Love Like Crazy

by Megan Squires

  I could hear light footsteps skittering on the ground on the other side, and with a click of the lock as it turned over, the door swung open on its hinges. A man in a tuxedo stood in front of us, a tight grin on his lips. Somewhere in my head there was a faint, Ta-da! followed by the fashion police’s sirens wailing as they came to haul me off because I was definitely underdressed.

  “Lincoln,” the penguin suited man said as he reached a white-gloved hand into the gap between them. “How nice to have you back at the estate.”

  This wasn’t his dad, I didn’t think. I knew he said things were off between them, but this formal introduction was nearly laughable. It was something out of a high society movie, rich with culture and ostentatiousness.

  “Bentley.” Lincoln nodded, and then pulled me closer and swung a lazy arm over my shoulder. “Nice to see you again. This is Eppie, my girlfriend.”

  Good gracious, I was on fire. Though I knew I was undoubtedly his girlfriend, hearing that definition fall from Lincoln’s lips was the best sound I’d ever heard. I closed my eyes briefly just to block out one extra sense and focus on the pure ring as it funneled into my ears. I wanted to memorize it in my being and keep it there forever. I was Lincoln’s girlfriend. Though he’d promised savory foods on tonight’s menu, nothing would be sweeter than that introduction.

  “Nice to make your acquaintance, Eponine.” I stumbled slightly on his formal words and my footing as I edged toward Bentley to shake his hand. He didn’t seem to notice my clumsy falter. “The family is out back.”

  Through the massive marbled foyer I could glimpse the opening into a living room. Windows climbed to the vaulted ceiling, and just beyond, a family of four was playing some sport involving wooden sticks and balls. Croquet, probably, though I’d never seen it played in real life. Between the pleated khaki pants and the meticulously starched polos, I was staring directly into a Ralph Lauren add, torn from the pages of a high fashion magazine.

  And it was stunning. Truly. The smiles they wore and the laughter that echoed into the house made my stomach instantly warm. This was absolutely lovely.

  “This way,” Lincoln spoke as he pulled me through the house toward the back, getting me closer to the catalogue-like family display. The beginnings of the sun about to set filtered a haze into the room. Dust danced in the golden light and sparkled around him. I almost wanted to reach out and scoop it up into my hands. “This is your last chance to bolt.”

  “I’m not going to bolt.”

  His mother, a woman with tumbling blonde hair and rosy cheeks, giggled into a man’s shoulder a few feet away. Their backs were to us, but I could see the joy radiating out of them like they were somehow in cahoots with that setting sun and the shimmery dust. They were positively glowing.

  “This is amazing. Totally mesmerizing.”

  “We’ll revisit that opinion of yours again two hours from now.”

  I wasn’t sure my opinion would change, but I nodded and stepped through the French doors and onto the brick patio. As though we’d been formally announced over an intercom, Lincoln’s parents swiveled around to meet our gaze while his two older brothers argued raucously over a missed shot, not acknowledging our presence in the backyard.

  “Junior,” a dark-haired man, tanned and just a few inches shorter than Lincoln, addressed. He slipped a hand out toward his son. Lincoln grabbed on and delivered the firmest handshake I’d ever seen. Clearly, he was trying to pulverize his father’s hand.

  “Eponine.” Reaching two arms out toward me, Lincoln Senior (I assumed that had to be his name) folded me into his chest. The cologne in the fabric of his blue shirt stung my nose, though it had to be the most expensive brand out there. Yet something about it was just so unnatural. Definitely not the way a man would ever smell on his own. Definitely not how Lincoln ever smelled. “Welcome. I’m Lincoln, and this is my wife, Margot.” Lincoln’s mother grinned over his shoulder. She was a classic beauty—one that deserved to be on the silver screen with her flawless looks and radiant demeanor.

  “Nice to meet you.” My words shook out of me, vibrating with the nerves I tried to keep down but failed. I’d never been introduced to a guy’s parents before. “Thank you for inviting me over. You have a lovely home.”

  Lincoln’s fingers were low on my back.

  “Richard, Thomas!” Mr. Ross called out. His mouth was megaphoned with two much-too-womanly hands. “Come say hello to your brother and his friend.”

  The young men dropped their game and jogged over to the patio where we’d gathered. One was significantly shorter than Lincoln, just a few inches taller than me, and he had thick dark hair that landed over his brow and was parted in a sharp line on the side. The other had light hair and eyes, taking more after their mother, and he stood almost eye-level with Lincoln as they hugged and roughed-up one another’s hair the way boys often did.

  “Hey, brother,” the taller of the two chimed. He shrugged out of their half-embrace, then turned to me. “I’m Rick. Nice to see our littlest bro has finally brought someone home to meet the ‘rents.”

  I didn’t know how to answer that other than to blush. I guessed blushing was answer enough.

  “I’m Tommy,” the dark-haired one interrupted. His teeth were so white. He had to be a dentist. It was almost one of those don’t-look-directly-at-them moments. His smile was very nearly an eclipse. “And I’m in agreement. This is a first for Lanky.” Though he had to practically jump to do it, Tommy swatted the side of Lincoln’s head playfully. “Presentable clothes and a presentable girl? Not too shabby.”

  The brothers rotated away from us to head back to their game while Lincoln’s parents scooped sparkling flutes from a tray balanced on Bentley’s hand, which had materialized out of nowhere it seemed. It almost looked like the glasses were filled with that glittery dust from inside the house, just in liquid form.

  “Lanky?” I mouthed through a giggle to Lincoln when all eyes were turned from us.

  “Don’t ask,” he groaned. He ushered me with his hand toward a bistro table and chairs just to the side of the artificial grass turf. I hopped up to sit on one of the tall stools. “Is this still as amazing as you originally pegged it?”

  “It really is.”

  Bentley came up to our table next and offered the tray. Crystal glasses etched with geometric lines tossed rainbows across anything within a two-foot radius. I waved my hand to him, thanking him, but declining. “I’m fine for now. Thank you, though.”

  Lincoln lifted a flute and then rested it on the tabletop once Bentley slipped back into the house. He twirled the stem and reflections of color streaked across his neck and face. I’d never seen him drink before, so I figured it was just a polite gesture—one that went along with the overly dressy attire, and one that tolerated being called childhood nicknames by older brothers that truly didn’t act much older at all. This was keeping up appearances at its finest.

  “They put on a really good show, believe me.”

  “I know how that goes,” I said. “But your family’s show is so much more sophisticated than mine.”

  Lincoln’s father walked toward us, about to guide us inside for the commencement of dinner, I assumed. It seemed fitting for there to be a formal invitation to gather around the table. Before he began speaking, though, Lincoln groaned under his breath, nearly silent, but audible enough for me to hear, “Oh, Eppie. I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  NINETEEN

  I’d almost had enough. Part of me wanted to dramatically slam my napkin to the table, push up from my seat, and make a beeline toward the front door, Lincoln in tow.

  But I continued to wait on Lincoln’s cues, just like I had been for the past hour. He wasn’t ready, I could tell. So I waited.

  It was an hour filled with stories of prestigious articles in the top educational publications and medical heroics in poverty-stricken countries and galas held at the country club to raise funds and awareness for local children recently diagnosed with untreatable c
ancers. All good things on their own. All incredibly admirable things when discussed in isolation. But when they were paraded in front of you, one after the other, accompanied by excessive applauding and self-congratulatory toasting, it became a production.

  So I completely understood what Lincoln meant when he’d said it was all a show, and it was one they didn’t even give him the opportunity to play a part in.

  “Lincoln gave me a walk-through of the most recent house he’s been building,” I said as I pushed the strips of filet mignon around my plate with my fork. Lincoln had also told the truth when he’d said the food would be overwhelmingly rich. My gut ached just looking at the remnants of my meal in front of me. “It’s gorgeous. He’s very talented with that tool belt. I was beyond impressed.” I smiled, reaching my hand under the table to squeeze just above Lincoln’s knee. His frame tensed, and I could see the evident waiver in his composure.

  Above the rim of his wine glass—almost drained to the bottom with merely a splash of red wine left within it—Mr. Ross said, “I take it you’re quite easily impressed, then.”

  This is where Lincoln’s mother would jab her husband, silencing him with an admonishing look or furrowed brow. That’s what most people would do, right? So I wasn’t at all prepared for the chuckle that passed through Margot’s lips. I was even less ready for the agreeing nod that she delivered as she rubbed her husband’s back in slow circles.

  “If you really want to see something impressive,” he continued, swaying his glass in front of him as his upper body followed. “We should spend some time watching Richard’s latest documentary on his recent travels to Malawi.” He turned sharply in his seat to face his eldest son. “How many nods did that get at the Crest Film Festival?”

  With more smugness than I’d ever seen on any one person alone, Rick shrugged apathetically and said, “Four. Unless you count Desmond Pointelle’s literary lovefest in the Sun Tribune as an actual nomination, which obviously no one ever would.”

  I had no idea what any part of that sentence meant, but clearly the rest of the table was fluent in the language of pretentiousness, and they erupted in laughter so loud that, for a moment, I worried the crystal in Lincoln’s father’s hand might actually shatter into pieces.

  I couldn’t dismiss their attempt to shove Lincoln completely aside any longer.

  “Those sorts of things don’t actually impress me much,” I began, my hand still planted firmly on Lincoln’s thigh. The tablecloth brushed against my skin. “I’m much more taken by someone who not only builds homes for a living, but helps make his own home a comfortable living space for his roommates and friends.”

  “Oh, lord.” Margot’s hand flew to her forehead and an exaggerated eye roll accompanied her sudden movement. “Please don’t tell me you’re referring to Daniel Stewartson.”

  “That boy would have been better off coming home in a pine box if you ask me,” Lincoln’s father huffed. He tilted his glass to his lips and paused there for a moment, contemplating how to come across as an even bigger ass, I could only assume. “His current situation has to be a constant reminder of what a failure he was on that horrific mission.”

  Bile rose in my throat. The look on Lincoln’s face matched the acid that stung the back of my tongue.

  “I thought I told you never to talk about anything having to do with Daniel or the war in this house ever again,” Lincoln seethed. It was the first sentence he’d uttered in the last hour, and his voice was gravelly and strained like he hadn’t used his vocal chords in months. Like it hurt to finally speak.

  “Oh please, Lanky,” Tommy chimed in from his position opposite us at the long table. “Like you have any stake in it at all. You couldn’t even get yourself recruited into the damn army to begin with. Seriously, how hard do you actually have to work to have them deny you? Don’t they take just about anyone with a U.S. citizenship?”

  My stomach burned within me and the overly potent dinner worked its way up my throat.

  “Now, now, Thomas,” Margot cautioned. A little piece of me eased back into my seat, grateful and hopeful for some motherly wisdom. Finally. “It was Lincoln’s asthma that kept him from joining the military.”

  “Asthma,” Rick shrugged. He held one hand out at his side, the other one just a little bit lower on the other, like a balance. He alternated their positions, back and forth. “Panic attacks. Same difference, right?”

  Mr. Ross groaned. “Honestly, Junior. Those attacks were the absolute best thing that could have ever happened to you. Though Stewartson might be a tragic hero in some people’s eyes, you’d likely never even have made it home at all. And what would that do to your mother?” He cast a thoughtful look Margot’s direction and squeezed her shoulder delicately with those creepy lady hands of his. “To lose a son? The worst possible fate. The worst.”

  I couldn’t read Lincoln’s expression. It transitioned too quickly, a blur of emotion on his face. It went from angry, to wounded, to spiteful, to apathetic all in one glance.

  “But I suppose your own parents knew a little about the scare of that reality, didn’t they, Eponine?”

  I’d introduced myself as Eppie—I knew I had—yet they’d continuously addressed me as Eponine throughout the course of the entire night. This obviously wasn’t their first introduction to me. How had I missed that? How hadn’t I known?

  My heart raced within my ribcage. Sweat gathered on my upper lip. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, which hurt quite a bit, and blood sprinkled into my mouth.

  “I’m sure your mother was terrified that night when she thought she’d almost lost you.” His eyes burned into mine. Where Lincoln’s were a warm, golden brown, his father’s were so dark the irises could hardly be detected within their blackened hue. If a devil were to exist, this had to be his twin, no question about it. “Though I do wonder if she was even able to decipher her own emotions, really. I imagine the amount of medication they’d placed her on would lead to some sort of convolution of realities, wouldn’t it?”

  The gasp that slipped out gave up any ounce of power I might’ve had. I was caught off-guard, but I figured that was the plan all along. Words should have readied themselves, a defense should have formed, but all I could do was fight back the sting of tears that pressed into my eyes and scratched through my raw throat. I didn’t even have the chance to get into fighting mode; I’d instantly gone into survival instead.

  He didn’t stop talking. “But maybe when you’re that ill, you don’t have to face those truths head on.” Lincoln Senior’s glass was empty, yet he still held it between his fingers. Lifting it to his face, he gazed my direction. Like the mirrors in a funhouse, his image was distorted and twisted, a mangled display of taught lips and sharp, ridged eyebrows. To look directly at him muddled my already confused brain, so I broke our stare-down and held my eyes on Lincoln, hoping for some transfer of courage to occur.

  But Lincoln looked just as distressed as I was. He couldn’t offer me anything.

  “Is that how it worked, Eponine?” Lincoln’s father continued, cocking his head exaggeratedly to the side. “When you lose your mind, do you get the luxury of forgetting that your very own daughter tried to take her life?” he asked. He leaned his body over the table. “I suppose after all these years it doesn’t truly matter anymore. But if that was the case…” The points of his elbows dug into the surface like two sharp daggers. He paused, drawing out each word as though it were its own sentence, continuing, “If that was the case, doesn’t that just… make…you…sick?”

  In a movement that occurred so suddenly I could hardly pinpoint what was even happening, Lincoln’s fingers grasped on to my hand and he pulled me from the table, racing toward the foyer in the longest, loudest strides. The early evening air blasted against my cheeks when the door flew open, and as we raced down the driveway to the bus, the wind whipping at my skin felt like thousands of little needles driving into my tender flesh. I wanted to believe that was the real reason I was crying, but I k
new the pain wasn’t physical. I shoved the heel of my hand to my eyes and twisted them back and forth like a screw, hoping to keep the tears in place, but they wouldn’t obey.

  We were in the VW and on the road in a rush, and Lincoln’s silence hung in the air like that familiar thick weight of humidity before a storm. It made my skin clammy and my breathing shallow as I tried to fight through the thoughts that crashed noisily in my head. I wanted to shake everything out of it—to erase the past two hours and the spiteful words spoken around that dinner table. Mostly, I wanted to erase them from Lincoln’s memory. I wanted to go back to a point in time, just earlier this afternoon, when he’d never heard those phrases and truths. I wanted to go back to when he was blissfully ignorant and possibly in more-than-like, less-than-love with me.

  Though he didn’t speak, his heaving chest and frustrated air that rhythmically left and returned to his body communicated, independent of his wordlessness. His movements were maniacal, and when he suddenly screeched to a halt, swinging the camper onto the dirt shoulder with clouds of dust billowing around the vehicle as though smoke from a raging fire, my heart stopped just as abruptly as the engine.

  Throwing the door open, Lincoln burst from his seat and ran out into the waist high fields. Grain crunched underneath his feet like popping glass. I hesitated for just a moment, eyeing him through the dirty windshield, and then I was out there with him, racing up behind. His back was to me; his broad shoulders shook under his white fitted shirt. Like undoing a tourniquet, Lincoln ripped the tie from his neck and threw it to the ground. Then he doubled over at the waist with his palms to his knees, dragging in air sharply in painful, sucking sounds.

  I panicked, not knowing what to do. “Your inhaler!” I finally shouted. I figured I could race back to the camper and grab the one I knew he kept in his glove box. I could do that for him. I could make this better.