She snatched her hands back, grabbing the cups off the floor and standing. Without looking at the kind it was, Sara quickly poured coffee into a cup. “I’m ready.”
It was a silent drive back to Boscobel. After a few sips of the bitter, stale coffee, Sara gave up on it and set it in the cup holder. Lincoln did the same.
“It really was horrible.”
Sara looked at his profile and saw that he was grinning. “Yes. It really was,” she said.
Lincoln pulled the truck up to the curb by the small white ranch-style house, putting the vehicle in park. He twisted his body so that he faced her, the bill of his cap hiding his eyes in the gloomy light. “We’re going to change some things, Sara.”
She stiffened, but didn’t respond.
“We’re going to do things we don’t want to do, we’re going to socialize, we’re even going to hang out together weekly. I know, once a week just isn’t enough. Fine. We’ll try to make it a couple times. We’re going to laugh and smile. We’re going to live. Understand?
“This is what Cole would want. He would freak out if he saw the way you’re living now. You know it too. This is stopping. Now. You can get mad at me and you can try to push me away, but guess what? I’m not going anywhere.”
Sara’s eyes filled with wetness. There was a lump in her throat that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times she swallowed. He was so nice now, but soon, he would hate her. Maybe she should just tell him and get it over with.
“Lincoln…” she began.
“I’m removing your free will from this subject. You have no say in this, Sara,” he said firmly, resituating his hat so that his face was partially shadowed.
Sara sucked in a sharp breath as she watched him fiddle with his cap until he had it just right. Lincoln did it just like him. She’d never noticed that before. It made sense. They’d grown up together, only two years apart in age. Of course Lincoln would have some of the same mannerisms as his brother.
“Sara? What is it?” Lincoln leaned closer, a frown on his face.
“Nothing.” She turned away, grabbing the door handle, and jumped down from the truck. It had begun to snow and her shoes slid on the cement.
Lincoln met her at the front of the truck, reaching for her arm. Sara jerked back, not wanting him to touch her. “What’s going on, Sara?”
“Nothing,” she muttered again, hurrying toward the house and away from Lincoln. Only he followed.
He grabbed her arm and swung her around, his eyes like stormy gray clouds. “You need to talk. You need to tell me what’s going on right now. Or I’m not leaving.” Lincoln’s hand dropped from her arm, but his eyes never left her face. Those were stronger than his hands would ever be; they had the power to hold her in place with their intensity. “You know…every time that phone rings and no one talks and I know it’s you, I get this pressure in my chest. Every time I hang up that phone knowing you’re on the other end of it, that pressure builds until it just…aches, Sara. I worry about you. I worry about you a lot. Talk to me.”
She stared at his unrelenting face, tripping over her words. “You just—you remind me of him, okay? Sometimes you do or say something just the way he would have. And it hurts. Being around you hurts sometimes.” Snowflakes fell harder, blanketing them in a layer of cold whiteness and wetting Sara’s face along with the warm tears that never really went away. They were always there, below the surface, waiting to be unleashed in all their sorrow and anguish.
Lincoln stared at her. His lips pressed together and Sara looked down, wrapping her arms around herself. She was so cold. Always so cold. As though he’d heard her thoughts, Lincoln pulled her to him and cocooned her against his chest, his arms warm and strong around her.
Sara stiffened; her first impulse to move away. She knew it would do no good; she knew he wouldn’t let her go. Sara inhaled a ragged breath, lowering her head as his heat seeped into her, finally warming her. For once, she wasn’t so cold. But it felt wrong. It shouldn’t be him holding her. Sara stepped back and Lincoln let her go.
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even look at him. Sara kept her eyes lowered as she walked to the door, quietly opened it, and shut him out. She didn’t move away from the door until she heard the loud engine roar and the truck barrel down the street. Only then did she exhale. Only then was she able to get her legs to move.
***
“What are you thinking, Sara?”
She set the yellow fleece blanket on the dresser and turned. Lincoln stood in the doorway of the partially painted nursery, arms crossed, eyes directed at her. His hair was messy in a way only a hand repeatedly run through it could accomplish.
“Where’s Cole?”
“Outside. Where else? What are you thinking?” he repeated.