by Monica James
I’ve been strong, refusing to cry, but this is my undoing, and I surrender to the sorrow within. “He told me everything. I know he came looking for me when I left for Florida. I also know you beat the living shit out of him.”
I don’t bother wiping away my tears when I gather the courage to look at my dad. He stands tall, unapologetic for his actions. “Yes, I did beat the living crap out of him, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
“Bobby!” my mother scolds, but my dad won’t back down.
“It’s the truth, Dee. After everything he did to Holland—”
But just like my father, I’m stubborn as well. “What he did was save me and this family. You have no idea. None.”
He winces, visibly stunned by my claims. “Save you? Have you forgotten what he did to you? Why you moved to Florida in the first place?”
“No, I will never forget,” I spit, tears of anger scorching my skin. “But if only you had told me he had come…things would have turned out so differently.”
“Why? What difference would it have made?” my mom asks, always the mediator.
“I would have known that he cared,” I whisper, my lower lip trembling. And I would have come back, I silently add.
“Oh, sweetie.” She rushes forward and draws me to her chest. I go willingly because sometimes, it’s nice to be comforted and not have to be the strong one. “What happened?”
Thinking of London’s confession, of those letters he wrote me, of him unburdening his soul, I sob, “London isn’t the father of Belle’s daughter.”
“Who is?” It’s an innocent question. Too bad the answer isn’t.
My breathing is measured, and if I listened really close, I can hear the lub-dub…lub-dub to my heart. “Lincoln.”
Lub-dub…
Lub-dub…
Lub-dub…
“What?” It’s my father who first wades through the stagnate waters. “There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake. Belle told me everything.” Unable to hide in my mother’s arms forever, I pull away from our embrace and face both my parents.
“You saw Belle?” There is a tremble to my mom’s tone.
“Yes.” Now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop, but I attempt to speak past my cascade of tears. “Last night, after the way Lincoln behaved, I needed to know what happened…and there was only one person who would tell me the truth. I went to see London, and he confessed everything. He told me the reason he was so mean to me was because his mother”—a word has never sounded so sullied—“was blackmailing him.”
“Wh-what?” My mother steps back, shaking her head as she covers her mouth. “What do you mean?”
The last thing I want to do is cause her pain, but I refuse to allow London’s name be dragged through the dirt a moment longer. “She threatened to destroy our family by spreading rumors that she was having an affair with Dad. She wanted to ruin our reputation forever.”
“Oh, god, Bobby!” my mom cries, tears welling in her tender eyes. My father immediately consoles her, embracing her tight. He stares off into the distance, my confession wounding him deep.
“London knew what that would do to my scholarship and what that would do to you, Mom.” She closes her eyes for the briefest of moments, lips pulled in tight.
“So he knew the crueler he was to me, the safer we were. He did this…all this, for us.”
“What have I done?” My mother’s pleas break my heart, but her past is the reason we’re here, shedding wretched tears.
“I never wanted to be a part of your family feud, and neither did London. But we weren’t given a choice. Your past influenced our future, and now, we’re paying for the sins of your past. My whole life, London was the only person who understood me”—a guttural sob escapes me—“because he too suffered over a decision we had no part in making. But you told me to stay away from him. That he was no good. You judged him because of his surname, because of who his parents are, but you’re not without blame.”
My mom’s strangled sobs are killing me, but if I don’t get this out, I never will.
“So I grew up hating the only boy I ever…loved.” This is the first time I’ve admitted my feelings to my parents. Both appear beyond distraught by the fact. “I didn’t want to disappoint you, and I’m sorry that I have. But I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep lying to myself. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Last night was the first night in so very long that I saw a glimpse of the old Holland Brooks-Ferris, and I’ve missed her. So very much.” My chest shudders uncontrollably as I rein in the ugly tears.
My mom seems to be past the point of talking as my father comforts her. I never meant to hurt her, but she needed to know.
“Lincoln and Belle were seeing one another in high school. She found out the night of prom that she was pregnant. It was Lincoln’s as she and London never slept together. London caught them kissing, and he got into a fight because he was protecting me—just as he’s done my entire life. I just, I just wish you had told me he came looking for me because I thought he didn’t care. But he did.
“I didn’t know that, though, so I went on with my life, and for ten years, I’ve been living a lie. And to make matters worse, I’ve been living it with a lying, cheating, pathetic asshole.”
My words are not without effect on my dad, but he stays strong for my mother. “We aren’t perfect, Holland; we know that. We only did what we did to keep you safe. No matter what you think of London, never forget that Sinclair blood runs through his veins. He will always, always put his family first.”
I blink once, stunned he would say that, considering everything I have just shared. I know their hatred stems deep, but surely, he can’t condemn London for his mother’s sins. If he does, then couldn’t I do the same?
My mom’s sniffles quiet, and she wipes away her tears. Her raccoon eyes make me feel like the world’s shittiest daughter. “I’m sorry our past has caused you such pain. If I could change that, I would. In a heartbeat. But your father is right. If push came to shove, he would always choose his mother and father…just as I’d hope you would too.”
There is a double meaning behind her words, an almost ominous warning. But they forget I’m not a child anymore. I won’t be forced to make a decision I’m bound to regret.
“You’re wrong,” I stubbornly argue, shaking my head firmly.
“I hope I am,” she counters. “But it’s been over ten years, Holland, and a lot has changed. All those things he did to protect you were done when he was a child. Kayla’s hatred for this family is just as savage now as it was then. You’ve been gone. London hasn’t had to protect you. But now that you’re back, do you really think Kayla will welcome you with open arms and play happy family?”
My confidence simmers because she’s right.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t say that I will do that with London. I can’t. I will never trust him or his family. And if you choose to continue whatever this is with him, then I can’t support you.”
“Mom?” I gasp as she’s left me breathless with her candor. She has always been the sensible one, but her saying this establishes just how deep her hatred for the Sinclairs runs.
“I don’t need protecting.” It’s weak, but it’s the truth. “I can take care of myself.” And I mean every word.
She nods, but it’s laced with doubt and betrayal.
My father has his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and as I stare into those dogged eyes, eyes just like mine, I know his feelings are in step with my mom’s. I can’t believe this.
From ancient grudge to new mutiny…
There is no reasoning with them, so I can only hope once they speak, they’ll come to their senses. This feud is ridiculous. Not to mention, it happened a lifetime ago. But as my mom wears her pain all over her face, I know to her, it’s not ridiculous at all. To her, it shaped her into who she is today.
People have argued over less, I suppose. Who am I to judge? We all have our crosses t
o bear. Speaking of which…
“I’m going to take a shower.”
“Okay. What are you going to do about Lincoln?” she asks gently.
Once I’m showered, I plan to sit them down and share everything that Belle told me. At the moment, they are only getting pieces of this complex story because I haven’t even fully wrapped my head around it.
But regardless, without question, even though I’m confused and angry, there is no way in hell Lincoln is getting off without paying his dues. He may be hiding out at his parents’, but that won’t stop me. I will call first, and if he doesn’t answer, I will be going over there and airing dirty laundry I didn’t even know I had.
Slapping my cell against my palm, I reply, “Sorting this out, once and for all.”
They both nod but appear displeased with me.
Once upon a time, I could tell my parents anything, but these past ten years have shaped me into someone I no longer recognize. I blamed my work and the distance for why I didn’t visit more often, but those were just excuses.
I have so much soul-searching to do.
Quickly excusing myself, I take the stairs two at a time, afraid I’ll succumb to another bout of tears. When I enter the guest bedroom, I shake my head because there is no sign Lincoln was ever here. With nothing left to lose, I scroll through my phone, my finger hovering over his number.
It should sadden me that not once did I doubt what Belle and London revealed. Not once did I question their claims or defend Lincoln’s honor. That in and of itself is an indication of my true feelings for him.
Sighing, I press call.
Hi, you’ve called Lincoln. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
No surprise it goes straight to voicemail. Even his message makes me sick.
Beep.
I take a deep breath not to be dramatic but because I need to compose myself. “Hi. I want to say I’m surprised that you don’t have the balls to face me, but I wasn’t expecting you to be man enough to face the music. I know everything, Lincoln.”
I stand in the middle of the room with my phone pressed to my ear as I attempt to put into words this clusterfuck of events.
“Belle told me those letters I’ve been receiving for the past six months were actually for you, but you already knew that, didn’t you? That’s why you weren’t concerned for my safety. Or why you didn’t want me going to the police.
“You watched me take those self-defense classes. I bet that was fucking hilarious for you. I was learning how to fight off a predator, but this entire time, my enemy was a lot closer than I thought. Shame on me for not seeing through your bullshit sooner.
“But I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. I’m challenging you to prove them wrong. Prove to me that you haven’t been lying to me all these years. Prove to me that you actually give a shit about someone other than yourself.
“I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me that Belle’s daughter”—a hitch to my voice gives away my fury—“isn’t your child. That you didn’t come back here and sleep with her when we were supposedly in a relationship. I fucking dare you, you son of a bitch, to tell me the truth once and for all.”
There is so much more I want to say, but when that happens, we will be in the same room so I can slap the dishonesty from his cheeks.
“So you can either call me back, or I will be coming to your parents’ house. I’m sure your mom will be elated to know she’s a grandma. She just may need another shot of Botox to deal with the news. Oh, and by the way, you owe my parents an apology for being a gigantic dick to them.”
I hang up, enraged, and toss the phone onto the bed.
“Ugh!” I groan, pacing the room, overwhelmed by the need to hit something.
My life is spiraling out of control, and I don’t know what happens next. This isn’t like me. My life back in New York was methodical and predicable and how I liked it. But coming back here has shaken things up beyond repair.
My flesh begins to burn, and if I don’t undress this second, I’m certain I’ll catch on fire. I grip the edge of the sweater and am about to rip it off, but the moment I do, a fragrance which can only be comparable to cinnamon and sex catches my senses.
It instantly soothes me—like a salve to my raging temper.
My heart rate slows, and I take three calming breaths. Drawing the collar to my nose, I inhale deeply and immediately sigh. Memories of being swathed in this heady cologne assault me, and I focus on them, instead of wanting to rip off Lincoln’s head.
It’s impossible to think that London’s signature fragrance can do this to me, but my anger soon simmers, and I feel like I can breathe.
Undressing, I step into the bathroom, determined to wash away the betrayal from my bones. The warm water feels divine, and I allow myself this reprieve, lowering my guard for a split second in time. Tears rush past the floodgates, and I sob violently.
I brace my hands against the tiles, head bowed as I attempt to bathe myself clean. Before long, I don’t know where my tears start and where the torrents of water end. How could he do this? What kind of person denies their own flesh and blood?
Nausea rolls over me, but I swallow it down.
I scrub at my skin, wishing to wash away this filth festering within. But the harder I rub, the dirtier I feel. I’m grating my skin raw, unable to see because I’m blinded by my tears. I cry for the person I could have become, and I cry for the person I am.
I believed myself to be strong, independent, but I’m none of those things. How could I be when I allowed Lincoln to play me for a fool?
I’ve been sleeping with the enemy, and I don’t know what to do to fix it.
Only when the shower runs cold do I turn it off and dry myself. I feel remotely better, but I know it’s going to take a lot more than a shower to clean Lincoln from my skin.
Dressing in jean shorts and a white lace crop top, I vow to replace my entire wardrobe when I return home. As I’m lacing my sneakers, I wonder if I should call London. I did leave in a hurry, not really giving him any word on when I would see him next.
Deciding to deal with one drama at a time, I grab my bag and pocket my cell. Lincoln hasn’t called me back, so it’s time to move on to Plan B. I don’t have a car, seeing as he took the rental, so I’ll have to ask my parents if I can borrow one of theirs.
I’m not even sure if they’re speaking to me right now because I can still see their disappointment. When I return, I will make things right with them. Not just for what happened downstairs, but for being so distant these past ten years.
As I descend the stairs, I hear muted whispers in the kitchen. No doubt my mom and dad are attempting to process everything I shared. Deciding to catch a cab so I don’t disturb them, I reach for my cell, but pause when there is a knock on the door.
I doubt Lincoln would knock, if he ever returned, so I don’t think twice when I walk toward the door and open it. However, who is standing before me has me holding the wooden doorjamb as my mouth opens and closes in wordless animation.
A burst of sunshine sets his fearless stature aflare, and I blink twice to ensure I’m not seeing things. I’m not. He’s really here.
“London?”
Even though a pair of dark Ray-Bans covers those blue eyes, I know he’s devouring every last inch of me. “Hi, Princess.”
“Wh-what are you doing here?” Not the nicest of welcomes, but holy shit, he’s here with my parents mere feet away. The thought has me launching forward and slamming the door shut behind me. He arches a perfectly sculpted brow while I can’t remember if I brushed my hair.
He digs his hands into the pockets of his ripped jeans. “You just bailed. I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he explains, watching me closely. “Are you okay?”
Being this close to my parents after what they said about London is making me even more of a basket case, so I step forward, expecting London to step back. He doesn’t. He stands rigid, hinting he’s not moving an inch until
I answer his question.
“I’m okay,” I affirm, but I’m anything but when the gentle breeze begins, his cologne drenches my sense of smell with a slice of heaven. It’s a welcomed distraction because when London lifts the corner of his glasses, hinting he’s not convinced by my smokescreen, I focus on his opaque eyes and not on the fact he wants to discuss what went down.
The longer strands of his dirty blond hair kick up in rebellion when he slides his sunglasses atop his head. I take a moment to absorb his sheer magnificence. His white T-shirt hugs all the right places, showcasing those wide shoulders and the vibrancy of the tattoos that grace his taut arms.
My gaze zeroes in on the piano keys coupled with a crown because just like the name he has inked across his chest, this one was in honor of me. So is the simple word which sums us up to a T.
Defy.
The archway of stars surrounding the powerful command has me wetting my lips. “I’m angry, London. What do you want me to say? I was willing to give Lincoln”—I whisper his name, fearful of the response it will provoke in him—“the benefit of the doubt.”
When his mouth hinges open, hell-bent on protesting, I raise my finger to indicate I’m not done. He promptly seals his lips shut.
“Not because I don’t believe you, but because I dare him to contest your story. When that happened, I was going to cross-examine him until he was reduced to tears. And when he begged me to believe him, I was going to lay all my cards on the table and tell him it’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever believed a word he said,” I conclude, crossing my arms firmly.
London mulls over my promise, appearing somewhat relieved. “So I suppose you don’t want this back then?” When he digs into his pocket and produces my engagement ring, my bravado dies a quick death.
The sun catches the sharp curve of the enormous diamond, sending tiny rainbows across the marble tiles on the front porch. I took this off last night, knowing I never should have worn it in the first place.
He extends it out to me, but is it as an offering or a test?