by T. K. Leigh
“Unless she doesn’t know she’s the reason you quit school in the first place.” Advancing, he grips my chin, forcing my eyes to his. “Please tell me she knows.”
“I didn’t think it was important at the time.” Pushing out of his grasp, I rummage through my mother’s cabinets for a bowl. This is why I’ve avoided serious relationships as long as I have. People don’t understand. Living with an alcoholic is a constant balancing act — balancing her already fragile emotional state against my needs. All my needs.
“Didn’t think it was important?” he says incredulously, keeping his voice low. “Chloe, that is extremely important. Have you ever been honest with her?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? If you’re trying to tell me this is all my fault, I know it is. I should have seen the signs earlier. I should have known something was wrong the first time she supposedly quit drinking, yet didn’t exhibit any of the normal traits of alcohol detox. I was barely a fucking adult, so I messed up! I get that! But now I can finally do it right! And I don’t need you reminding me I ruined her life!”
Desperate for some fresh air, I storm past him, but he’s in front of me before I can escape. It’s hard enough dealing with the truth of how I’ve constantly failed my mother. How I was selfish enough to just take her word for everything, not wanting to return to the way things were when she was at her lowest because of what that would mean for me. I can’t handle Lincoln’s disappointment on top of this, too.
“Hey…” He wraps his arms around me, bringing me into his chest. As much as I want to be alone, I can’t help melting into his embrace. “You did not ruin her life.” He tilts my head back, our eyes locking. “I blamed myself, too. Thought if I paid more attention to my mother, maybe I would have prevented it. But the truth is, nothing either of us could have done would have stopped any of this from happening.”
“But I’ve known she’s struggled with alcohol most of my life. Hell, I lost count of the number of times I lied to my father when it was my weekend with him, telling him I was sick so I could stay and take care of my mother.”
He pauses before asking his next question. “I know you’ve hidden this from your father and pretty much everyone else, but have you spoken to someone about everything you’ve been through?”
With a sigh, I push out of his embrace, heading back to the kitchen. “Izzy knows,” I answer as I grab a ladle, scooping the soup into a bowl. “I talk to her about it.”
“Anyone else? Maybe a professional?”
“I used to go to Al-Anon meetings, but it’s been a while.” I steal a glance as he lingers in the kitchen, a formidable presence. “I guess I wanted to think everything we’d been through was in the past. That it was just something I could lock away and forget happened.”
“It did happen. You can’t pretend this isn’t real. You’re surrounded by friends who love you, friends who would love nothing more than to help you through this. You don’t have to do this alone.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know how not to be alone,” I admit. It’s one of the most honest statements I’ve made in a long time. For as long as I can remember, it’s just been me and my mom. I’ve kept her secret for years. Isolated myself for fear it was the only way to protect her, to keep her safe.
Lincoln approaches, enclosing me in his arms. “You are a remarkable, strong, resilient woman, albeit stubborn. But it’s okay to let others hold you up once in a while.” He slowly lowers his mouth to mine, his soft kiss leaving me wanting more. “It’s okay to live your life.”
“I don’t even know how to do that anymore,” I breathe.
“Then let me show you how.” His lips press more firmly against mine as his hands go to my hips, their grip resolute and needy. He swipes his tongue along my bottom lip, and I open for him, reaching up and threading my fingers through his hair as I melt into the kiss, all the noise in my head alarmingly quiet.
When he pulls away, his expression is light and carefree. “You can start by finally coming back to class.”
I huff. “Why do you care so much?”
“This may sound like a foreign concept to you, but I care about you. I want you to succeed.” A salacious smile crosses his mouth as he steps back and leans against the counter, his brows waggling. “And I’d be lying if I said the past three weeks of not having you in class have been excruciating.” His heated tone forces a shiver to roll down my spine. Foreign, yet so welcome.
“Is that so?” I ask in a husky voice, approaching him, running my fingers up his crisp shirt.
He slowly nods, his eyes darkening to a hunter green shade. “That’s so.”
“And why’s that?” My hand wraps around his tie and I pull him toward me. He tries to lean in for a kiss, but I remain just out of reach.
“Even though you weren’t there, I was still able to smell your perfume. Like it’s permanently engrained in my senses.” Looping an arm around my waist, he drags me to him, grinding his hips against me. “And I can’t tell you how hard just the smell of you makes me.”
“I don’t think you have to.” Releasing his tie, I stand on my toes and nuzzle the crook of his neck, flicking my tongue along the skin. “I can feel how hard it makes you.”
Muscles tensing, he grips my face, fingers digging into my skin, about to press his mouth to mine when the sound of footsteps breaks through.
I jump away, snapping my gaze to the stairway at the exact moment Lincoln’s mother appears. She comes to a stop, looking between us, smiling slyly. Now I know where Lincoln gets his smile from. Actually, I see a lot of him in her. While his six-foot-three frame has a solid ten inches over her, she has the same green eyes, dark hair, and compassionate personality.
“Mrs. Moore.” I lower my head, shifting uncomfortably on my feet. Lincoln, however, appears just as calm and collected as ever, amused by my reaction. “How’s my mother doing?”
“I told you. Call me Wendy.”
“Right. Wendy.”
Turning from her to hide my embarrassment, I head toward the refrigerator and hoist myself onto my tiptoes, reaching for the breakfast tray on the top, but my height works against me. Seeing my struggle, Lincoln approaches, standing unnervingly close. I attempt to get out of his way, but he places his hand on my hip, keeping me in place as he reaches past me and takes down the tray.
I expect him to let go of me once he sets it on the counter, but he doesn’t, snaking an arm around me and pulling me close. Wendy’s smile only grows in response.
“Your mother’s doing as well as can be expected. She’s had a few bouts of heart palpitations, but they’ve seemed to settle.”
“Will we be able to keep her here?”
“She’s not exhibiting any extreme symptoms that would require constant medical supervision. I’ll continue to monitor her, but because we didn’t detox cold turkey, I don’t foresee the effects to be as severe as they otherwise would have been.”
I blow out a breath, grateful I had a few voices of reason to help me make decisions about my mother’s treatment plan.
“She asked to see you,” she says after a few moments of silence.
“Oh. Right.” I step out of Lincoln’s grasp, hesitant. While I feel compelled to be here during this process, I’ve tried to keep my distance, not wanting to sit through another verbal battering. At least the outbursts and angry shouts have decreased the past few days. “I’ll bring her soup up.”
I place the bowl onto the tray, along with a bottle of water and a baguette.
“And, Chloe?” Wendy calls out just as I’m about to head up the stairs.
I glance over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“There’s no need to jump away from my son whenever I enter the room. You’re more than welcome to kiss him anytime you’d like. In fact, you’re welcome to do more than just kiss him.” She gives me a conniving look.
My eyes widen, my cheeks burning, and I face forward, continuing up the stairs as Lincoln’s deep chuckles fill the house with warmth. Fill me w
ith warmth.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Chloe? Is that you?” my mother calls out as I timidly approach her room.
I push open the door, peeking inside. I swallow hard at what appears to be a shell of the woman who raised me. The strong, tenacious woman who didn’t take shit from anyone. Who would fight tooth and nail for a cause she believed in. Who, on more than one occasion, had gotten arrested during a protest. It’s difficult to see her so weak that she can barely support her head, her hands shaking every time she attempts to bring a sippy cup to her mouth. All from drinking too much for more than a decade.
“Hey, Mom,” I greet weakly. “I brought you more of Wendy’s soup.”
“Thanks, sweetie.” She waves me over, the motion seeming to take all the energy out of her.
I set the tray onto the table beside her and prop her into a sitting position, placing a few extra pillows behind her to keep her head upright. “Can I get you anything else?” I step back.
“Actually, yes.” She pats the mattress, smiling. It reminds me of my younger days when she’d beam, bestowing praise on me for accomplishing something ordinary and unexceptional, like help her decorate a cake, or set the table, or sing a song. She never berated me for not living up to my true potential, as my father would. “Sit down, baby.”
With a nod, I lower myself onto the edge of the bed. She grabs my hand in hers. I have to swallow through the lump forming in my throat when I feel how cold they are, how violently they shake. I do my best to steady them, covering her hand with my own and holding her tightly, wishing I could fast forward through this part.
“Chloe, sweetie,” she begins with a sigh, peering into my gray eyes. “You remind me so much of your father.”
“What?” I stiffen, heat washing over my face. “I’m not anything like that man.”
“Maybe not the man he is today, but back when we first met…” Staring into the distance, a nostalgic gleam fills her eyes. “I see a lot of him in you. You’ll fight for something you strongly believe in. You’ll bend over backwards to help a friend in need.” Her smile fades and she pulls her hands from mine, leaning back against the pillows, her gaze slowly lifting to mine. “You’ll sacrifice your happiness and well-being for those you love, often without them knowing.”
Unsure where this is going, I remain silent.
“I overheard your conversation with Lincoln.”
I glance at her sideways, hesitant. “What part?”
“Enough to realize how selfish I’ve been.” Her gaze searches mine before she asks, “Did you really drop out of school to take care of me? I thought you left because you got a job in the field.”
“I couldn’t let you end up on the streets.” I lower my voice. “You’re my mother.”
She closes her eyes, a few tears trickling down her cheeks. “And I’ve been a horrible one at that.” She returns her determined gaze to me. “I want you to know that you bear no blame in any of this.”
“But—”
“No. I won’t have you blaming yourself. I’m the one who decided being numb would solve all my problems. I knew it wasn’t the answer. I should have focused on my daughter, not ignore her for the bottle. Definitely not make her take care of me instead of the other way around.”
“It’s not your fault, Mom.”
“It is. And don’t you dare try to convince me otherwise. I will not let you walk out of this room thinking this isn’t my fault. That you bear even a speck of blame here. You don’t. So don’t you even try to argue with me, Chloe Lynn, because I’ll win.” She winks. Then her light expression falls and she reaches for my hand once more. This time, it’s a little more steady, but not much. “Promise me something.”
“What’s that?”
“I want you to finish this semester and finally graduate.”
On a long exhale, I pull away. “It’s not that easy. Things are…complicated.”
“Why?” She crosses her arms in front of her chest. The way her body trembles makes it appear she’s trying to warm herself, not suffering from the lack of alcohol in her bloodstream. “Because Lincoln’s your professor?”
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach, eyes widening. If she knows, who else does? And how does she know to begin with? Yes, Lincoln’s dropped by on occasion over the past few weeks, but we’d kept our conversations focused on my mother’s recovery. Today was the first time he brought up class.
“When you have kids of your own, you’ll understand how mothers develop this kind of…sixth sense about things. Plus, I’ve spent a lot of time talking to Wendy.” She looks at me thoughtfully, her smile returning. “We actually met once many years ago now. At the company Christmas party a few months before…” She trails off.
She doesn’t need to elaborate. I know she’s referring to the death of Lincoln’s father.
“I remember talking to her about how she felt about her husband’s new assignment as the Southeast Asia bureau chief, especially considering this was mere months after 9/11. She didn’t seem too fazed by it, said the hardest part was being away from him. But it was a mutual decision they made so their son could finish his senior year of high school here in the States. Once he was off to college, she planned on settling in Mumbai with him.”
“But she never got a chance, did she?”
“No, but that’s not relevant here. The fact is I know who Lincoln is, Chloe. Wendy mentioned he worked for the Times and also taught at a local college. The same local college my own daughter currently attends. From there, we both kind of put the pieces together.”
“Then you understand why I have to do this. Why I have to withdraw.”
“No, you don’t. I am more than aware that your father and I have done a horrible job at making you feel like you’re deserving of this risk Lincoln seems willing to take, but you are. You are worth so much more than the hand you’ve been dealt. So promise me. Go back to school. Finish this semester. Graduate. Finally prove that smug father of yours wrong. Don’t give him the satisfaction of being right. Okay?”
I chew on my lower lip, torn. Yesterday, this seemed like the right decision. I assumed Lincoln would eventually realize it was best for both of us, considering how much we’ve muddied the waters. Then again, we muddied those waters the instant I begged him not to report our relationship to the dean and he agreed. There’s only four more weeks left in the semester. What can possibly go wrong?
“Okay.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
My office line ringing sounds Thursday as I catch up on all the articles I’d pitched and need to deliver in the next few days. Despite my initial reluctance, Lincoln was right, as was my mother. I needed to live my life. And that life included returning to work.
Shuffling papers around my desk, I follow the noise of my phone, finally finding it under a folder full of photos of the latest royal baby. Quickly grabbing the receiver, I answer breathlessly.
“Chloe Davenport.”
“Ah, Miss Davenport.” A deep, gravelly voice comes on the line, the timbre making my body buzz to life. “It’s Professor Moore. I do hope it’s not too forward of me to call you at work.” There’s a flirtatious quality to his tone that has me playing along with his little game. And if I know anything about Lincoln, it’s that he loves games.
“Not at all, Professor,” I reply softly, facing the corner of my cubicle to have a bit more privacy.
“I was calling to see if you’d be available for a bit of a chat today before class. Regarding your…past performance.”
“Past performance?”
“Precisely. Fifty-two West Thirteenth Street. Near Fifth. Meet me there in thirty minutes. Go to the front desk and give them your name.”
“Not your office?” I ask in a demure voice, swiveling in my chair. “Isn’t that against school policy?”
“It is frowned upon.”
“Then I—”
“Don’t play coy with me, Miss Davenport.” His tone is gruff, demanding, a complete change from
the flirtatious quality mere seconds ago. I snap my mouth closed, involuntarily clenching my thighs together in an attempt to dull the ache. “I see how you look at me every week.”
“And how’s that?”
“Like you want to part those legs of yours and let me have my way with you.”
“Professor,” I gasp, feigning indignation when, in reality, everything about this game turns me on in a way nothing has before. I’ve always craved Lincoln, am always desperate for more of him. But this… This takes carnal desire to a level I hadn’t expected.
“Don’t even try to deny it, Miss Davenport. Because I’ve been fantasizing about you all semester. How can I not when you come in and flirt with those boring classmates of yours, all to make me jealous?”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” he barks before softening his voice. “But I know something your male classmates don’t.”
“What’s that?” I glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone. It would be just my luck that an audience of coworkers would be assembled, eavesdropping in on bits of our juicy conversation. Thankfully, that’s not the case.
“That they can fawn over you all they want, then go home and jerk off as they imagine how you feel and taste. But the truth remains.”
“And that is?”
“Every single one of them… They’re just boys. You need a man. Someone who can satisfy even your most hidden desires.” His voice becomes breathy, carnal, wanton.
“And you think that’s you?”
“I don’t think. I know. And you do, too.” He pauses before adding, “Don’t be late, Miss Davenport. You know how I feel about tardiness.” He allows his words to linger for a moment before the line goes dead.
I remain motionless, staring at the wall of my cubicle, my heart racing. Then I jump to my feet, return my phone to the cradle, and hastily collect my things.
I don’t want to be late for Professor Moore.