by Mariah Dietz
I grab my phone, thinking of what to say, how to thank Lincoln for a dress that likely cost a small fortune. I consider how much Poppy is going to freak out, and how I feel overdressed just looking at the gorgeous piece.
Coffee.
Coffee will help. Coffee always helps. I drape the dress across my bed to prevent any wrinkles and head downstairs to the kitchen. I grab my favorite mug, an extra-large one that is big enough to hold a bowl of soup, and bright shades of orange like the sun. I’m stirring in creamer when Dad comes in, wearing jeans, a dark green sweater, and a focused expression as he silently reaches for his keys, stopping when he notices me. Guilt prevents him from looking me in the eye. “Morning.” His voice is gruff as he fixes the sleeve of his sweater tucked into his watch—a gift from Mom.
“Where are you going?”
“Work.”
I stare at him. “You aren’t still seeing her, are you?”
“Who?”
“Who? There’s more than one?”
“What are you talking about?”
I stare at him, shaking my head. “Your teenage girlfriend.”
His eyes turn hard. “That was a misunderstanding. Nothing happened.”
“You remember I saw you, right?”
“Nothing happened,” he repeats.
“Are you kidding me? That’s the story you’re sticking to?”
“Dammit, Raegan.” He slams his hand against the counter, the granite barely making a sound. “This isn’t any of your goddamn business.”
“But it is Mom’s business. You need to tell her. They might be giving her the opportunity to be superintendent, and if this comes out, it could ruin her chances. You owe it to her to be prepared.”
His scowl makes him a stranger. “Forget about that night. Forget what you think you saw. Forget all of it.” He grabs his keys and turns on his heel, ending the conversation as he breezes through the house and slams the garage door behind him.
I wrap my hands around my coffee cup, the warmth seeping into my icy fingers, my emotions numb as I try to process his words. Could I have been wrong? Was he not having an affair? My dad is smart. If he were having an affair, he certainly wouldn’t bring the girl home where his chances of being caught would go up ten-fold, right? Did I misread the entire situation? But if I did, why didn’t he clarify who she was? Why did he get so defensive? Why has he been sneaking around? The questions continue to mount, making my thoughts far too heavy. I set my forehead against the counter, soaking in the coolness from the granite.
Am I just avoiding the truth?
My phone buzzes beside me, and I’m reluctant to look at it until it sounds again, and then again.
Poppy: Did you find something to wear?
Poppy: Do we need to go shopping?
Poppy: You better not be sleeping!!!!
I pull in a deep breath and sit up.
Me: Got the dress.
Me: Going to shower now. You can come over anytime.
Poppy: Need me to stop and get anything?
“Just answers,” I say to the empty kitchen as I type out a quick ‘no.’
I scroll to Lincoln, my cheek still resting against the counter, breaking every rule of good posture.
Me: The dress is beautiful. Thank you.
It’s a gross understatement for both the dress and my feelings, but I still feel like I’m tiptoeing around Lincoln, uncertain about where we both stand.
Poppy arrives while I’m blow drying my hair. I answer the door in a towel, and she lifts cups of coffee from Beam Me Up, where I work. “Nate was working. He says hi.”
“Don’t freak out, okay?”
She cocks a brow. “You can’t start a sentence like that. It builds my anticipation, and then I’m either disappointed or primed to freak out.”
I tilt my head, indicating for her to follow me.
“Are your parents home?” she whispers.
I shake my head.
“Then, why can’t you just tell me.”
“Because I need to show you.” I grip my towel in one hand, and her arm in the other since her hands are still full with the coffees.
“You didn’t kidnap Candace and hide her in your closet, did you?”
“You should’ve suggested that two years ago.”
“I did. You told me it was illegal.”
I laugh, pushing my bedroom door fully open. Poppy stops, her eyes roving over the stunning dress before bouncing to me. “If you tell me he sent that, I’m going to freak out.”
“You should probably set the coffees down.”
“Oh. My. God!” She turns, setting both cups on my desk. “Did you know?”
I shake my head. “I never wear pink.”
She chuckles. “It’s gorgeous.” She wipes her hands across her torn jeans before approaching my bed and running a hand down the fabric before she checks the size, just as I had to ensure it’s going to fit. “I’m so Team Lincoln after this, Raegan!” Her eyes jump to mine. “This is the most romantic thing ever.”
“Is it? Am I channeling Maggie as I question if he thought I wouldn’t look nice enough if left to my own devices?”
Poppy shakes her head. “Push those thoughts out of your head and out the window, down the street, and into the ocean because you’re so wrong. That is not Lincoln, and you know it. This was his way of telling you he wants you to go. His way of telling you he thinks you’re as gorgeous as this dress. His way of being romantic.”
I release the air that keeps getting stuck in my throat. “You’re freaking out a little.”
“Oh no, I’m freaking out a lot. I’m just trying to keep it together, so you don’t get nervous.”
“This is a lot fancier than I imagined in my head.”
She grins. “He’s going to be wearing a tux.”
My heart races erratically, a mess of conflicting thoughts and emotions, making this moment far more bitter than it ought to be.
“Finish blow-drying your hair. We have nail appointments in an hour. You’re going to look so good, this doctor you’re trying to impress is going to be recruiting you on the spot. We won’t even cover what Lincoln’s reaction is going to be.”
12
Lincoln
I park in Raegan’s driveway, the button of my dress shirt pinching at my neck. I leave my keys in the console, passing by a colorful metal turkey in the flowerbed, my determination to make this night a success with her introduction to Dr. Swanson, making my steps light as I climb the porch and ring the doorbell.
I rock back on the heels of my dress shoes that, like my shirt, feel too tight.
The front door opens, and my thoughts come to an abrupt stop. My breaths stop, my heart stops—time fucking stops—allowing me this moment to study and admire Raegan. Her high cheekbones, bold eyes and long lashes, and her perfect lips that are stained red. Her neck is bare, drawing my attention to her collarbone, the line of the dress tastefully hinting at her cleavage. Then she smiles, and it’s nervous and hopeful and so goddamn perfect I want to tell her to forget about the party and about the reasons we should be avoiding each other and focus on all the ways I can make her feel good, all the ways I’ll pledge myself to her pleasure and happiness.
She remains on the other side of the door, glancing down at the dress before looking at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this dressed up,” she says. “Also, I can’t stand next to any candles tonight. I’m fairly certain the bottle of hairspray Poppy put in my hair makes me super flammable.” She lifts an arm, but stops, like she wants to touch her hair, but thinks better of it. The sleeveless dress has deep cut lines, exposing only the hint of where her breast swells from her side, and fuck if that image doesn’t feel like the most erotic thing in my life.
“This dress doesn’t do you justice.”
She closes her eyes, unwilling to accept my compliment, or skeptical of my honesty. My heart pounds in my chest, the obligation to go, and the desire to stay warring within me—allies to enemies. I step clo
ser. “You look amazing.”
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she says, reaching for her purse and a slip of fabric that looks nearly gold, which she wraps around her shoulders.
It takes everything inside of me to let her step out onto the porch rather than invite myself inside and forget about the damn charade of an engagement party.
I offer my arm, and she slips her hand through, her grip light as she gathers her dress with her free hand. She keeps her chin forward as we take the steps, the air miraculously dry so we don’t have to contend with umbrellas or puddles.
“How’s your shoulder?” she asks, glancing at me. Her eyes shine in the darkness, patient as they remain on me like I’m capable of casual conversation while she’s on my arm, her lips a breath away. She grins. “Your reaction is confirming I spend too much time in jeans and sweatpants.”
I stop at the passenger side of my truck, opening the door. “I like you in jeans and sweatpants.”
She laughs, shaking her head like she doesn’t believe me. Then she gathers her dress again, eyeing my truck before turning back to me. “Can you close your eyes? I’m not sure this is going to be my most graceful moment. I feel like I’m going to flash the entire neighborhood.”
“If there’s a chance of seeing your underwear, there’s no way I’m looking away.”
She cocks her eyebrow, her lips pursing as determination flattens her brow. She grips the fabric in one hand and raises a foot, balancing it on my truck, exposing a high heel and her bare leg up to her thigh.
Fuck me.
I reach for her to help, but she climbs in, settling into the seat before slowly lowering the dress back into place and flashing a confident smile that radiates to her eyes, stealing my breath. I close the door, my mind taunting me with memories and thoughts and possibilities of what could have been. I imagine her looking at me like that had I not played the friend card and set up every fucking barrier in my arsenal to stop her from continuing to slide into every aspect of my life, making me want her in each part of my day and routine.
I climb into the driver’s side seat and turn the heat higher. “I’m worried about you freezing tonight.”
Her laughter dances across the cab, playing a tune across my heart that makes it pinch with unease. “I might just hide out in here during the party. You guys can eat and mingle, and I’ll take a nap.” She leans back, resting her cheek against the seat and closing her eyes as though testing the possibility.
“You’ve made it this far, Lawson. Don’t make me carry you in there.”
Her eyes remain shut, but her lips curl into a smile.
“You gonna tell me what that comment was about the other night?”
That has her eyes popping wide, her lips falling into a straight line. “Which comment?”
“About giving up cetology.”
“I was enjoying the playful banter. Can we go back to sarcasm?”
“Have you been back out on the water?” The stoplight turns red, earning me the time to set my full attention on her, reading all the words she rarely says.
She sucks in a breath but holds my stare. “Not yet.”
Her answer is a bruised rib, painful each time I breathe. “Why not?”
“Because my life went from expectations to consequences in the blink of an eye.” She shrugs, her gaze volleying to the streetlight. “And I’m still dealing with them.”
“Paxton said they gave you the green light. That you’re fine.”
Her eyes strike me like a slap. Accusation apparent as her lips purse and relax and then purse again, fighting to say things or maybe fighting to hold them back.
I want her to say it. Want to hear her accuse me of being a shitty person and a shittier friend by not knowing this information first hand, but rather through Pax.
She doesn’t.
“You can’t let that night change the entire course of your life,” I tell her.
“I’m not. It’s not just about me.”
I shake my head. “What does that even mean?”
She smiles. It’s a veil, though. A distraction. “No one’s asking or telling me what to do. I just had a wakeup call, that’s all.”
Last year when I hurt my shoulder, the team’s trainer was insistent on talking to me each day while doing stretches, knowing that athletes face a plethora of issues after an injury, things like isolation, lack of motivation, anger, sleep disturbance, and more.
“It’s not a big deal,” she says.
“Yeah, it’s just your life and shit.”
She passes another glare, this one filled with frustration. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Are you? Are you ready to do this? Because when I told you my dad wants me to drop football, you flew off the handle telling me that was crazy, and here you are, talking about giving up your passion, and you won’t even tell me why the fuck you’d consider it.”
A horn blares from behind us, bringing my attention to the green light ahead, connecting a memory to the last time I’d stopped at a red light with Raegan that ended in my windows steaming up and me professing my intentions for her—naked and undone. This conversation is a separate dimension entirely, yet I feel the same hesitance to move forward, fearing, like then, the moment will end.
“You have a talent. An unmatched and uncharted talent. I have a curiosity and obsession for learning about orcas and other dolphins that will be difficult to find a job in and may never even allow me to use my degree in the way I want to. Our situations are polar opposites.”
The car honks again and then pulls around us, speeding off.
“So, this all comes down to money?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it because right now, it sounds like you’re saying you want to give this up because it’s going to be tough, and then you want to tell me I should keep going. You can’t preach shit that you won’t follow.”
“Why are we fighting over this? We’re going. I’m talking to this guy, and I already know he’s going to blow me off because the second I mention volunteering for the aquarium, he’s going to write me off completely and blacklist me.”
“Don’t let him.”
A cry of frustration leaves her. “Will you just drive?”
“What are you going to say to him?”
“What?”
“What are you going to say to help make you stand out?”
Defiance shines in her eyes.
“You can’t go in there thinking he’s just going to notice you and want to hear your life story. These people will eat you alive.”
“I’ve been smiling and holding casual and meaningless conversations since I was ten. I think I’ve got it covered.”
“Tell me what you’re going to say to him. How are you going to introduce yourself?” I demand.
“I don’t even know when or where I’ll run into him.”
I shake my head. “This is your purpose of the night. You don’t wait around and see if you can bump into him, you make it a point. You’re seeking him out like he’s the quarterback, and you’re a defensive linebacker.”
“Why are you pushing this so much? It doesn’t even impact you.”
“Because I still have a shitload of expectations for you.”
Her shoulders sag, falling against the seat as her chest falls with another breath, as though my words have found some small bit of peace inside of her. I get it. I understand the need to have a focus to feel ease.
I slowly release the brake, our conversation turning into silence as we make the drive to my Dad’s.
A parking attendant dressed in a white jacket waves us forward when I pull into the driveway. Raegan dips her head in an attempt to see the house as we drive forward, following to the next attendant who directs us to a makeshift parking lot to the right of the house.
“This is where you grew up?” she asks.
“I wasn’t here much, but this was the address on my file.” I put the truck in park and turn off the engin
e, silence enveloping us as she glances at the house again and then me like she’s attempting to picture me here. I’m tempted to ask her what that image looks like, but she frees her seat belt and moves to open her door.
“Hang on,” I tell her, hopping down and making my way around to her. This view is even better, her legs are both revealed, her heels showing off her toned calves.
Rae smirks when I meet her eyes. “I never pictured you being a leg man.”
“I’m not.” Tonight, I’m pretty sure I’m a shoulders man. Or maybe a neck man, I think, gazing over her exposed skin.
She scoots forward in her seat, and I grip her waist, lifting her down to the graveled ground. She makes a sound in the back of her throat, a gasp of surprise as her free hand grips my shoulder.
“Ready?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not really.” But she’s already walking forward.
I grin, stepping beside her, my hand at her back. “You’ve got this, Kerosene.”
She glances at me, shock rounding her eyes and slowing her steps. I have little doubt that she’s reliving the night I told her I was willing to take the risk—prepared to get burned as long as I had my chance with her. I consider telling her I was burned. That I still have the embers she left behind, ones that grow into a flame and spreads when she’s gone and are insistent when she’s near—a constant distraction.
“This place is the size of a museum,” she says as we reach the stone steps, her head back, trying to take in the house before turning to look over her shoulder. “The front rose garden is bigger than my neighborhood.”
“Don’t get distracted.”
“Trying,” she says quietly, moving her attention to the front doors that are propped open, a woman wearing a silver dress clutches an opened leather book, smiling as we get closer.
“Good evening, Mr. Beckett,” she says, nodding.
Rae turns her attention to me, but before she can say anything, we step inside and are greeted by another member of the wedding planning party who offers to take Raegan’s purse and shawl.