanced back toward the guest room—her room. “Do I have time to throw in a load of clothes before we go? I’m seriously low on everything.”

  “I guess you could bring some with us. Clara’s not back until Monday otherwise, and she usually handles my laundry on Wednesdays.” He stumbled through the end of the sentence as he looked up from his traffic app. Having a cleaning lady was another thing he’d taken for granted and not told Hannah about. By her expression, she was not too happy about it.

  “I’m perfectly capable of walking my clothes down to the laundry room,” Hannah said, crossing her arms.

  He considered his response for a moment, but there was no way around explaining their lack of options. “No laundry room. Each apartment has a dedicated laundry area, but Dad took it out years ago to expand the kitchen.”

  “The wine fridge?”

  “Yes, partly.” Heat rushed through his cheeks. The luxuries of his life had become too commonplace and the company he kept too equally wealthy to even bat an eye at a maid. “If you bring some for the weekend, Dad’s housekeeper will take care of it for you.”

  “I am not bringing laundry when I meet your family for the first time ever.” She rolled her eyes. “But when we get home, we are finding the nearest laundromat and reintroducing you to a washing machine.”

  He laughed at her mock outrage, glad that her derision seemed only half-hearted. “As you wish, Mrs. Thorne.”

  Chapter 18

  Hannah

  The Hamptons were a hike. Even with all her years as a New Yorker and her current role as the Long Island section editor, she rare
ly had a reason to travel out here. Jersey had better beaches and also her family. Jersey Shore traffic was a bitch. But this ride? Damn. They might as well have gone to Boston or Binghamton for the amount of time they’d been in the car. And the Thornes didn’t even live that far out according to Will—or William, as he’d told her his family called him. That was going to be an adjustment Hannah wasn’t entirely sure she’d be able to make.

  The song on the radio changed, the opening chords causing a twitch in Hannah’s fingers. It wasn’t her favorite, and they had to have heard it four times already.

  “It’s all right,” Will said, not taking his eyes from the road. “You can change it.”

  “Thank God,” she said, hitting a few of the presets but finding nothing worth stopping on. She hit another button, the station name piquing her interest. “You have Z100 as a preset?”

  He laughed as the annoying night DJ chatted away. Commercial-free did not mean chatter-free. “I like the morning show.”

  “Your driver listens to NPR. I know because it almost put me to sleep when he picked me up the other day.”

  Will smiled in the darkness. “Is this how it’s always going to be?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good. Someone to call me out on my bullshit is actually what I need.”

  The DJ finally stopped talking, and the opening lyrics of the latest Ed Sheeran ballad filled the car. Will’s hand covered hers, his fingers sliding between Hannah’s. Goosebumps raced up her arms. “It’s our song, Abbott.”

  Too many perfect retorts sprung to her mind, but she found she didn’t want to make them. Having the top wedding song of the year as their song was as cliché as it came, but it was one of the few things that was truly and honestly theirs. She leaned back against the headrest, letting the song wash over her. A smile spread across her face as the chorus peaked—the memory of their “wedding reception” filling her with uncensored joy.