IF | A Novel

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  “Really?” I frown.

  “If he hadn’t reacted so quickly, I hate to think about what would have happened.”

  “Damn. I thought I saved him,” I pout.

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a competition. What the hell were you two doing in a dark parking lot in the rain anyway? I thought you were getting your cap and gown?”

  “He was waiting for me at my car, and we started talking.”

  A quiet knock at the door has both of us looking up to see Lincoln walk in with Josh.

  Lincoln throws Kenz and me a tight smile.

  My eyes immediately go to the bandage over his right eye.

  “You okay, Emerson?” Josh asks quietly, and I nod.

  “She’s good,” Kennison replies for me. “We have an hour before they release her.”

  Josh inclines his head toward the door. “Let’s get some coffee then.”

  Her lips pucker in a small frown as she looks me over. “Will you be okay if I leave?”

  I hum my agreement and wave her off. “Bring me back a cheeseburger.”

  She rolls her eyes and slides out of the room with Josh, leaving me alone with Lincoln.

  He steps closer to the bed, sliding his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. His eyes look up and down the length of me, taking me in, before he gives me a pensive look.

  “What you did was . . .” he begins.

  “Heroic?”

  “Stupid.”

  “I thought I was saving your life,” I mutter.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I pin him with a hard look. “Because you’re worth saving, Lincoln.”

  “I don’t need you to save me, Em.”

  At his words, something happens to me. I don’t know what, but it’s as if he’s stabbed me in the heart. I want to scream at him. I’m tired of him thinking that he’s not worthy of love. Of something good in his life. Of me. I’m done pretending I don’t love him.

  “Well, you did tonight,” I counter.

  “Do not ever put yourself in a dangerous situation again because of me.”

  “For the record, this is the worst thank you I have ever received.”

  “This isn’t funny,” he snaps.

  “I know.” I look him directly in the eyes. “Nothing about us is funny.”

  He cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes as he considers me intently.

  “You could have died tonight.”

  “So could you.”

  He looks at me, seeming calm, but I see his jaw clench.

  I notice that everything about him has changed since yesterday.

  A part of me has been holding on to the hope that he’ll eventually overcome whatever it is that is holding him back and tell me how he really feels. Earlier, in the rain, I thought I saw a glimpse of it. Now, it’s gone. Disappearing, along with my hope.

  I’ve lost it.

  Lost him.

  But you can’t lose what you never had.

  Watching Kennison wash dishes is like watching an elephant take a bath. There is water everywhere, and she used way too much dish soap. Bubbles are literally flying all over the kitchen. I shift on the counter and continue to pick the M&Ms out of the trail mix.

  “Are you ready for tomorrow?” she asks, her back turned to me.

  “Which part—graduation, or my parents?” I groan.

  She throws a knowing smile over her shoulder. “Both.”

  “Graduation? Yes.” I pause, fingering the contents of the bowl, pushing away all the gross raisins and sad nuts. “Can one ever truly be ready for Emily and Thomas Shaw?”

  Finished, she turns to face me, wiping her wet fingers on the towel.

  “What?” I ask, because she’s giving me that look.

  “Have you told Lincoln yet?” she asks.

  I put the bowl of trail mix down. “Told him what?”

  “That you got a job? That you’re moving?”

  I shake my head. “That would involve calling or texting. Or speaking.”

  “So?” she laughs.

  “So, we don’t do those things anymore.”

  “Ah.” A sympathetic smile spreads on her lips.

  A quick knock on the door has us both glancing over at it, neither of us moving.

  “He’s your boyfriend,” I sigh, referring to Josh. “You have door duty.”

  Kennison rolls her eyes at my response and walks over to it, opening it.

  “Hey, thanks for coming over,” she says to whoever is at the door.

  Lincoln comes into the kitchen and Kennison smiles at me from behind him.

  I narrow my eyes at the traitor before she winks and motions to the door. “I’m going to go across the hall and see if Josh needs help packing. Be back later.” She leaves us alone.

  Lincoln leans against the wall and folds his arms across his chest, his eyes roaming over me. We stare at one another for a few silent seconds. What’s left to say?

  “What do you want?” I clip out.

  His eyes are everywhere now but on my face.

  “Kennison asked me to check on your injuries,” he admits softly.

  Ugh. The sneaky, conniving brat. “Did she?”

  He dips his chin in confirmation. “How are you feeling?”

  “My wrist is fine. My rib is still a little tender,” I mumble.

  He looks me over, not believing my quick response.

  “Mind if I take a look?” He motions to my wrist.

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. After a second, I hold out my wrist to him.

  He pushes off the wall and strides over to me, taking my wrist in his hand. Carefully, he pushes up my sleeve and inspects it. He makes quick work of removing the bandage the hospital put on it for support. Once it’s off, he looks at the bruises and applies a gentle pressure on it. It hurts, but I don’t let it show. After a moment, he grabs the bandage and rewraps it a bit tighter, which actually feels much better.

  The pain subsides with the added pressure.

  When he’s done, our eyes lock, and I exhale the breath I was holding.

  “That should feel better now,” he smiles.

  “How did you know it hurt?”

  “I know you, Em.”

  He does know me. Part of me hates that he does. And part of me loves it.

  He stares at me, and I do my best to ignore the way he’s breathing.

  “Can I look at your rib?”

  “Yeah,” I say in a quiet whisper, wondering where the rest of my voice went.

  Stepping between my legs, he holds my gaze while gently lifting up the side of my shirt. I should be focusing on how my rib aches, but instead, I get lost in the feel of his warm fingertips as they brush against my skin. He grazes my rib and goose bumps form across my body. Definitely not the way the doctor did this at the hospital.

  His hand slowly begins to slide around my waist to my back. Swallowing, he removes his hand and drops the material of my shirt. It feels like his hand left marks everywhere he touched. His breath fans my face and all I want is to be swallowed up by him.

  “Is there still an ache there?” he asks quietly.

  I inhale through my nose, feeling like his words have a double meaning.

  “A little,” I barely say.

  Slowly he begins to lift his fingers to my face, placing them under my jaw as his thumbs tilt my head up. His eyes roam over the scratches that have almost disappeared.

  “Any headaches?”

  I shake my head no.

  When he’s done, he holds my face in place and looks into my eyes. For a moment, we just stare at one another, lost in our own thoughts. He swallows and his lips part.

  “Seeing you in the hospital,” his voice shakes. “It made me realize something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to pretend I don’t have feelings for you anymore,” he whispers. “You could have died, Em. The fact that you pushed me out of the way—” He pauses. “You risked your life for mine,” he growls. “Se
eing you lying on the ground, hurt, in the rain . . .”

  “Hey,” I tilt my head. “I’m fine. I’m here.”

  Lincoln’s jaw tenses. “I still don’t think I’m good enough for you. I’ve had a fucked up life and made a ton of mistakes, most of which I’m still paying for. I mean, my issues have issues.” His voice has taken on a heartbreaking tone. “But, if you’re willing try, so am I.”

  That familiar lump in the bottom of my throat suddenly makes a comeback.

  “Are you saying this because you’re afraid of losing me?” I ask.

  I squeeze my eyes tightly, bracing for whatever words he is about to say; I somehow know they will slay me. He blows out a steady, controlled breath while he looks at me.

  “Partly. I can’t imagine a world where you don’t exist,” he replies.

  My lips part and it seems like it’s taking forever for me to catch my breath.

  “In fact, I don’t want to live in a world where you don’t exist. Do you understand?”

  Silent tears run down my face, and he becomes impatient with my lack of response.

  “Fuck it,” he says, taking my face in his hands and kissing me, hard, catching me completely off guard.

  My heart beats wildly as he moves his thumbs lazily over my cheeks. I can feel him thinking. I break away from his lips, gasping for breath as I study his expression.

  “And partly because,” he whispers, “I might be in love with you.”

  His voice is soft and deep in the quietness of the room.

  “Might be?” I blink.

  A shaky breath escapes him. “Am. I am in love with you.”

  My lips part in shock. He’s in love with me? Oh, god.

  I’ve waited for this moment for four fucking years.

  And now, I have to go and completely ruin it.

  I have to tell him.

  “I’m moving to California,” I blurt.

  He stares at me with a torn look on his face. “What?”

  “The design firm I interned at in London has a Los Angeles office. They offered me a job and are willing to relocate me.” I swallow hard over the dread in my throat.

  Squinting, he rubs his fingertips across his forehead and then down his face. He’s quiet for a long time as he stares at me, considering what I’ve said.

  I’m almost afraid to move.

  Afraid of his response.

  When his lips part to finally speak, I still. “What if . . . maybe we find a way to make it work? We could still see each other when I’m traveling to LA with the team.”

  Hope fills me. “That’s true.”

  “We can call. Text. FaceTime. We can work around it. If you want to.”

  “Really?” I ask. “Calling and texting is . . . new for us.”

  “I think we can handle it,” he smiles.

  “We’re really going to do this?”

  “We’ll take it day by day. No pressure.”

  “Uncomplicated?” I smile back at him.

  He laughs, stepping toward me again. “I think we’re way past uncomplicated.”

  24

  Lincoln is watching me. I can feel his eyes on me from the other side of the tent. I bite my lip, wishing we weren’t surrounded by every last member of the graduating class and their friends and families. Because he looks amazing in his black dress pants and dress shirt. The sleeves on it are rolled up to his elbows, showing off his tattoos.

  He still hasn’t shared what each one means to him. Only the reason for the one with my name subtly designed into the infinity sign. There are still so many things left unknown between us, but we still have plenty of time to learn them.

  My mother texts me for the hundredth time, asking me to come outside the tent for our photos because she wants the sunshine and greenery in the background.

  When I meet Lincoln’s gaze, I give him a smile and incline my head toward the door, letting him know where I’ll be. He lifts his chin in response but keeps talking with Tyler and Josh. They are going out to celebrate, so I won’t see him until later anyway.

  As I round the corner, my pretentious mother’s form comes into sight. When I approach, she doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at me. Her gaze focuses on the bandage on my wrist. Both my parents were unhappy when I called them to explain what happened. Meaning well, Kennison had made the mistake of letting them know I was in the hospital. This led to excessive phone calls, plastic surgeon FaceTimes—in the event my face was forever scarred by the tiny scratches—and my mother reminding me of how I never seem to be able to make good decisions about my life. The accident included.

  “There you are,” my mother finally sighs.

  “Here I am,” I push out.

  “Wrinkles are forming on my face as I wait for you in the sun,” she huffs.

  “That’s what they have Photoshop for, Mother,” I retort.

  “Emerson, please try to curb your witty remarks today.”

  We take the obligatory graduation mantel photos and my father slips away as my mother and I mingle with my friends. My father is an alumnus here, so he is circulating, talking to his fraternity brothers and other alumni, making a sizable donation.

  An hour later, my parents and I are sitting in the private room at my father’s favorite restaurant, celebrating my graduation and discussing my upcoming move to California.

  “What are Kennison’s plans now that she has graduated?” My mother sips her wine, eyeing me over the rim of her glass. “She does have plans, Emerson, doesn’t she?”

  I shift under her gaze, uneasy. “Of course she has plans.”

  Normally when my mother looks at me over her wine glass, she is setting me up for something. Nine times out of ten, it’s a lecture from my father.

  “Well?” my mother prompts. “What are they?”

  “She got a teaching job near campus. Third graders.”

  “How charming,” Mom uses her fake-excited tone. “Where will she live?”

  “Josh is going to move into our apartment, since his roommate, Lincoln, is leaving.”

  My mother lowers her glass, holding it with two hands as her lips flatten at the mention of Lincoln. For whatever reason, they were less than pleased that he was involved in the accident. And even less pleased that he lives across from me.

  “Emerson,” my father’s deep voice fills the empty room. “Your mother and I wish to have a word with you about the accident you were recently involved in with Mr. Daniels.”

  I take in his speculative look and sit back in my chair. “What about it?”

  “Mr. Daniels is not someone whose company we want you keeping,” he states.

  I look between the two of them, confused. “You don’t even know him.”

  My mother glances at my father quickly, then down at the table.

  “I know Mr. Daniels quite well.” He sits back in his chair, eyeing me.

  “How? Did you hire a private investigator?” It wouldn’t be the first time. Or the last.

  My father has a habit of wanting to know everything there is to know about everyone.

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know Lincoln?”

  “Your father was the judge who tried his case, Emerson,” my mother interjects.

  My lips part and I laugh incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I assure you, your mother is very serious.” His voice booms around the room.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple. Coach Dawson asked me to oversee Mr. Daniels’s case. As a financial contributor and alumnus of your school, I agreed. Aside from owing the coach a personal favor, financial endowments are easier to obtain when your sports teams win playoffs. A Division I school needs the best players to make those wins possible. Like Mr. Daniels.”

  I’m floored, my gaze sliding between the two of them. Given their history, it shouldn’t surprise me that not only was my father the judge on Lincoln’s case, but that later, he threw money around to control the situation and levera
ge his position of power.

  We’re all just puppets in my father’s financially focused world.

  “Does he know I’m your daughter?” I grit out through clenched teeth.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he says, looking anything but happy.

  My heart suddenly free-falls, and I have to turn away from him.

  The one thing I thought my parents could never control, or be part of, was Lincoln.

  I was wrong. My father is the judge that oversees his parole.

  He controls Lincoln’s future.

  And in turn, mine.

  “Oh, god,” I whisper.

  I shake my head, but the tears won’t stop threatening to fall. Somewhere deep inside, I know my father is about to take him away. Take away the one real thing I’ve ever had.

  “From Kennison, it has come to our attention that your relationship with Mr. Daniels is”—he searches for the right words—“personal in nature. Even inappropriate at times.”

  I stare at my father’s tight expression and I realize in this moment, this is it.

  Lincoln’s past will be the reason we can’t ever have a future.

  There is no way in hell my father will allow it.

  “There is nothing inappropriate about it. I love him,” I whisper.

  My father looks me over, appalled at my outburst. “No. You don’t.”

  “It’s a really long story, but I do.” My voice is small, childlike.

  “Good god, Emerson, you have absolutely no common sense when it comes to choosing men,” my mother hisses, placing her crystal glass on the white linen.

  “It’s an unacceptable match,” Judge Shaw says plainly. “We don’t approve.”

  My father’s words cut through my soul. “He’s not the person he once was.”

  “Emerson,” my father deepens his tone. “Since it’s apparent he’s made this known to you, I feel the need to reiterate that Mr. Daniels was almost sent to prison for possession and dealing. He’s lucky Coach Dawson was in his life and put his name and career on the line for him. Otherwise things could have ended differently for him. He. Is. Not. Suitable.”

  “Has he ever once missed a parole meeting? Or failed a single drug test?” I challenge.