Mr. Webber, the dean of admissions, is in the hall, a full cup of coffee in his hands as he moves in the same direction as me. “Raegan,” he says my name like he’s relieved he remembers who I am. I’ve met him no less than a dozen times, but his job involves meeting thousands, so I can’t necessarily blame him.
“Hi, Mr. Webber. How are you?”
“Fine. Fine.” He nods, his beige sweater vest and blue tie contrasting. “How are you? I seem to recall you took a very ambitious class schedule this semester. Trying to make sure you don’t have anyone questioning your admittance, huh?” He releases a dry chuckle, eyes under bushy and unkempt eyebrows turning my way.
“Something like that,” I say.
“Well, this is Brighton. We pride ourselves on only accepting the brightest and most talented kids.”
If my ego weren’t already in tatters, he’d have just driven a hole the size of a large boat through it, leaving me to question a dozen different things.
“Have a nice day, Mr. Webber.” My voice is curt, but my smile is too kind for him to fire back at me as I pause in front of my dad’s door.
Mr. Webber’s hips sway like he’s debating stopping with me, but thankfully he continues farther down the hall to his own office.
I take a seat on the bench outside of Dad’s office, grabbing my phone as I rehearse the words to say to Lincoln for the thousandth time.
Me: Can we talk?
My phone buzzes nearly instantly with a reply that has hope soaring, making me sit up straighter in my seat.
Lincoln: I don’t know.
Me: I get that you’re upset, and I’ve tried giving you your space, but I think we should talk about things.
Lincoln: I can’t tonight. Tomorrow?
Me: Sure. Where do you want to meet?
Lincoln: I don’t know.
There’s a waltz going through my chest, one side is hope, and its partner is doubt, sashaying through me, twisting my heart and feelings until I’m convinced he’ll cancel and then persuaded by the hope he’ll come. Despite his absence and unanswered calls, he told me he wanted me. All of me. Something that serious doesn’t change in a couple of weeks.
Me: We could grab something to eat or get coffee?
Lincoln: Whatever
Doubt takes the lead.
Me: 7 tomorrow at TidalWave Books. It’s on Elmont.
I choose the bookstore because it’s a large store that sells used books with few who appreciate its offerings, allowing us plenty of time and space to sort everything out.
Dad’s door opens, and a girl slides through a brief opening, closing the door behind her. She glances at me, her eyes round as they tick around the hall, reminding me of a rabbit ready to dive under the nearest shrub.
A tight smile pulls her thin lips into a forced smile, and then she briskly passes me, her legs and arms both thin, almost bony in a dress that looks like something Poppy would try to convince me to wear to a party.
Lincoln: okay
Okay? Okay?
After two weeks of radio silence, his reply is okay?
I breathe out all the air I’ve been holding as hope takes a seat on my chest. My lungs pinch and my throat closes, causing me to cough again. I cough so hard that my face turns red, and my eyes water.
Slowly, my lungs remember they can work independently, pulling in shallow gasps as I lean back and place my hands over my head to open my lungs as Dr. Grayson had instructed.
Arlo appears, a water bottle in his hands. He sits next to me without an invitation, offering me the water. “You sound terrible.”
“Only when I cough.” I unscrew the lid and take a small drink.
“How often does that happen?”
I shrug. “Less often.”
“Look at you, finding the silver lining.” He pushes his knee against mine. “What are you doing up here?”
“Waiting for my dad. What are you doing?”
“Had to see my counselor about changing my major.”
“To what?”
“Computer engineering.” He reaches both hands in front of him, weaving his fingers together and stretching his arms. “I’m way more than just brawn, baby.”
“And so humble.”
Arlo laughs. “Humble is for those who fear failure. They don’t want to tell people because they’re unsure of themselves.”
“I don’t think that’s the definition you’ll find in the dictionary.”
His knee connects with mine again. “Seriously, though, how are you feeling?”
“Better than I probably should.”
“Is that your attempt at being humble? Because I’m not sure that was an answer.”
My lips tip upward with a grin. Arlo stopped by the hospital on three different occasions, only missing the final day because the team had flown to California. “I feel fine, honestly.”
“You aren’t still sore?”
I shrug. “My side’s a little sore still, but that’s it.”
“Your arm?” He glances at my sweatshirt covered arm like he can see the scar healing from where I’d cut my arm with the knife.
I pull up my sleeve, revealing the skin that they’d sewn back together. My stitches were removed on Friday, the tiny punctures from the thread created a Frankenstein appearance.
Arlo pulls his head back, mashing his lips together. “That looks like Halloween makeup.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Your brother’s still trying to figure out which asshole took pictures so he can kill them,” Arlo tells me, instantly causing one of the images in question to fill my thoughts. I haven’t asked a lot of questions, and Pax went crazy on Derek when he tried to visit the hospital, blaming him for the incident. My knowledge of the night has mostly been comprised of the article that made the back page of the local paper and its accompanying collage of haunting photos from that night. Few likely saw it, but those who matter most sadly did, facing an array of moments from that night I wish they didn’t have to see.
“I may not try to stop him this time.”
Arlo grins. “You shouldn’t.”
Dad’s door opens, and he looks around the corner where we’re seated. “I thought I heard voices. Arlo, how are you?” Dad moves forward, offering his hand to one of Paxton’s closest friends and another fellow football player for Brighton. “You had a great game the other day.”
He did. Arlo plays as a tight end, and Saturday, they used him as a receiver because California was a fast running team, making it necessary to get as many out onto the field as possible.
“Thanks, Dr. L.” Arlo stands, taking his hand.
“You ready to go, kiddo?” Dad turns his attention to me. “I’ve got some stuff I need to take home, but if you’re done with classes, we can jet.”
“Jet? Is that what your generation used to say?” Arlo asks.
Laughter bubbles in my chest, making a quick exit that sends me into another coughing fit.
Dad watches me, and though I can’t see him, I know worry and concern stain his thoughts. “Maybe we should get you checked out again?” he says as air once again finds its way back into my lungs, my chest heaving like I’ve sprinted a marathon.
I shake my head and take another drink of water. “They said this is normal.”
“They also said patients who nearly drown could get acute respiratory distress syndrome, and you sound like you’re dying each time you cough.”
I maim him with a glare. “You saw the X-rays and the echocardiogram and every other test. I’m fine.”
“You could be on one of those commercials to promote non-smoking,” Dad continues.
“Only if I get to drive myself there.”
He smiles, and it seems momentous. His ease with making a joke about the situation, giving me hope that he’s allowing this to become a part of our past rather than an ongoing present.
4
Raegan
I didn’t mean to show up forty-five minutes early, but the knowledge of seeing Linc
oln has distracted me to the point I haven’t been able to focus on anything successfully.
As though on cue, Lincoln’s black truck parks beside me, and he slides out of the driver’s seat, making chaos rise within me.
I push open my door, meeting him on the sidewalk. He stares at me, his eyes making a slow trek across my face and down my body. It isn’t sexual. It’s purely a necessity I’m realizing. Mom still does it each time I walk into the room, like she needs to verify I’m still here and okay. I shove my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt, not rushing his assessment.
“How are you?” I ask when his eyes meet my shoulders on the second pass.
His eyes snap to mine, the familiar mask he wore for so long securely in place, making my heart beat too fast as that waltz starts over in my chest, spreading doubt as hope struggles to take the lead.
“I know you’re upset—”
“The wedding’s been postponed,” he interrupts me. “A big case was assigned, and so they’re delaying it for a month. You can still come if you want. I already checked, and that scientist you want to meet will be there.”
Rain starts to descend, a scattering of small drops that quickly increases, the drops getting fatter and faster, soaking my hair and jeans. Yet, he doesn’t make any attempt to move, and neither do I, the invisible cables I feel toward him securing me in place.
“I know you’re mad at me. I get it. I upset you, and I’m sorry. It was never my intention to hurt you.”
He shakes his head. “What did you think was going to happen? I hit my best friend in the face for you.”
Another piece slides into the mostly empty puzzle of that night.
“This,” he waves a hand between us. “This isn’t me. I don’t do relationships. I don’t know how to be there for you when you look me straight in the eye and then try to kill yourself.”
“That doesn’t seem fair. I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”
He shakes off my words with a swift shake of his head. “I like being around you, but this isn’t me. Relationships just aren’t my thing,” he repeats the sentiment like a rehearsed line.
My chest constricts, a sharp ache in the cavity where my heart belongs. “So, that’s it? You went from all into pulling back because of one night?”
“This moment would have happened sooner or later.”
“Better sooner, right? Borrowed time and all that?”
He glances up through his thick lashes. “I didn’t even come to visit you in the hospital. Why aren’t you mad at me?”
“Would it make this easier if I was?”
His jaw ticks as he raises his head, squaring his shoulders. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“Yeah, that you’re a coward.”
He clenches his jaw, the muscle flexing as rain falls down his face in streaks he does not attempt to swipe away. “I have to meet Paxton at the gym.”
For the second time in a matter of weeks, my heart struggles to continue beating on its own as I watch him walk back to his truck. He starts the engine, staring at me through the windshield as his wipers rid the rain. I turn away first, refusing to give him my tears when I’ve already given so much.
My teeth chatter as I get into my car, blasting the heat as I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel, a painful stiffness reminding me of seconds in the water as I tried to cut through the net. My forearm burns with a pain I know is solely in my head, reliving the memory and delivering the pain I never felt from the deep cut I inflicted on my own flesh.
My lungs ache as I pull in breaths, reminding myself I’m surrounded by oxygen, sweeping the memories to the recesses of my mind so I can focus on putting my car into gear and reversing before Lincoln can.
Maggie’s on the couch when I step through the front door, my hair and clothes still dripping. “You should change,” she says. “It looks like you jumped back into the ocean. By the way, more flowers came.” She points to a crystal vase filled with pink roses and white hydrangeas.
I unzip my coat, hanging it in the closet, my thoughts a wasteland of memories that has me feeling exhausted. “From Derek?”
“Who else?” she asks. “You should tell him it’s starting to make this place look like a funeral home. We should start giving them to the neighbors or a senior center. There’s nowhere even to put them.”
Dozens of bouquets have arrived, filling every room in our house. Even Dad’s office has been adorned with flowers.
“You want to order some pizza? Mom’s still at work, and Dad’s buried in his office.” Maggie watches me.
Grandpa appears from the garage, a soda in his hand. He’s been here every day since I was discharged. “You know I’m always up for pizza. Rae, you want some breadsticks?” Grandpa and Maggie are the only two people who haven’t held a grudge. Maggie, because she lives by the motto of placing others before herself, and I think Grandpa’s just clinging to relief.
“Sure,” I say.
“Your study group was fast,” Grandpa comments. “I didn’t think you’d be back until late.”
I shake my head. “I had the dates wrong.”
He nods, accepting my lie. “You should get changed. Maggie hijacked the TV and has been watching the Harry Potter movies.”
Grandpa read the Harry Potter books with me when I was eleven. Though he pretended not to be invested in the lives of the students filling Hogwarts, he never hesitated to grab the book we were on when I got home, and he never grumbled about staying late to finish another chapter.
“I’ll be right down.”
They watch me head up the stairs, because though they’re not expressing anger, that hasn’t stopped them from hovering.
I grab flannel pajamas with moose on them Mom had given me last year for Christmas, and shimmy out of my wet jeans and socks, discarding my dry shirt into my hamper before pulling on the warm clothes and tugging a pair of socks onto my constantly cold feet. I hang the wet garments over my shower and return to the living room where Maggie has the third movie ready. She pats the spot next to her, lifting the light blue throw she’s cuddled under.
I sit so close our bodies brush, her heat seeping into my coldness, as she wraps an arm around my shoulder. It’s a maternal move, a role she’s filled on numerous occasions with our seven-year age gap.
“I got my new assignment.” Her words are gentle, a slight lilt at the end like it’s a question. Maggie is actively in the Peace Corps and was sent home after a potential threat cut her time in Nepal short. She was supposed to leave just days after my accident, but she requested emergency family leave, buying us a little more time.
“Where?”
“Nigeria.”
“You’ll be near the ocean.”
Maggie slides her hand over mine, twining our fingers as she nods. “I can ask for more time.”
My sister’s been my sanity since returning home. She breathed life into me as well as a much-needed sense of clarity that I feel the loss of even with her current presence. “It won’t make you leaving any easier.”
“I know.” She presses her lips together, her blue eyes reflecting the same pain I feel in my chest as I wonder how much I can endure in a short period.
“When?” Grandpa asks from his seat in the recliner, his voice gruff with emotions.
“Tuesday.”
Six days.
The blink of an eye.
I grip her hand tighter, leaning into her as she hits play, and the classic and telling music fills the room as I cling to these moments with more force than I did the seconds before the world went dark.
Maggie’s impending departure keeps me from focusing on Lincoln as I spend Friday morning with her, setting up the Halloween decorations in the yard and throughout the house, reliving memories from a decade ago, as well as making new ones.
“What’s going on with Lincoln?” Maggie asks as we sit down for lunch, bowls of reheated spaghetti steaming in front of us.
Her gaze is a gentle prod, reminding me she knows
too much to try and deny my feelings toward him.
“He told me he’s not the relationship type.”
Maggie pauses, her lips wobbling. “I hope you called him on his bullshit.”
“He’s never dated anyone.”
“He doesn’t look at you like you’re a booty call,” she says, smothering her pasta noodles in parmesan cheese.
“Does it matter if he says he’s not interested?”
Maggie lifts her gaze from where she’s twirling noodles around her fork to me, her eyes wide and soft with compassion and thought. “I think guys sometimes get scared. I mean, look at Pax. Do you really think he’s still with Candace because he’s in love with her?”
I shake my head.
“No. Of course not. He’s afraid that if he breaks up with her, he’ll be alone. To him, that’s terrifying. Lincoln’s in the other camp where they’re terrified to depend on someone, afraid that they might become vulnerable or get hurt by someone.”
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “Maybe? Or maybe he just realizes his time here is brief, and he wants to hold out for bigger and better things.”
“If that were the case, he wouldn’t have chosen Pax to be his best friend,” she says, making me howl with laughter until I lose my breath with another coughing fit.
Maggie’s gaze doesn’t turn hard like Mom’s does when these occur. Instead, she leans closer, rubbing a hand down my back as she reminds me to take small breaths.
“How long do you think Mom’s going to give me the cold shoulder?” I ask her once I can pull in a full breath.
“You know Mom. She hates it when we get hurt, always has. I remember when you came home in the third grade with a black eye from that boy at the bus stop, and Mom literally lost her shit. She spent the entire night in their room, yelling at everyone in search of retribution. Hell, when I signed up for the Peace Corps, she wouldn’t talk to me for a week. She was just forced to get over it because I was being sent to Nepal so soon.
Breaking the Rules: The Dating Playbook, Book: 2 Page 3