by Mariah Dietz
“Come here.” He continues, and I hurry to catch up with him, debating why if one has an art collection, they’d tuck it this far away. Lincoln opens a door that breaks a suction, and I can feel the temperature change as we pass through the threshold, a series of lights flipping on with our steps. It’s a large square room without a single window of glass that looks out to a hallway and dozens of pictures that offer to take me into other worlds made of brush strokes and paint. Each wall seems to represent a different style of art, ones I don’t know their names of only their differences. Cartoonish figures with bright colors and straight lines beside images of paint that explode across the canvas in blobs and shapes that feel as messy as my emotions and thoughts, and then landscapes and portraits complete the space.
“This is amazing,” I say, stepping closer to see better.
“My dad thinks he likes Picasso and his style,” Lincoln says, stepping closer to me. “But he keeps buying ones that reflect the styles of Warhol and da Vinci.”
“Why?”
Lincoln stares at me, an answer reflecting in his eyes, but before he voices it, he steps away, walking to the far wall, filled with extravagant and simplistic images of scenery. “Because my mom liked them.” He turns, moving his gaze across each wall. “This room is a reflection of them and the realities of how they couldn’t be together, just like these paintings.”
“But, he still collects the works she loved?” It’s a question or maybe a point I’m not brave enough to add a period to.
“Just because people don’t last forever doesn’t mean the feelings don’t.”
“Your dad still cares for your mom?”
Lincoln’s gaze cuts to me. “He’s been in love with her since he was twenty, leaving a string of divorces and bad decisions to prove the point.”
“What happened? Why’d they get divorced?”
“It wasn’t one thing, but years of being chosen second. Dad thought if he invested all of his time early with work, he’d make enough money so he could retire, and they’d never need for anything. So, he worked all the time. He ensured she was comfortable—buying this house, getting her anything she ever wanted, the art…” He takes a couple of steps toward the paintings covered in shapes and colors. “But, she didn’t care about any of this stuff. She didn’t like parties like this or vacations where other people unpacked her bags. She didn’t want second houses or a room created to house art.”
I watch him, striving to understand what he’s telling me, trying to decipher if he’s simply opening up to me as a friend or trying to give me insight to a place deeper than friendship. Or if he’s exchanging another truth, this one greater in hopes that I’ll reveal something equally significant in my life.
“She wanted to be his top priority, at least part of the time, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t. My dad fell in love with success before he’d met her, and that love, while it was rivaled, was always his first choice. He’d miss dinners, birthdays, anniversaries, and the times he’d been there physically, he was still mentally absent.”
“Are you telling me this because you think I want to be a top priority?” The question somehow slips through every filter and line of defense. I regret it instantly because I know I’m not prepared for the answer—not tonight.
“Everyone wants to be first. It’s human nature.”
I should be focusing on him and me, clarifying his points and laying out all the pieces in the playbook, so I don’t get hit again, but I’m too busy trying to ascertain my parents’ relationship, thinking of years they both invested into their individual dreams, how they often tag-teamed parenting and other tasks because there was never enough time and always too many responsibilities.
“We should go. Gloria’s going to bitch us out for taking so long.” He walks back toward me, allowing me the space to see his entire form in the tux, the ease of his muscles paired with sleek style that makes my heart trip over itself.
My confessions line up, ready to tell him I selfishly want to be his first priority as well as his last, my fears, my concerns, the threats that keep me up at night, the fragility of my hopes and how they shatter a little more with each day.
“I’m sorry about your parents.”
His chin tilts as his steps slow. “I’m not. If they hadn’t divorced, there’s a chance my life would have played out entirely different.” His soulful eyes meet mine. “I may never have tried football, and Gloria likely wouldn’t have stayed with us. I’d probably be attending school on the East Coast, and then I’d never have met Paxton. I’d never know you.”
14
Lincoln
My bedroom is down the hall. I can see the door as we leave the art gallery—a space that is neglected and sadly underused like much of the house. I consider taking Raegan there under the guise of allowing her another step into my life when in reality, I want to kiss her until she can’t remember how to breathe, until she doesn’t remember pain, until she forgets about everything since her accident.
“How long have your dad and Carol been together?”
I shrug. “Eighteen months, maybe?”
She blinks away the shock, making me chuckle. “Did you miss the part about me telling you she’s his sixth wife?”
“That has to be hard—having people come in and out of your life.”
“I barely knew most of them.”
She nods, her gaze falling like an acceptance. Maybe she assumes I’m the same, and it’s a valid concern, one I’ve housed for most of my life. My dad’s drive, determination, and focus are all things to be coveted and admired. Still, there’s nothing about personal relationships he excels at, leaving a long path of destruction that leads farther back than my mom. I offer my arm again, waiting until she takes it before leading her back to the stairs.
Raegan stops, her fingers tugging gently at my arm. Indecision is apparent as her lips open and then close before she takes in a deep breath, the anticipation is like facing off with a cornerback knowing I might get leveled as I consider what thought is being mulled over in that head of hers.
“I’ve never been afraid of the water. Even when I was little and we’d read ghost stories about the Kraken and sirens, basilisks, and blood-thirsty great whites, I was never afraid. I’ve been swimming in the ocean and defying hypothermia for as long as I can remember. And now I can’t even look at the ocean without remembering that night. I know I’m safe. I know what went wrong and how to ensure it doesn’t happen again, and yet, I still can’t convince myself to go out there. I haven’t been out since that night, and I don’t know that I want to. And the reality of it is, I may never be able to make this into a career. I might be wasting this opportunity I have at an education, earning a degree I’ll never be able to use. What if I can’t afford to take care of myself? I don’t want to depend on anyone else. I don’t want someone to feel responsible for me.”
“Trust me; no one is going to feel responsible for you. Not like that. They’re going to be proud of you for following your passions, for loving something bigger than a paycheck and a title. They won’t be keeping tally of how much you’re making in dollars—trust me, money only gets you so far. My dad is the poster child for that sentiment. The person who sticks with you at your darkest, the one who remains on your side when everyone else gives up, the one who doesn’t lose faith—that’s worth more than any sum of money.”
She slowly brings her gaze to meet mine, her bottom eyelids tinged in red like she’s going to cry. “Does that really happen, though? Or do people just make excuses and want more—want better and move on?”
My chest expands as something similar to a traffic jam occurs, my words twisting with the reality she paints.
“We should go,” she says, her hand slipping from my arm. She gathers her dress and starts down the stairs.
When we hit the first floor, I place a hand on her back, steering her in the opposite direction of the party. “She’ll be in the kitchen.”
“Isn’t the kitche
n that way?” she asks, pointing behind us.
“That one’s only used for caterers and parties like this.”
“You guys have two kitchens?” Her eyes grow round. “You must feel like you’re slumming it when you come over.”
I grin but can’t respond because Gloria’s halfway to us, her hands thrown up in the air. “If you miss the entire party and are here, you know your dad is going to be upset.”
“He liked Reagan. I’ll just tell him she was a big fan of his art choices. He won’t even blink. Plus, he’s got a party to impress.”
Gloria’s brow ruffles with thick lines that weren’t there when she got on the floor and played Matchbox cars with me. “You know he’s going to want to show you off. With your schooling and this season going well, he’ll want to make sure everyone knows.”
Raegan glances at me, curiosity and recognition hollowing her cheeks.
“Come on, let’s get some food. They’re serving oysters, and I know you won’t eat those, and then you’ll be hungry and won’t play nice,” Gloria says, leading us farther into the kitchen.
“You make me sound like I’m five. I’m pretty sure I’ll survive and still manage to share and play nice on the playground.”
Raegan’s lips twitch. “I’m not sure I can, though. I don’t like oysters, and I haven’t eaten all day in fear of not fitting into this dress.”
Gloria appraises her with a look of adoration, then places a hand on her arm and guides her into the informal dining room where three plates are drowning in pasta with a red marinara and white cream sauce, slices of garlic bread stacked in a bowl, and an opened bottle of wine.
Raegan doesn’t seem deterred by the circumstances—uneasy by the idea of sitting with just Gloria and me.
“We just need water, silverware, and napkins,” Gloria says.
“I’ll get the water,” Rae volunteers.
Gloria shakes her head. “You’re our guest.”
But Raegan starts opening cupboards, finding the glasses on her first try. “Thank you for making dinner for us,” she says.
Gloria turns, silverware and napkins stuffed into her fist—the look of adoration she had seconds ago has grown tenfold. She’s a sucker for manners and an absolute goner for genuine. “You’re very welcome. Now, tell me, how did you guys meet?”
“Through my brother,” Rae says. “They play football together.”
“So, you guys were friends first?” Gloria looks even more surprised.
“We’re still friends,” Rae says. “Only friends.”
Gloria’s shoulders pull back like she’s been shocked, her gaze turning to me for confirmation.
“She’s Paxton’s little sister.”
Gloria’s eyes round, and she swallows because while Rae is nearing perfection in her eyes, Gloria also has a strong value system, and she’s been telling me since I was a kid not to shit where I eat. She knows my success on the field relies heavily on the quarterback who currently trusts and likes me. Raegan fills the glasses, her back to us as Gloria grapples with her thoughts.
I fill the wine glasses, passing Gloria one as she takes a seat. She accepts it, taking a long drink before turning her attention back to Raegan. “I didn’t realize that. But, you’re here together?”
“Lincoln invited me so I’d have the opportunity to meet a marine biologist who works locally.”
Gloria’s eyes are sharp as she attempts to decipher this riddle, her gaze turning from Raegan to me and back again before she takes another large drink of wine. “And your boyfriend didn’t mind you coming?”
Raegan’s eyebrows raise as she makes her way to the table, holding all three glasses. A soft smile sweeps the frown from her face. “I don’t have a boyfriend. To be honest, I don’t have any desire to be in a relationship. I have too much going on.” She places the glasses in front of each table setting, her eyes illuminated with a heavy stream of thoughts that erase the chance of her maintaining her smile.
I did that.
I created that doubt.
My chest feels like an opened flame, the burn so strong it curdles my blood and singes my thoughts.
“Well, I have a feeling someone is going to be trying to convince you otherwise,” Gloria says, draping her napkin across her lap. “You’re a beautiful woman, and you seem to have a good head on you. I imagine the guys have already begun lining up.”
Raegan’s smile is curated. I know because I’ve seen this same expression before, used when she was introduced to a girl at the piano bar for the third time, and when I crashed their sibling’s breakfast. “I was telling Lincoln I have a hard time imagining him as a kid. Are there pictures around the house?”
Gloria’s smile, however, is entirely wholesome as she quickly scoots her chair back from the table. “Yes!”
I turn my gaze to Raegan. Humor makes her lips twitch. “You’ve seen pictures of me. This only seems fair.”
“I met you when you were fifteen. You were a kid.”
“More reasons this is fair.”
“You’ll likely get more questions about us from others at the party,” I tell her. “I can answer them so you don’t feel like you’re put on the spot.”
“Did I not clarify well enough that we’re only friends? Do you prefer the term acquaintances?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I quickly say, shaking my head.
“Better yet, I can just tell them you hired me.” Her eyes are hard, empty.
Before I can say anything else, Gloria returns with a picture album and a conspiratorial smile. It starts to slip as she looks between us, Rae taking too long of a drink from her wine glass, me tugging on the tie that feels like a fucking noose. Gloria takes her seat, setting the album on the table, and opening it to the front page. It’s an old album with cellophane pages that crinkle as she flips the cover open, revealing a set of pictures of me as an infant, sans diaper. Gloria chuckles. “He hated clothes as a child, so prepare yourself.”
“Jesus Christ. No. Out of the millions of photos in this house, you brought these?”
“So many are of you posing. These show you—the real you.”
I groan. “That’s a bunch of bullshit.”
Gloria smacks my bicep. “Maybe, but with your mouth and how little you’ve come around, I think this makes us even.”
Rae smiles, her wine glass still in hand. Her nails are painted a light nude color that is neither pink nor white, that like Rae is feminine and beautiful.
The next page exposes my life when it was what others perceive as perfect: my mom and dad hugging, me in the middle. I have few doubts that when the camera was put away, they tore into each other, fighting about things that never mattered to either of them because they were both too afraid to discuss their true feelings.
Raegan scans the pictures and then me. “You look like your mom,” she says.
Gloria nods. “I always say the same.”
She does, but Dad and his family were always quick to correct her that I looked like a Beckett.
“Do you look like your parents?” Gloria asks.
“A little.”
“Not really,” I interject. “Except her eyes are similar to her mom’s, and when she focusses really hard, she looks a little like her dad. Her brother and sister have some similarities, but even those are pretty damn thin.”
Raegan stares at me like she’s surprised by my assessment.
Gloria smiles, it’s smug like she knows a secret as she flips another page, more pictures of me naked, these ones of me in a bath, my stomach round. “He was a happy baby,” Gloria says, flipping several pages to reveal pictures from times I have memories of. I’m six, on vacation to Disneyland. My arms loaded with stuffed animals and toys that my parents bought each time they fought and offered a new gift to repay their guilt. A close up of me sitting on Mom’s lap, laughing—a candid shot—one of my favorites because although I remember the fights that broke out like thunderstorms, hitting everything in the house and leaving every
one with a darkness, there were plenty of light moments. Moments when the sun was our guide, and Mom and I would spend entire afternoons together, building forts in the living room and racing around the backyard.
“Do you remember this?” Gloria asks, pointing at a picture of me in a canoe, a paddle in my hands. “You said you were going to go out and see the whales. You were determined.”
Rae closes her eyes, finishing the rest of her wine in one drink.
15
Raegan
Lincoln’s truck is freezing as I settle into the seat, his jacket around my shoulders as I try to right the skirt of my dress so it doesn’t get closed in the door, the scent of his cologne making me dizzy.
Lincoln climbs into the driver’s side, starting the truck and hitting a sequence of buttons and dials to turn up the heat. “You should have waited and let me get the truck warmed.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.” My muscles ache, but I won’t admit that because there’s no way I was going to stay inside alone. Too many were watching me with curiosity, waiting for a moment to step in and ask their questions about who I am and how I fit. Admitting I don’t was guaranteed to be an uncomfortable conversation.
We wait for two cars in front of us to back up, silence ballooning as my ears ring from the new quietness, a stark contrast to the music and conversation inside.
“Was it what you expected?” He loosens his tie, freeing the top button of his dress shirt, making me stare too long.
“I didn’t have any expectations. I know little about your past and your family.”
“But, you know me.”
“Sometimes, I think I do.”
He frees another button, then moves to his wrists—bone and skin and muscle that somehow look erotic as he rolls up his shirtsleeve. “You do,” he insists.
“Why are you doing this again?”
His eyes balance on mine, his fingers paused from where they’re rolling his other sleeve. “Doing what?”