IF | A Novel

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  “Your past is the reason we can never have a future.”

  He closes his eyes, trying to compose himself, and I glance around, seeing that we’re making a scene. People are walking by slowly, staring, and whispering to each other. Heat spreads across my cheeks, triggering my eyes to water. I need him to just . . . leave.

  “I know what you’re trying to do.” He opens them again, pinning me with a look.

  “I’m trying to say goodbye.”

  He shakes his head, cupping my face. “Don’t,” he whispers hoarsely, dipping his head so our noses are almost touching. “Don’t do this. Whatever shit you’re spinning in that beautiful head of yours, stop. I need you. We said we’d try. We can face whatever it is.”

  “I don’t want you,” I barely push out.

  Hurt flickers across his face. “I don’t want anyone else but you.”

  His words are like a punch to the gut. I flinch, unsure if I can do this.

  I remind myself I have to.

  “It was only sex, Lincoln. Nothing more,” I lie. “We can . . . still be friends.”

  Abruptly, he lets go of me. “You want to be just friends. Fine, we’re friends. But you and I both know that what’s between us isn’t just sex. It’s more. So much more.”

  The intercom comes on, and the agent invites first class passengers to board.

  “They’re boarding. I have to go,” I say quietly.

  He steps back. “Don’t do something here you will regret for the rest of your life. You can stand here and pretend not to give a shit about me all you want, but I know that you’re lying. I’ve seen how you look at me. I know that you love me. I see you, Em.”

  I swallow back the tears, pressing my back against the wall.

  “Do you hear me?” he hisses. “I know it’s easier to pretend that I mean nothing to you, rather than to bear the thought of leaving. But I deserve better than that. And so do you.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t love you,” I lie, just needing him to stop.

  “Fine. You don’t love me. All this was just about sex. Guess what? I don’t love you.”

  I physically flinch at his words—my body jerks back, and my knees almost give out.

  I close my eyes in pain, hating that he caused so much hurt so deep inside of me.

  Tears threaten, stinging my eyes. “I’m sorry, Lincoln. For all of it.”

  I storm past him and exhale the breath I was holding. An escaping tear falls down my cheek and I quickly wipe it away, not looking back at him. I don’t want him to see my pain.

  My heart aches with so many emotions, I can’t keep track of them all.

  I guess that happens when you lose everything.

  27

  PRESENT TIME

  Frozen, I stare at Lincoln. We tried. We tried so damn hard, frantically and desperately holding on to each other. I know this, because I was the cause of our destruction.

  In the end, letting go was the only option.

  With Lincoln, there is no future—only the ifs that linger.

  Cocking his head, he does that thing he always does when he stares at me. He looks directly at me. Not through me. Not around me. But at me. To the point that I become the sole focus of his attention, pulling me in and making everything around us fall away.

  It’s addicting. Even more so because this look is only mine.

  He never does it with anyone else.

  Like a familiar dance, everything around me in the church fades away as my feet automatically walk to him. I don’t think, or care, about anyone else in this moment.

  And that’s the problem—when it comes to Lincoln, nothing else matters.

  There is only him and me in our world.

  He pushes his tall frame off the pew he was leaning on and stalks toward me without releasing my gaze. I become light-headed because I still haven’t taken a breath. Lincoln always did take up all the air in the room, making something as simple as breathing become a chore.

  When only a sliver of space separates us, he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into him, and buries his face in the curve of my neck, inhaling as his lips brush my skin, sending shivers throughout my body. My eyes slide closed and I bask in his familiar scent—a heady combination of cigarette smoke and freshly cut grass. It’s all Lincoln.

  Clean and dirty at the same time.

  “Em,” he rumbles into my neck.

  His voice gives me goose bumps. He sounds as if he is in pain. I both hate and love it.

  Being this close to him again, seeing and touching him . . . it’s soul-crushing.

  I loosen my grip on him and force myself to step away just as Jake approaches us.

  Jake’s hand flattens on my lower back, bringing me back to reality, providing me with support whether he knows it or not. With that one touch, I inhale and compose myself.

  Jake is my present.

  Lincoln is my past.

  Jake is easy.

  Lincoln is complicated.

  Jake is whole.

  Lincoln is broken.

  I step closer to Jake to ground myself and keep my thoughts clear. When I do, Lincoln’s sandy brows turn into a deep V. The corner of his mouth turns down angrily.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asks Jake.

  “Lincoln, this is Jake Irons,” I introduce them. “Jake, Lincoln Daniels. Lincoln and I went to college with Josh and Kennison,” I explain, as if we’re simply acquaintances.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Lincoln.” Like the gentleman he is, Jake gives Lincoln his hand.

  Lincoln looks at it and scoffs. Instead of shaking hands, he lifts his chin at Jake in slight acknowledgment before turning his darkened gaze back to me.

  Words aren’t needed. Everything unsaid is in his eyes.

  “Jake is my—” I start, but get cut off by the approach of a pretty brunette.

  “Hey Linc, I think you’re starting,” she says as she steps up beside him.

  I watch as she slides her left hand into Lincoln’s right one. A glint of light bounces off an engagement band and my heart crumbles. She’s his fiancée? He’s getting married?

  Forcing a smile, I study his face. Lincoln’s expression seems sad and lost.

  “Hi. I’m Tricia.” She clings to Lincoln’s arm, as if she knows.

  Of course she does. Any woman within a five-foot radius can sense the threat—me.

  Jake, however, is oblivious and politely introduces us to Tricia, because that’s how he is. Respectful. Kind. Mannered. In my peripheral vision, I notice Kennison as she walks out of a back room in the church with someone who looks like she’s the wedding planner.

  My best friend’s soft brown eyes meet mine and widen when she takes in the scene.

  I fake a reassuring smile and wave her off. It’s her special weekend and I don’t want this to be about Lincoln and me. I want this weekend to be all about her and Josh.

  And their wedding.

  As we discussed a thousand times on the phone, I am okay. Or at least, I will be. We have a plan. I am in control of the situation. I inhale deeply at the ten thousandth lie I’ve told myself since my plane landed earlier today. It’s obvious that the truth and I are going to be frenemies this weekend. Then again, when it comes to Lincoln, honesty and I were never really friends. More like acquaintances who ignored one another.

  Leeza, the wedding coordinator, makes a brief welcome speech and explains how the rehearsal is going to work. Those who aren’t in the wedding party are asked to take a seat, while those of us who are get ushered into another room. The coordinator yells out directions to the large group, trying to control the excited chatter and lack of attention.

  I attempt to relax and appear unfazed. But it’s almost impossible to ignore Lincoln’s presence, because he knows how to command a room. I chat with the bride’s cousin, and attempt to ignore him, but I can’t. He’s everywhere. In every thought and every corner of the space.

  When my name is called out, I look up to see him stalking toward
me.

  Confused, I look around and realize everyone is being paired up.

  Which means . . . Oh. Hell. No.

  Peeling my eyes away from him, I step closer to the wedding planner. “Excuse me, Leeza,” I say. “I’m supposed to be paired up with Tyler Hamilton.” I explain in a polite whisper, so as not to cause a scene and alert Kennison to the fact that our well-designed plan is starting to collapse already. This has to be a record for us.

  Panicked, I watch as Leeza frowns. “Tyler isn’t here yet; he won’t be here until the ceremony tomorrow. For tonight, you and Lincoln are together,” she says, preoccupied.

  Shit! Tyler is always ruining my life.

  Kennison and I established this beforehand.

  I was not, under any circumstances, to walk down the aisle, at a wedding, in a church, with Lincoln Daniels.

  Lincoln steps into my space, looking down into my eyes. I hold my breath again, because touching him is bad. It’s like an alcoholic taking one sip after years of sobriety. If we have any more contact, there will be no putting me back together. I will break all over again.

  He leans in, his lips brushing over my cheek and his breath at my ear, warm and damp against my skin. “I always hoped someday I’d walk you down the aisle.”

  “I thought you never wanted to get married,” I challenge him, my voice only a whisper.

  He stands up and looks me in the eye. “That was before you.”

  His words hurt.

  They weren’t meant to. They were meant to ease the tension.

  Instead, they open a wound I’ve spent the last year trying to heal.

  Feeling breathless and overwhelmed, I step back. He holds out his palm, waiting for me to slide mine across it. When my hand lifts, I notice it’s shaky. He does too. With a heavy sigh, he folds his hand over mine and pulls me closer so our chests are touching.

  “I have you, Em. I’ll always have you,” he whispers in my ear.

  I shake in his arms.

  Lincoln calls me Em.

  Jake prefers my full name, Emerson.

  The huskiness of Lincoln’s velvety voice takes me back to when we first met five years ago. Before we allowed the darkness to pull us both under, leaving me to drown in it.

  Unable to speak, I simply nod.

  Lincoln slides in next to me, placing my hand into the crook of his elbow. Just as we’re about to take our practice run down the aisle, my eyes seek out Jake, needing him to help me breathe again so I can focus. He smiles warmly at me from his seat and I calm a bit.

  Sensing the change in my demeanor, Lincoln grips me to him tighter before leaning into my ear and growling, “He isn’t the right guy for you.”

  The fiery heat of anger inside me roars to life, covering up the smoldering of something else that only Lincoln causes beneath the surface of my skin. Something that makes me feel alive.

  “You don’t even know him,” I grind out.

  “How long have you two been together?” he asks as we start to walk.

  “A year.”

  “And no ring?”

  “Not everyone finds salvation by running off and getting married to someone else.”

  My dig shuts him up until we are ready to part at the front of the aisle.

  Releasing me, he barely says, “Some souls were never meant to be saved, Em.”

  28

  I thought the wedding day would be better. Leeza has me walk down the aisle with the right usher, Tyler, this time. But it isn’t better. It’s far worse, because at the front of the aisle, looking amazing in his tux, Lincoln is watching me, fixated on my every move.

  A sad, distant expression mars his face as I approach the front of the church.

  The future we should have had, but don’t, flashes before my eyes.

  The reminder that we were not meant to be hurts.

  It hurts so badly that I have to put a hand to the center of my chest and push against the pain to try to ease it. Because when something is broken, shattered to the point of no return, you can fix the pieces, but you’ll always see the cracks that were left behind.

  The ifs.

  Holding my breath, I manage to remain standing during the ceremony, even though my knees are trembling under my gown. It wasn’t until we moved into the candlelit grand ballroom that I felt the full force of Lincoln’s overwhelming presence again.

  Smiling, I walk through the sea of guests as they dance and mingle. Jake left my side to grab some drinks for us at the bar and I curbed the desire to cling to him.

  Instead, I’m standing next to the dance floor listening to one of Josh’s uncles talk about his latest hunting expedition. Years of my mother’s country club gatherings have conditioned me for proper etiquette, so I’m smiling politely and nodding as if I’m engrossed and fascinated that this man and his friends love to hunt and kill Bambi.

  Looks like my mother’s etiquette rules are finally useful. A ping of sadness falls over me thinking about her. I haven’t spoken to either of my parents since I walked out of that dinner. It’s been over a year. These days, our only contact is through financial planners and lawyers, now that I’m of age to access my trust fund, much to my mother’s dismay.

  I understand that she is more upset about the fact that she can no longer control me through money than she is about me not calling, or visiting, her for an entire year.

  The band on the stage switches songs from something upbeat and light to something soft and moody, and a warm hand lands on my lower back, searing me through the satin.

  I don’t need to turn to see who it is; from my reaction to the touch, I know it’s Lincoln.

  He leans over my shoulder and whispers in my ear. “Dance with me?”

  His tone is suggestive and smooth; a tone you can’t say no to. Politely excusing myself from the Bambi-killing conversation, I turn and lean back, meeting his eyes.

  That intense gaze of his holds mine without wavering, and a familiar feeling washes over me. A feeling that used to live and breathe inside of me—panic. His presence is causing my heart to beat erratically. I inhale, not wanting to have an attack here.

  Sadly, my deep breaths do nothing to calm the chaos his closeness is causing.

  Leaning in, he interlaces his fingers with mine, and his mouth is back at my ear. “Please?”

  I nod, allowing him to lead us onto the dance floor, where he stops just at the edge.

  I squeeze my eyes closed for a second before opening them, because that’s exactly how this feels, like we’re at the edge. My heart pounds hard when he pulls me into his arms and our chests touch. Looking down at me, he raises my left hand, placing it behind his neck before his own hand wraps around my waist in a light hold.

  The gentleness of his movements cause an ache within me.

  “You look beautiful, Em.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper shakily.

  He stares at me. “Where is Jake?” He exaggerates the k sound.

  “At the bar, grabbing our drinks.”

  We dance in silence for what feels like an eternity as he looks around the room.

  “I saw him, you know.” His eyes travel back to mine.

  “Who? Jake?”

  “The team was in Los Angeles for a game about a week after you left. I’d finally convinced Kennison to give me your address. I went to your place, but you weren’t there. Your neighbor, the older lady, told me where I could find you when I said I was your brother.” My brow arches. He keeps rambling, nervous. “You were having dinner with him. At some restaurant on Vine. You had the salmon. And you wore a black dress.”

  My heart plummets. He came looking for me?

  “That was our first date. Jake’s and mine,” I explain.

  His gaze bores into me. All his thoughts and emotions swirl in his eyes like they’ve always done. With me, Lincoln was never able to hide his feelings. I saw them.

  All of them. Swirling in the storminess of his eyes. His eyes make me ache.

  Lincoln nods absentmindedly.
I watch him, wondering what he wants. Answers? Closure? Whatever it is, I need it over quickly, because I need all the space I can get.

  “I’ve thought about this,” he tells me.

  “About dancing with me at Kennison’s wedding?”

  “About seeing you again.” He drinks me in, like he’s been wandering, lost and thirsty.

  I grip his neck tighter. “Yeah?”

  “Every time I have to go to LA. I replay all the things I want to say to you over and over again in my head while I’m on the plane.” He smiles, but it’s not the same. This one is guarded.

  Tucking a piece of hair behind my ear, I shift under his gaze, heated by his look.

  His eyes roam over the blush I know is on my cheeks.

  “Do you love him, Em?” he asks.

  “Yes.” My answer comes out way too fast and shaky.

  “Like you love me?” His voice is bitter and jealous as he stares at me.

  “No.” I blink up at him rapidly, trying to remember how to breathe.

  He pulls me in, closer to him. I feel the tension in his body. It radiates off him.

  It’s completely gut-wrenching.

  It hurts to look at him.

  Even more, it hurts to still love him.

  “Then what the fuck are you doing with him?” he asks hoarsely.

  His voice is a plea for me not to be with Jake. To pick him. I ignore the question.

  “Do you love her?” I counter, referring to his fiancée.

  He grips my waist tighter. “Who, Em?”

  “Your fiancée,” I remind him.

  “My . . .” He trails off before a chuckle falls out of him.

  “What’s so funny?” I bristle.

  “Tricia is not my fiancée.”

  “She had a huge ring on her finger, Lincoln.”

  “She’s a friend. The fiancée of the pitcher on the team I work for.”

  “Oh.” My shoulders fall.

  “She came with me to the wedding as a personal favor,” he adds.

  I pause, needing a moment to process, because I wish she were.

  It would make all this so much easier if he had moved on.

  “I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I had no right to pry.”