by Mariah Dietz
“No. It’s reasonable. Dad knows.” Paxton throws a hand out toward Dad.
“Knows what?” I cry.
“Yeah, Dad, what do you know that we don’t?” Maggie takes a measured sip, her claws out, ready to battle. It brings me in a full circle, back to when she dated Jeff who performed at the coffee shop, and he tried to forbid her from dating him.
“He’s older. More experienced. That’s all I’m saying,” Dad raises his hands, palms out.
“How would you know? Have you asked him how many sexual partners he’s had?”
Dad winces at Maggie’s directness.
“You guys are all overreacting,” Mom chimes in. “It was one date, and they played mini golf. I don’t think we need to get all excited just yet. Let her find out if she even likes the guy.”
“Why would she go on a date with him if she didn’t like him?” Dad asks, something far too similar to fear rounding his eyes as they flash my way, and I can read the silent dread on his expression, wondering if I’m having sex with Derek.
I glare at Pax, silently demanding he stop the conversation now.
“There’s only one thing he wants from you, and you know it.” Pax points a finger at me, escalating the already tense situation.
“Good conversation? Intellect? Humor?” I list off.
“What do we know about this guy?” Dad asks, looking at Mom.
I clamp a hand over my eyes and tip my head back, growling with frustration. “Conversation over.”
“Yeah, this isn’t going anywhere good,” Maggie says. “At this point, Pax and Dad are going to have stockings filled with prunes because they’re clearly full of shit.”
Mom raises her glass in a toast. “Prunes!” Maggie giggles, raising her glass to the same toast.
Pax huffs out a sigh, retreat in his shoulders but missing from his eyes that remain on me. “Outside,” he says.
Lincoln’s eyebrows shoot high on his forehead, the surprise catching my attention.
Pax moves toward the back door a few feet behind him.
“You should let him just go out there and cool off,” Maggie says. “He’ll get over it. Besides, I want to hear who Derek is.”
Three years ago, I likely would have done exactly as she’s suggesting, but since Maggie left, my relationship with Pax has grown. We’ve relied on each other more and more in her absence. “I’ll be right back.” I flip on the outside lights and close the door behind me, regretting again that I don’t have a sweatshirt.
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Pax launches into it right away, fists stamped on his hips. “But you don’t know this guy.”
“Neither do you.”
“Is that the excuse he gave you?”
“Pax,” I draw out his name, my exhaustion with the conversation so far past overdone that I’m ready to scream. I rub my hands over my arms, trying to prevent myself from becoming a human popsicle. “You love half the guys on the team, and we both know you wouldn’t want me dating any of them. This has nothing to do with knowing Derek or liking him, it has to do with me getting involved with your football family. And I respect that. I get that. Trust me. I don’t want to step on your toes or get in the way, and I won’t. Trust me.”
He drops his head back. “If he hurts you, I won’t be able to play with him anymore. I won’t be able to keep my emotions off the field.”
“Why are you assuming he’ll hurt me?” The question is completely uncensored. A reaction caused by my decisions from tonight rather than a cognizant thought. “I told you, Pax. I just want to have some fun this year. I’m not looking for anything serious. He’s not going to break my heart.”
He scrubs his hand over his cropped hair. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
He tips his head down, caught off guard by my words.
“Kidding,” I say, smiling when he looks at me for clarification.
He stalks toward me, locking me in a headlock. “I’ll break his legs if he dicks around with you.”
“I’ll let him know.”
“Good. You should.”
“I will.” I push my elbow into his side. “But we need to go inside. It’s freezing.”
“You know you can call me anytime, anywhere.”
“I could. But you’d ask questions.”
He balks, and I laugh, reaching for the door.
“Why’d he take you out in the middle of the day?” Pax asks as we step into the warm kitchen, my muscles tightly bunched as I slowly thaw. “Who does that?”
My gaze swings to Lincoln, wondering what he told Pax. He stares back at me, and though I don’t know him well enough to understand his motives, I’m positive his look screams of defiance.
“I suggested it,” I tell Pax. “I thought it would make it easier to talk and get to know each other.”
“See?” Mom says. “You guys have nothing to worry about. This is Raegan we’re talking about here. She knows what she’s doing.” She sets a large bowl of gravy on the table with a ladle—my family has never bothered with a gravy boat because we each could eat the contents of one. The mashed potatoes are still in the pot the potatoes boiled in, and the crescent rolls from a package are cooling on a cookie tray in the center of the table.
Maggie pulls out the chair beside her—my chair. Though in the past three years, hers is periodically filled by Mom. “How was your date?” she asks. “He’s cute.”
“Who?” I ask, sliding my chair closer to the table.
“Derek. Mom told me his name, so I Googled him. He has a baby face,” she continues as Dad passes her a plate stacked high with fried chicken, the scent making my stomach rumble so intensely I feel nauseated. “But his eyes look kind.”
“We actually started at that coffee house we used to go to,” I tell her, taking second helpings of chicken because I already know I’m going to be eating thirds tonight.
“Which coffee house?”
“The one Jeff performed at.”
“Jeff?” Pax asks, barking out a laugh. “God, that guy was a joke.”
“Careful,” I warn him. “She hasn’t met your girlfriend yet.”
Maggie leans back. “But, I’ve heard stories.”
Pax eyes me, and I raise both hands. “I only told her about last Christmas when she got drunk on Dad’s eggnog and puked on the old recliner.”
Mom covers her mouth, obviously reliving the moment. Maggie shakes her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “You guys better be giving Pax all the dating advice you used to shovel out to me.” She eyes Mom and Dad. “Because this girl sounds awful.”
“That chair was so ugly. That was the only redeeming factor,” I say.
“It was Rascal’s chair,” Mom says.
“Rascal passed away when I was thirteen,” Maggie says.
“But he was such a great cat,” Mom insists.
“We’re going to have to sign you up for hoarders eventually, aren’t we?” Pax asks.
I shake my head. “No. We just keep inviting your girlfriend over. She’s gotten rid of that chair, the rug in the hallway, the vase you made in kindergarten—”
“We get it,” Pax interrupts my half-completed list.
Lincoln laughs, the sound surprisingly easy and comfortable, fitting in almost too well. “Wait. How did I not hear about this? She got that wasted?”
“She claims she had the flu, but she couldn’t even walk in a straight line,” Dad says, adding a pile of corn to his plate. Maggie is too busy listening, not filling her plate and passing the food my way.
“We had no idea,” Mom says. “She had disappeared, and Cal and I”—she glances at my dad as if clarifying the details—“we assumed she and Pax were fighting or something, and then suddenly she walked into the living room, holding an empty pitcher, and made it three steps before defiling Rascal’s chair.”
“You’re selling her a little short. It was at least ten steps,” Dad says.
I nod. “She spilled the remains o
f her eggnog on Poppy before she reached the chair.”
Lincoln groans. “That’s horrible, man.” He looks at Pax. I already know Lincoln doesn’t care for her. I overheard them discussing her this summer when Lincoln went camping with us: five days of me trying to avoid my reflection at all cost because I didn’t want to have any memories of my messy buns, sports bras, and makeup-free appearance knowing Lincoln was seeing me.
“Okay, we will definitely come back to this topic, but for now, tell us about the date while it’s still fresh.” Maggie pauses, her hand gripping the large spoon in the mashed potatoes. “Why’d you want to go back to the coffee house? Has it changed? God, tell me it’s gotten better, and that he wasn’t there.”
A grin pulls at my cheeks. “Derek actually suggested it, and I didn’t remember the name of it until I got there. I was experiencing PTSD all the way to the front door until I could confirm Jeff wasn’t there.”
Maggie laughs. “I bet you were. He loved telling you his problems. ‘She has an old soul. She understands me.’” Maggie does a terrible impression of Jeff, with a thick gypsy accent that he never spoke with. It doesn’t matter, we’re all laughing just the same.
“Do people still read poetry and sing?” she asks.
I nod, grabbing a crescent roll because she’s taking too long with perfecting her little dome of potatoes, and I’m ready to start eating off her plate. I chew a large bite and take another.
“I bet that was weird. Derek doesn’t perform though, does he?” Maggie lifts her brows.
I shake my head, swallowing the crumbs of my roll. “He said his roommate told him about it.” I shrug. “It might be cool, I’ve just been scarred for life and couldn’t stay there.”
“Plus, you’re a really bad liar,” Maggie adds.
“Literally the worst,” Pax says.
“Which is why you guys should be glad I like you.”
Pax’s laughter is instant and loud, a sound that pulls my lips northward.
“So, is he nice? Funny? Smart?”
Talking about him in front of Lincoln makes my stomach churn and temporarily feel full. “I don’t really know him well enough to say,” I tell her honestly. “He seems nice enough.”
Maggie flinches. “Nice enough?”
“He’s nice,” I clarify. “And he’s smart. He’s majoring in business, so dad probably knows more than me at this point. But, yeah.”
“So, how did you guys end up together if you were on a date with Derek?” Maggie asks, looking from me to Lincoln, her gaze remaining on him, directing the question thankfully away from me.
“I was actually there with a friend,” he says.
“What a small world,” Maggie says.
“Who were you with?” Pax asks.
“Nikki.” Lincoln looks at his filled plate and lifts his fork.
Paxton’s surprise is evident as he pulls his chin back, his eyes growing round. “Nikki?”
Lincoln chews the bite of mashed potatoes he’d forked up, lifting his gaze so slowly I forget that I’m starving. Coffee-colored eyes dance between mine, thoughts processing so fast I can’t catch any one of them. “She called and asked to hang out.”
Pax cuts a bite of fried chicken. “Yeah? You’re going to start hanging out again?”
Lincoln tears his eyes from mine as he grips his glass of water, taking a long drink before he shrugs. “I don’t know, yet.”
23
With Maggie being home, I can’t use a recycled excuse to leave the table early, but her two-year absence is becoming more strikingly obvious as she looks to each of us when someone laughs at an inside joke or gives an update on a situation. It makes the section of my heart sequestered to sisterhood and the knowledge Maggie will be my best friend for life to ache with guilt and a fresh realization about how much she’s missed and how impossible it is to keep her apprised of so many things that don’t seem like a big deal until I look back and realize they’ve been an integral part of our lives.
“Okay, Pax. Back to your girlfriend. Let’s air this dirty laundry.” Maggie flexes her fingers and leans back before pushing her emptied dinner plate away. Dinner came to an end slowly, everyone enjoying seconds and some of us thirds, sipping our drinks slowly, and joining in the conversation to stretch the meal. I was concerned Derek would be upset that I abruptly ended our date and left with Lincoln, and now, I can’t even care about it.
Tiredness sits at the back of my thoughts, reminding me I’ve been up since before 6 a.m. every day this week and falling into bed after midnight. While Pax dodges questions about his failing love life, I consider what time I need to wake up to be at the docks on time and remember then that my car is still at the coffee house I met Derek at. I scrub a hand over my forehead, checking what time it is. I might be able to get Poppy to give me a ride so I don’t interrupt my parents from getting their time with Maggie. I try to recall her schedule and if she told me she had plans tonight.
Eyes burn into me, breaking my thoughts and the dread of knowing Poppy is going to give me the third degree for not calling her as soon as my date ended, and will ask a million questions that will lead to my kiss with Lincoln, and that is going to be really difficult to dissect with her tonight when each of my emotions feels like it’s been weathered between kissing Lincoln, kissing Derek, and Maggie’s surprise visit home. Lincoln’s staring at me, silent questions sitting heavy on his lowered brow. The brown of his eyes appears both lighter and grayer with the gray Henley he’s wearing, a replica to the thick cloud cover that is constantly seen hanging low on Mt. Rainier, often blocking her from view entirely.
I look away.
“I need to call Poppy. I’m going to see if she can give me a ride to my car.”
Dad leans back. “One of us can take you.”
“No. You guys should visit. It won’t take long.”
“I can take you. I’ve already had this conversation a hundred times more than I wanted to.” Lincoln pushes his chair back, not waiting for my answer.
Bossy, pain in my ass.
“That’s okay,” I start, searching for an excuse for him to stay behind as well that doesn’t include the massive web of thoughts he’s procured and tangled.
“We’ll be back,” he tells my family, and surprisingly, none of them say anything. Not even Paxton, who I thought would give at least a warning speech or inquiring stare.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. “I need to grab a sweatshirt,” I tell him. “I’ll meet you in the living room.”
He stares at me too long. I know he’s thinking something, but I don’t look close enough to try and decipher his thoughts. It’s a risk I can’t afford right now, my pride bruised, and my emotions battered as they pull in opposing directions.
I round the corner of my room, flip on the light, and pull open my closet.
“Pink. Interesting.”
My heart launches into my throat at the sound of Lincoln’s voice catching me off guard.
“What are you doing?”
“I didn’t picture the pink bed. I imagined blue.” He peers around at my light gray walls, his gaze leaping across each heart I cut from copies of my favorite novels and strung across my room.
I lift a brow. “You spend a lot of time picturing my bedroom?”
A slow grin reveals his straight, white teeth. The ones that bruised my collarbone and were erased by the gentle swipe of his tongue. I’ve thought of him doing the same dance of pain and pleasure to the rest of my body too many times. “You didn’t pick it out,” he says it like a fact. Like he knows me.
“I did,” I lie.
His eyes cut to me, and then he sags against my wall. The gesture too easy and comfortable. He makes my entire room look drab in comparison. “Bullshit.”
“How would you know?”
“Are you ready, yet?”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
His question makes my temper spike. He knows what, and his coy smirk confirms that he�
��s baiting me. I grab a sweatshirt Maggie sent me from Prague. It’s baggy and warm, dark green with the country’s name printed across the front of the hoodie. I tug it over my head and discover Lincoln six steps closer to me—and only one away—as I pull the fabric clear of my face. My heart responds immediately, jumping around like a fish who’s been pulled out of the comfort and security of the water.
With him standing so close, I search his face for clues—for understanding of what he’s doing. I try to recall if it had been me who ended our kiss or him because although I remember it being me, the pangs in my chest make it feel like it was him. Why is that? Why does it feel like he rejected me?
“What?” he asks, his voice a quiet rumble as he searches my face in return.
“Nothing,” I answer too fast, my voice too high, making it sound like a lie to even my own ears.
“Is this because of Pax or because of Derek?” he asks.
This.
The situation is so much more than a this.
“I don’t know. Is this because of Pax or Derek?” I ask him, reversing the question, because he’s never shown interest in me until now—until that first party when Derek and I were talking.
“You think I’m jealous?” He’s so close, his breath skates across my face, warm on my cheeks and cool on my lips.
“I know you don’t like him.”
“The only way he fits into our situation is that I refuse to take his scraps.”
“You keep saying it’s not a competition, but all your words and actions say the opposite.”
His jaw tics. I’ve exposed a nerve, or maybe I’ve struck it. It’s wrong, but it makes me feel almost relieved that he’s feeling conflicted, considering my heart is feeling so battered at the moment.
“It’s your move,” he tells me, then turns, retreating out of my room and taking every ounce of air with him.
I stand there, stunned, hating that he’s already out of view. I’ve been obsessed with all things Lincoln for three years, and I have no idea how it’s turned into this situation where I can’t even trust myself.
I pull my hair from my sweatshirt and leave the confines of my room, searching for air again, and I find it in the living room. Lincoln’s checking his phone, bringing out more of my insecurities with the realization there’s a ninety percent chance that whatever message he’s received is from a girl—another girl. He looks up as I approach, careful to leave a wide gap between us for my own sake and so I don’t muddy the waters further. I need to analyze every second of the past few hours with Poppy to gain a little perspective.