Love Like Crazy

by Megan Squires

  Still crouching, Lincoln swiveled my direction like those ice skaters do when they spin around all close to the ground. “I do construction. And I’ve had a lot of practice knocking on doors in the past, so I’d say I’m pretty familiar.”

  “Selling stuff?” I found a loose thread in my pocket and began to play with it.

  “You could say that.”

  Yesterday, Lincoln came over to bring the things I needed for taking care of a dog. Today, there really was no real reason, only that he’d promised he’d show up. And he kept that promise. He was still a stranger, but already he’d done so much more than most people in my life had. I thought for a moment and wondered if I should tell him that. No. That was too heavy, too much too soon. We already had a dog that we were responsible for. He didn’t need to know that he was now responsible for giving me such a gift in that kept promise, too. That would freak him out, as it rightfully should.

  “You hungry, Eppie?”

  “Yes.”

  I wondered if he was so lean because he didn’t have the money to eat, too. But some guys were just built that way. Some guys our age could consume all of Aisle 4 down at the Winn-Dixie and still be nothing more than a splinter from a toothpick. I bet Lincoln was one of those guys. It made me want to have the chance to watch him eat, to see where he packed it all in.

  “I’d like to take you to grab a bite.”

  My stomach did that cough/clench thing again. This felt like he might be asking me out, and I didn’t know what to do with that. But if he truly was asking me out, it was the best feeling ever, to have someone ask to share your time.

  I rocked on my heels, my hands still trapped in my pockets, my voice trapped in my throat. “I’d really like that.”

  Lincoln was standing now, his own hands slunk into the front pockets of his jeans. I wasn’t sure what else we should be doing with our hands other than keeping them hidden in our pockets, but it felt like they could touch and that wouldn’t seem weird. Since they were doing the same thing as they curled into our jeans, it almost felt like they were. He bent toward me and I felt his warm breath rush over my skin.

  “That’s a beautiful sound,” he said, brown eyes meeting mine from under the shadowed brim of his hat.

  “What sound?”

  “The sound of you saying you want to spend your evening with me, too.”

  I wondered what sound he would call it if I told him that saying things like that made me want to spend forever with him.

  A crazy sound, probably.

  SEVEN

  “I want breakfast. You want breakfast?” Lincoln asked.

  There were two places in town where you could get breakfast for dinner. One was Golden Barn, the other was Denny’s, obviously. I’d opted for Golden Barn, hoping Miss Ruby might still have an apple fritter leftover from this morning’s bakings.

  She did, and as I ordered it, Lincoln’s mouth turned up just at the left side, piercing that dimple into his cheek. “You look unreasonably excited about that donut, Eppie.”

  I wished for the menu back, just so I’d be able to cover my mouth with it. Smiling sometimes felt like such an effort, like I had to truly focus on the muscles and their individual strength to get them to move in the right way. It didn’t feel that way now around Lincoln. It burst onto my face with reckless abandon.

  “I love apple fritters.”

  The seats were a shiny red vinyl, the kind that looked like they had glitter strewn throughout the material. That wannabe 1950’s diner decor. I ran my fingers nervously along the torn edge next to my leg and stuffing popped out from the slit in the plastic.

  “I’m more of a cinnamon roll guy myself.” Lincoln pulled off his Red’s cap, chucking it across the silver tabletop that was flecked with the same glittery stuff in the vinyl. The hat rotated to a stop right in front of me like a spinner on a board game. “But I don’t really discriminate when it comes to food. I’m sorta an equal opportunity consumer.”

  I bit the sides of my cheeks to try to hold the smile back, and it probably made me look creepy, but I’d look even creepier with my full-fledged clown grin.

  “Hence the Lumberjack Platter,” I nodded.

  “You got it.”

  Lincoln’s arms were long. Gangly, sort of, like the way a brand new foal’s legs looked when they were freshly born. But there was still muscle wrapped around them, a little tone and definition. He stretched them out to full-length, his entire wingspan spreading across the back of the booth.

  I could fit right there, I thought. Right in that gap between the wall of windows and the groove of his body. I bet it would be the most comfortable place in the world. I bet I could fall asleep there. I’m not sure I’d ever want to wake up.

  I shook my head briskly. “So,” I sputtered, one cheek still pinned in my teeth, warning it to stay put. “You used to sell things door-to-door?”

  “Sorta.” Lincoln slumped down further, crossing his ankles under the table, hitting my own feet when he did so. His feet were big, too.

  “What kind of stuff?” Mindlessly, I reached out for his cap, wanting to touch the worn fabric of it. He didn’t stop me, not even when I pulled it into my lap and turned it over, examining the C appliqué that curled at the edge.

  “Religion.”

  Just then, Miss Ruby came over with two Cokes in those tall glasses that got wider up at the top. She pulled out a couple of straws tucked within her apron. That apron had so much grease on it there were portions that were practically see-through, made transparent from the many coatings of oil. Lincoln caught both straws and slid one my way.

  “Selling religion?” I asked as I unwrapped my straw and popped it into my drink. It bobbed up and down against the bubbles and fizz a few times before settling in.

  “You tell people your beliefs and they either buy it or they don’t,” he elaborated.

  “Were you any good at it?”

  His shoulders shrugged to his ears. “No,” he said noncommittally. “I never bought into the particular brand I was peddling, so I sorta sucked at trying to get others onboard. Beliefs aren’t something you can fake. I didn’t last long.”

  “So how long were you successfully a fake?”

  Lincoln chuckled. His eyes even closed, too, little slivers on his face. “I’m not sure you can ever be successful at being a fake, Eppie,” he smiled with a sigh, wrapping his lips around the straw to take a sip. When he pulled them off and swallowed, he said, “I think that’s the very definition of being a failure, actually.”

  “You don’t seem like a failure to me,” I spoke without thinking. There were too many reasons why I shouldn’t have blurted out that analysis, but none of those came to mind quickly enough. Jamming the straw into my mouth, I sucked in enough soda to fill my cheeks and avoid any follow-up explanation.

  “No, not in general. But I’ve failed my parents in more ways than I care to admit, my best friends, and even my country. So that kinda sucks.”

  I gulped down the cold liquid. “I know a bit about parental failures myself.”

  Lincoln just frowned.

  Miss Ruby returned with a steaming platter of food—bacon curled into fatty ribbons, eggs over easy with their round yolks looking like suns, and about a pound of country-style potatoes, all seasoned and mounded into a huge pile of carbohydrates that made my mouth water at the sight and smell. Lincoln had a fork in his right hand, a knife in his left. He was going to slay this plate of food and take no prisoners, I was certain.

  My apple fritter was on one of those plates they used as saucers under coffee mugs. It was way too big for it, and it made the donut seem five times its normal size. It was Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs status, which made me self-conscious because I had plans to devour the whole thing.

  “Enjoy that,” Lincoln urged, tipping his knife toward me. “Looks delicious.”

  “Want a bite?” I tossed a piece into my mouth.

  I could see the yellow egg in his mouth as it opened to speak. “Nah,
you don’t have to share your edible joy with me. It’s all yours.”

  “Well, we already share a dog. A donut seems a lot less life altering.”

  “About that.”

  My stomach dropped. The apple fritter did somersaults within it.

  “He’s obviously going to need surgery.” Lincoln leaned over his plate, his elbows pressed into the table on either side of it. Every time his eyes met mine it felt like they were looking into more than just my irises. That caused panic to settle in right around those bits of donut doing gymnastics in there. I was worried what he could actually see. “I’ve got a few more construction jobs lined up and think I can save enough money, but it’ll be a few weeks before that and it’s going to start healing wrong.”

  “You don’t have to pay for him, Lincoln. He’s not even your dog.”

  Smiling was clearly effortless for Lincoln. It looked so natural and welcome on his face, like he was born smiling while the rest of us entered the world screaming.

  “He’s not technically yours, either. Trust me, I don’t mind,” he said. “I just think it kinda sucks that by the time I can pay for his surgery, they’ll probably have to re-break it to get it to heal right.”

  “I think it’d be better to be broken again if it meant he’d have the chance to properly heal.”

  His fork slipped from his fingers, clanging onto the ceramic plate, but Lincoln tried to play it off as some accidental falter. His telling eyes didn’t do nearly as good of a job, though. “Because I think you’re talking about more than just Herb, that makes me really sad.” His lips were red, like they were stained with the jam from his toast, and they pursed into a decisive line. “Eat your fritter, Eppie. I want to see you happy.”

  I laughed quickly and pulled apart another section of the donut, popping it into my mouth dramatically for his benefit. I wished food could make everything right in the world. I wished there was some magic recipe to life that could turn everything bad into something good. Like how you could save a meal gone wrong with a little salt, or rescue a bland baked good with just a pinch of sugar. Life needed something like that.

  So far the donut wasn’t cutting it, but strangely, this boy sitting across from me was getting close.

  “And put my hat on,” he instructed with a wave of his fork my direction, pieces of food trapped behind his teeth.

  “Your hat? Why?”

  “Because that would make me happy.” He smiled with his cheeks stuffed full of potatoes.

  I pulled his cap from my lap and settled it onto my head cautiously. It smelled like him and was still warm from his body heat. My hair curled out from under the fabric and the back of it was slightly baggy, even with all of my hair stuffed into it. Lincoln was a lot bigger than me.

  “How’s that?” I spoke hesitantly, eyeing him from under the brim.

  Snapping off a piece of bacon and chomping on it loudly, Lincoln flashed a toothy smile. “That, Eppie, is perfect.”

  ***

  “I’m on E. Think your dad’ll be upset I’m getting you home this late?”

  “My dad?” I blurted. “Goodness, no. The Flying Stallion doesn’t close until 2:00. I’ve got at least four more hours until he even sets foot in the house, and by that time, he won’t even be able to see straight enough to even know I’m home. We’re fine.”

  “So who puts you to bed?”

  “Seriously?” I cocked an eyebrow as Lincoln slid the VW into an open stall and killed the engine. Orange haze from the lamppost funneled into the van in a cone of light. It made Lincoln’s eyes harder to see, sunken into the deep hollowed-out shadows. I had to really search out his expression for once. “No one puts me to bed.”

  “Well, that’s entirely unfortunate,” he shrugged as he opened the door to hop out of the vehicle. Removing his wallet from his back pocket, he swiped a credit card through the machine and pulled the hose from the pump. I could smell the gasoline tainting the air and hear the liquid swishing into the tank as he inserted the nozzle with a click. “Jimmy Fallon puts me to bed every night.”

  “I can’t decide if that’s funny or creepy.”

  “Probably a little of both,” Lincoln admitted on a laugh. His hand was clamped down on the lever and he spoke to me through the open window. “But he’s hysterical and I like to go to bed in a good mood. I find it helps me wake up in one, too.”

  I couldn’t imagine waking up tomorrow in any mood other than one that was utterly, unrealistically giddy. If I happened to fall asleep any time soon, that’s exactly how I’d start my day, no need for Jimmy Fallon.

  “I’m gonna grab a 7-Up.” Lincoln hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the minimart once the tank clicked full. I glanced to the gas gage on the dash. “Want anything?”

  “I’m good.”

  “K. Be back in a jiffy.”

  I watched him skip—literally skip—across the lot to the store, and I followed his movements until I couldn’t see him behind the shelves of snacks and chocolate bars. It was as though I didn’t want to miss a moment of him. Even watching Lincoln interact with others gave me a rush. He seemed happy, even when he wasn’t. I knew that didn’t make sense to say, but that’s just how it was with him. When he spoke about things that were inherently sad, he was still so beautifully joyful.

  And it was contagious.

  It made me happy that he was happy. That he’d figured out the secret to turning this life into something more. I thought that maybe if I spent enough time with him, he’d share that secret with me.

  I mentally blocked out my calendar for the entire month.

  There was a line of three people forming at the register in the minimart, and I could see Lincoln slink in at the end of it, his disposition cool, his composure relaxed as always. He had a 2-liter and a bag of Funions in his hands and he was also making small talk with the elderly man in front of him. The widespread grin on the old guy’s face shot a pang of jealously into my stomach because, jeez, how I wanted to be a part of that exchange. I didn’t even have a clue as to what they could possibly be talking about, but I was certain it would make me feel good.

  Lincoln made me feel good.

  And bad, too, as it would be. Because when he jumped back into the driver’s seat and slammed the door into place, my gut wrenched so tight that, for a moment, I felt horribly nauseous. I figured it was all the butterflies in there that were making me sick, but then the thought of literal insects swarming in my insides made me feel like I was going to puke even more.

  I was working on keeping the contents of my stomach in place when Lincoln’s fingers brushed against mine on their way to throw his receipt into the small canister in the center console. All of those painful sensations culminated and exploded within me, butterfly guts everywhere. And can I just say, it was the best feeling ever. It fluttered in my stomach, against our skin and into the air like magic. Magical exploding butterflies.

  In that same moment our eyes collided, and his were shifty and nervous, like he’d never made eye contact with a girl and wasn’t sure how it all went. I didn’t do much better. I looked at him, away from him and through the windshield, and then allowed them to land on my lap where my fingers twisted together, all woven and tangled. It might’ve seemed like I was holding my hands there to keep them from touching his again, but the truth was that I wrapped them together so tightly just to keep that feeling in them. Like I could bind up the moment and hold it in my palms. Never let it go.

  Lincoln released a breath loudly through his mouth. “Ready to head home?”

  “No.”

  “Where do you want to go then?”

  “Not sure.”

  The engine turned over and Lincoln placed the vehicle into gear, but hesitated before moving it anywhere. “Like, do you want me to drop you off somewhere?” His inflection rose. “Or do you want to go somewhere with me?”

  “With you.”

  “With me,” he smiled, his head bobbing slowly.

  I tried to smile back, but I doub
ted it looked half as good as his. I wanted to lick that smile off his face.

  “I have four more hours with you?” he confirmed. “You said your dad’ll be home at 2:00?”

  I was going to tell Lincoln he could have all my hours—all of tonight and as much of tomorrow and even into next week—if he wanted them. They were his for the taking. But I held back and just said, “Yep.”

  Lincoln grinned, clicked his seatbelt across his lap and pulled out onto the street.

  EIGHT

  “Are you sure it’s okay we’re here?”

  I stepped over a two-by-four and tried to avoid the nails that littered the floorboards. There were hundreds of them—more than the actual number hammered into the walls, it appeared. Almost like someone decided to just throw a bucket of them into the air only to watch them fall, and then they forgot to clean them up. Since I figured I was due for a tetanus shot, I proceeded with caution.

  “Relatively sure,” Lincoln answered.

  “Only relatively?”

  The light from Lincoln’s phone swung back and forth, illuminating a framed-in room that I figured had to be the kitchen. There was an island in the center and a wooden outline where cabinets would one day go. This house was just a skeleton, which made it all the more creepy. Just joints and bones.

  “That was actually a failed play on words.” Though I couldn’t see him, I could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s my uncle’s property. Get it? Relative? So yeah, it’s fine that we’re here.”

  “And why are we here?”

  Lincoln stopped short and I would’ve slammed into his back—my face planting against his pointy shoulder blades—if it weren’t for his hand that jutted out behind him to halt me. It grazed my stomach, just above my waistband, and he recoiled the moment his fingers touched the flannel edge of my shirt. “Careful there. That beam isn’t quite secured yet.” I skirted around the column in front of us as instructed—tiptoeing almost—and followed Lincoln out of the kitchen and up to a rise of stairs at the back of the expansive home. There obviously weren’t any railings, and it was dark out—just the moon and Lincoln’s phone providing any light. I was definitely going to trip and fall.