Chapter Text
Carey’s apartment was quiet. The soft blue light flooding in from his windows made him cold. He just wanted to go back to bed. God, he wished he could sleep for forty days and forty nights, but the boardroom of The Abbot Foundation was unforgiving when it came to tardiness.
He packed up his bag, just as he had every day for the last ten years and walked to the front door of his apartment. Before he exited, he looked at the coat rack, which was now notably more empty than it had been in a long time. He sighed, trying to ignore the nagging feeling in his stomach. Doing the right thing was hard.
On the streets of Seattle, just off of Pioneer Square, was a brick building with a dark green door. Carey approached, the doorman smiling at him as he entered.
“Good morning, Mr. Abbot,” The portly man in a blue uniform said. “Hope the cold didn’t bother you this morning,”
Carey plastered on a smile. “Nah, Hughie. I like the winter,”
His office was on the fourth floor, just overlooking the shops. He could hide out in there if his brother didn’t harass him today. He silently prayed as he waited for the elevator that Ezra would be out of town already.
When the doors opened, he was greeted with a picture of Ezra in full tennis gear at the Australian Open last year. He rolled his eyes. When had their parents installed that? Why had their parents installed that? Carey could guess.
For every flaw that Carey had, Ezra made up for it tenfold.
Ezra was athletic. Carey was studious.
Ezra was charming. Carey was a loner.
Ezra held the world in the palm of his hand. Carey had to fight for everything.
The doors slid open and Carey stepped out, looking cautiously around, hoping to avoid his family. For now, at least, they seemed to be gone. He took a deep breath, darting for his office on the far wall. If he could make it there, he could put his teams in busy mode all day and would be able to dodge the inevitable questions.
His fingers reached out for the silver knob to his door, but before he could open it, he felt a warm touch to his shoulder. He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was, but still he faced him.
Light green eyes and perfect dark curls made up his brother. Ezra stood three inches taller than him, one for every year that he was younger than Carey. His freckles shone on rose cheeks and darted across his angular nose.
He spoke, but his words didn’t register. It wasn’t until his hands started to move that Carey was forced to acknowledge him.
‘I know you can read my lips,’ He signed. ‘Taking your hearing aids out isn’t gonna stop me from talking,’
Carey groaned, reaching in his bag for his hearing aids. Usually, he took them off on the bus. He preferred to be in his own world and other people’s conversations got too much. They squealed as he adjusted them, drawing a pained expression from both men.
After a second, he glared at Ezra. “What?”
“Heard you broke up with Harlow,” It made Carey sick how happy Ezra looked. “I wanted to give my condolences. I’m sure you’re really going through it, right now,”
Fuck off. Is what he wanted to say. But he couldn’t. Instead, he nodded, staring at his shoes.
He wore oxfords. Ezra wore green sneakers. Probably from his adidas deal.
“You’ll get through this,” The younger man’s hand landed on Carey’s shoulder, massaging his neck. “When I broke up with Raya, I was heartbroken. I had to throw myself into my work,” He smiled. His teeth were bright white. “But I got the grand slam that year. Didn’t I?”
Carey swallowed. “It was Reyna,” He reached behind him, opening the office door. “Thanks, but I got a lot of work to do,”
In his office, he stretched out. He hadn’t been here since the breakup. He’d have to remove the things that reminded him of her. Everything reminded him of her. She helped him pick out the lime green egg chairs, because they seemed more inviting. She had put together a kit he kept in his desk for mornings he didn’t have time to get ready at home. On the wall hung a picture of them that he’d taken on their one-year anniversary.
He hated that picture. He rarely went to the beach. It made his shoulders freckle, and his hair come out red.
Before her, the red tint to his hair was something he was embarrassed about. She loved it. For the three years they were together, she loved everything about him.
He sighed, picking up the photo and putting it in his bag. What was he supposed to do with all of the artifacts of a relationship that didn’t exist anymore? He didn’t want to get rid of them. It felt like losing her all over, again.
He sat at his desk, but the world weighed on him. He had a million emails to answer and messages to read.
Last night replayed in his head so loudly that his mind refused to take in any other information.
She wore his T-shirt when he broke up with her. He probably wouldn’t get that back. He hoped she’d think of him when she wore it. She didn’t cry. He did. She just stood up from the couch and left without another word. Like she’d been expecting it. He supposed she probably had been.
He wondered how long she’d been thinking about the end of their relationship. Maybe she knew it would end this way before it even began.
They’d had that fight before. It was pretty much the only fight they had, other than the occasional spat about whose turn it was to do the dishes. She was so sure that he’d leave her that she made it a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Because he loved her. And he would always love her. But he couldn’t love her more than she hated herself.