Lincoln’s jaw clenches. “I’m glad you finally made a decision.”
He may not have meant for that to come out like a double-edged insult, but that’s exactly how it sounded. Silently, we just stand here while this weird energy floats between us. It’s filled with all the what ifs that could have been, had there been some semblance of closure between us, instead of this lingering awkward . . . whatever this is that’s left.
He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Is this going to be weird for you? Living across from me? You know, because we hooked up a few times?”
I stare at him, waiting for him to laugh or show any signs of joking. He doesn’t.
“Not sure you can call what we did hooking up, Lincoln,” I whisper.
His body becomes rigid for the first time as he gives me an unyielding look.
Lincoln nods. “You’re right,” his voice is voice of emotion. “Every second of us together is burned into my fucking memory. Haunting me.” He rubs his hands over his face. “And now? Here you are.” He motions to me. “Living across from me.”
The air becomes thick between us. The silence is suffocating.
He’s looking at me expectantly, like he’s waiting for me to say something. To answer some question of his. Two years and thousands of miles of distance between us suddenly disappears. As if they never existed at all. Once again, he’s everywhere.
After a long silence, he scoffs as if something is funny and takes a step back.
Lincoln looks behind me and lifts his chin. “Do you want some help bringing those boxes down to recycling? I’m heading to practice and can take them down for you.”
I shake my head slowly. “Thank you, but I’m good on my own.”
His eyes hold mine for a moment, turning a bit hard around the edges.
“I guess you are.” Something unspoken settles in his eyes and maybe even his voice.
I can’t help but feel this exchange has nothing to do with empty moving boxes.
He pauses at his front door, waiting to see if I have a comeback. I should say something, but I have no idea how to respond. Everything that comes out of my mouth just sounds wrong. Instead, I do my best to ignore the way he makes me feel.
My first mistake, of many.
Lincoln Daniels isn’t someone you ignore.
He is everywhere.
In everything.
Whether I want him to be or not.
“I need to get to practice, so,” he interrupts my thoughts. “If you’re good?”
He glances over me and his eyes feel like warm hands, running over every inch of me.
“All good.” My voice cracks. “Thanks.” God I hate this.
With a quick wave, I turn back to my apartment and start stacking the boxes.
Behind me, Lincoln remains glued to the floor. I know this, because I can feel him.
“Em?” His voice sounds hoarse.
“Yeah?” I stop stacking boxes, but don’t look at him.
My teeth clench together and my breath halts as my body becomes tense.
“Welcome home,” he whispers, and I shiver.
Home.
Not welcome back.
Or welcome to the building.
Welcome home.
As his footsteps fade toward the elevator, I realize Lincoln will always be home.
12
I stare at the computer screen, watching my mother attempt to FaceTime with me. We do this every week. She still has no clue that she needs to move the camera back so I’m not looking directly up her nose. You’d think a Yale-educated woman would understand how technology works. Sadly, that is not the case with Emily Shaw. After a few more seconds she finally gets things positioned the way she likes it before frowning as she stares at me.
“You look tired.” She arches one of her perfectly manicured thin brows.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
I’m anything but fine. I haven’t been fine since bumping into Lincoln the other day with his soft and sexy golden-blond hair, mesmerizing steely eyes, broad shoulders, and hot scruff lining his firm jaw. I inhale through my nose, ending thoughts of him.
“Emerson Katherine Shaw, are you listening to me?” my mother screeches, when she realizes my thoughts have floated off and I’m no longer giving her my full attention.
“Yes, Mother. I’m listening to you.” Another lie.
Not only am I back in the States, but I’m back to lying to myself and others.
“Have you started to think about design firms here? It’s important that you intern at a top one before graduation. You’ll want to be sure to secure your first choice before classes get started. We have some friends at the club who know people, if you need help.”
“I’ve got it covered.” I don’t, because I’m a procrastinator.
She throws me a pointed glare that screams disbelief. “Covered?”
“My boss in London is helping me out.” Or at least she will, when I ask.
Emily frowns and the space between us grows. I’ve never been close to my mother. She isn’t the maternal type. I’m an only child and was raised by a nanny, while my mother chose to focus her attention on being a judge’s wife. Even though she went to Yale Law, she prefers the life of a socialite rather than being in courtrooms.
My father, Thomas Michael Shaw, and I are even less close. When I was growing up, he was rarely home. When he was, he was in meetings with colleagues, at the country club golfing, or sleeping with his mistress. Holidays and public appearances summed up our quality father-daughter time together. Once a week, I have my obligatory call with my mother so that she doesn’t get mad and cut off my trust fund, or stop paying for college.
“Did the furniture arrive?” she asks, bored.
“It did. We’re all set up and comfortable. Thank you for arranging it.”
One of my mother’s favorite ways to control me is with money. While I’ve earned enough to pay my expenses, she still holds college, and now our furniture, over my head.
Her lips press together. “I don’t like that I haven’t seen the apartment for myself.”
I try not to roll my eyes—my mother hates it. “It’s in a safe neighborhood. It’s five minutes from campus and it’s very clean and well-kept.”
I leave out the part about Lincoln; she knows nothing about him anyway.
She falls quiet. “You said that about your place in London. I almost called the US embassy when I arrived and saw the horrible conditions you were living in. Thank goodness we were able to find you a suitable flat. You have the worst judgment, I swear.”
“It was a school-issued flat and it was fine,” I sigh, ignoring her insult.
It was perfect. Just not up to my mother’s standards. Nothing and no one ever is.
“Have it your way. Eventually your father and I will see for ourselves,” she warns.
“Can’t wait.” I fake a smile, and she throws a displeased look at my sarcasm.
“That reminds me. What day do you want the maid to come?”
I squint my eyes. “We don’t need a maid.”
“Is it clean?”
“The apartment?”
“No, Emerson, your sink drains,” she chastises. “Yes, the apartment. Is it clean?”
“Yes.” I don’t hide my annoyance. “Both the sink drains and apartment are clean.”
“If I came in there wearing white gloves, what would I discover?”
“That you couldn’t pull off being a mime?” I quip, causing her to sigh heavily.
Twenty long, painful minutes later, she’s releasing me from listening to any more of her backhanded insults or incessant chatter about her so-called friends and the gossip she has on them and their children. In her high-society world, the sole reason children are conceived in the first place is to pass on family names, heirlooms, and fortunes.
It’s a lovely little circle of fictional bliss she lives in.
With a growl, I shut my laptop and throw it to the side
, where it lands on the fluffy couch cushion. Relieved our weekly call is done, I grab the remote to turn on some reality TV. A loud bang from outside my doorway pulls my focus. I stare at the back of the door for a moment when the sound of wood clanking and another loud sound has me up and walking over toward it.
“Fuck!” someone growls, and I yank the door open.
Standing in his doorway, in all his shirtless glory, is Lincoln.
When he turns and faces me, I see his that his features are pinched.
My eyes immediately roam over him, unable to help my appreciation of the way his gym shorts hang way low on his narrow hips, just below his ripped stomach muscles.
I try to force my gaze up to his, but I get distracted by tattoos on his chest and sides. They’re new and I gape and grip the door knob until my knuckles start turning white as I realize how much he’s changed physically. And how much I like it.
“Hey,” Lincoln says, sounding strained.
I let go of the door and cross my arms over my chest. “Are you okay? I heard a loud thud, followed by some choice words and growling. I thought that maybe you were being murdered. Or abducted by aliens.”
Lincoln’s brows lift. “Aliens?”
“It’s possible. People go missing all the time.” I stop, realizing how stupid I sound.
He lifts his swollen hand. It’s wrapped in white gauze and a melted ice pack.
“What happened?” I step closer to get a better look.
When I do, he steps back a bit, letting me know not to get too close to him.
Hurt at the rejection, I stop and manage not to show him how much it stings.
“Baseball practice. It was stupid. I grabbed a fly ball without my glove. It’s why my shirt is wrapped around my neck—it throbs when I lift it. I was trying to carry my gear and get my key out, but my attempt just”—he shrugs—“fell apart. I guess.”
My eyes meet his. Part of me wants to leave him be. The other half wants to pull him in and heal him. Every part of him. Not just his hand. That part wins out. It always will.
I step closer and swallow. “Where’s your key?”
He looks down into my eyes. “Front left pocket.”
I inhale sharply and drop my gaze to his shorts before blinking. “May I?”
Frozen, Lincoln nods his head. With one step closer, I slide my fingers into the pocket. Once my fingertips brush his key, I grab it and slowly slide it out, pulling my hand away.
Holy hell. I exhale the breath I was holding. It’s been so long since I’ve touched him that even that small amount of contact has me reeling. My grip on his key tightens as I lift my gaze and meet his unfazed expression. I try to hide my disappointment because it feels like my fingertips are on fire, while he’s casually standing there, clearly unaffected.
When Lincoln steps aside, I manage to move my feet forward toward his door and unlock it. Once it swings open, I take a few steps back, grasping at the much needed space.
“A-All set,” I hand him his key, taking more steps back until I’m in my own doorway.
“Would you mind helping with my bag while I grab a new ice pack?” he asks.
“Um. Yeah, sure. Of course,” I ramble as I unlock my door and close it.
“Thanks.” He walks into his apartment, leaving the door open behind him.
With both hands, I pick up his heavy equipment and take a few steps into his apartment, dragging it. He points to a pile of baseball stuff and I drop the duffel bag next to it while he strolls into the kitchen. His apartment looks like ours, except flipped.
Standing close to the open front door, I look around and internally laugh at myself. I should have known better than to think his apartment would be warm and inviting. There is nothing in it. No decorations or color. No paintings on the blank white walls. No lamps to soften the bad apartment lighting. Lincoln doesn’t even have a scented candle.
I take in the large TV on the wall and black leather furniture facing it.
Everything is sterile and cold.
“How long have you guys been here again?” I ask.
“A little over two years.”
“Two years,” I repeat in a whisper.
Kennison hasn’t even moved in yet, and our place looks like we’ve been there for years.
“You can leave the door open,” he says. “Safety first. Right, Em?”
I frown, recalling how I’d left the door open when we first met in his dorm room. Annoyed that he brought it up, I slam the door shut and walk into the kitchen just as he opens the freezer. He watches me as I step around him, grabbing a bag of frozen peas.
“I didn’t expect you guys to have frozen veggies,” I point out, turning toward him.
“We’re ball players. They’re for injuries. We don’t actually eat them.”
“What about the fruit?”
“We use it for protein shakes.”
I smile and close the freezer. “Let me see your hand.”
Lincoln shakes his head. “I can do it.”
I look up at him, and he’s watching me with those intense eyes of his.
“Sports medicine major, remember?” he rasps.
I gently move toward his hand. “It’s easier if I do it, Lincoln.”
We both stare at his hand before I clear my throat, trying to find my voice.
“It might hurt a bit,” I warn.
Lincoln laughs as though he knows pain and this isn’t it. He doesn’t flinch, or even make a sound when the bag of peas touches his skin. I try to ignore him. Try to focus on his hand and getting the bag of peas settled onto the swollen parts without hurting him.
Our faces are so close. With each exhale, his breath tickles my cheek. He’s so still. Our eyes lock a second longer and then I refocus on his hand, but he’s not looking at it. He’s staring at me, watching my movements, completely fascinated by each one.
“Doesn’t that sting?” I whisper, pressing down on it.
“No.”
“Why not?” His hand is huge; even the slightest pressure should hurt.
Lincoln swallows. “I’m numb to the pain.”
His words slay me, because I was right.
He knows pain.
Real pain.
He leans against the counter, holding the frozen bag of peas to his hand gently while watching me do my best to ignore the fact that he’s so close. I should go. I shouldn’t be here. I’ve helped him and now . . . now I’m just looking directly at him as he stares at me.
“Who hurt you?” I ask in a small voice.
“Who hasn’t?”
“Lincoln.”
“What, Em?” he breathes out.
I step toward him and his breathing rate increases as I search his eyes. “Tell me.”
Lincoln looks down at me as I take the last step into his space. He’s working his jaw back and forth like he’s fighting some internal battle with himself. I can see it on his face.
At some point, I can’t take the hurt etched deep on his expression, and I reach up and cup his cheeks, shaking my head. “Forget it. I’m sorry I asked. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Lincoln’s eyes slide closed, and with his non-injured hand, he finds my waist, pulling me to him as he drops his forehead onto mine. We stand like this for a long time.
He inhales as I exhale, stealing each one of my breaths in our familiar dance.
“I should go,” I say.
“I know.”
“I don’t want to,” I whisper.
“I know.”
When his lids flutter open, we stare at each other. Unmoving. I lie to myself and remind myself that I can’t be with him. That I don’t feel that way about him anymore.
“Most recently, you,” he rasps.
“What?” My brows pull together, confused.
“You asked who hurt me. The last person to do so was you.”
My lips part and I stare at him, not knowing how to reply to his admission.
“Daniels?” Josh’s voice breaks the spell. �
�Did you get home okay?”
With a shaky breath, I step away from him just as Josh enters the kitchen.
“Emerson?” Josh meets my eyes, surprised.
“Hey, Josh. It’s good to see you,” I manage.
“Yeah.” He looks between us. “You too.”
An awkward silence settles around the three of us as we stand in the small space.
I curl my fingers into my palms nervously. “I ah, live across the way.”
“Lincoln mentioned.” Josh smiles brightly. “It’ll be just like old times.”
My throat is suddenly very dry and scratchy. “Just like . . . old times.”
“Has Kennison moved in yet?” he asks.
“Tomorrow.”
“It will be fun to have you ladies so close again. Right, Daniels?”
I smile at Josh.
Silence from Lincoln.
All around us there’s this uncomfortable awkwardness.
Lincoln clears his throat and for some reason that brings me back to my senses.
“I should . . . go.” My eyes slide from Josh’s to Lincoln’s.
“Yeah, okay.” Josh nods.
“Lincoln, hope your hand fe—”
“Thanks for your help, Emerson,” Lincoln interrupts me with a biting tone.
My heart almost stops completely. He called me Emerson. Not Em. Got it.
I’ve officially been excused. From the apartment, and probably his life.
Josh tilts his head in confusion at us, watching the weirdness.
Lincoln looks at his hand, focused on it like it’s going to explode or fall off if he looks away. I look away, pretending it doesn’t bother me that he’s dismissed me so abruptly.
“So . . . I guess I’ll just head home then,” I manage.
I chance a look at Lincoln. He’s still looking at his hand, taking up all the space in the kitchen and making me feel all sorts of contradictory feelings. My focus slides to Josh. He offers me a sympathetic smirk as he steps back so I can slide out of the room and escape.
“See you later,” Josh mutters as I step around him.
I rush to the door, pull it open and slam it shut behind me. Once I’m in the hallway, I’m finally able to breathe normally again. I stand here for a few moments, then race across the hall, open my door, and slip into my safe haven. Once the door is closed, I lean my back against it and slide down to the ground, dropping my head between my knees, and remind myself not to get sucked back into Lincoln or his world.
IF | A Novel Page 8