Sara didn’t say anything, simply turning and walking away to let him enter.
Lincoln followed her inside, shutting the door harder than he needed to. “You can’t just not answer the door, Sara. I need to know…I need to know you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” she said, crossing her arms defensively. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have Thanksgiving with your parents or something?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Sara asked, curious.
“Don’t worry about it. Going back to feeling sorry for yourself, are you?” He whipped the stocking cap from his head, tugging his gloves off next. Lincoln slapped them onto an end table beside the recliner. His movements were jerky, restrained.
“Don’t worry about it,” she tossed back at him, moving to sit on the couch.
Lincoln tore his jacket off, his boots thudding to the floor next. “I see you got your little bed all set up still too.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the couch.
Sara grabbed the blanket and held it to her as though it would protect her from the onslaught of his words. When Lincoln sat down in the recliner Sara lurched to her feet before she knew she even was.
“You can’t sit there. You know that,” she gasped out, her pulse racing.
Lincoln lifted one eyebrow, his expression carefully blank. “I can’t? Clearly I can, because I am.”
Sara wrung her hands, wanting to literally remove Lincoln from his chair. “This isn’t…fair. This…you…Lincoln,” she pleaded, unable to form words for the panic she felt. It was crushing, insurmountable in its entirety.
“You know what? You’re right. I don’t feel like sitting. I’m kind of tired, actually.” He stood and walked toward the bedroom door.
She didn’t think; she lunged. Sara grabbed his arm, tugging. “No, Lincoln. Don’t. Please don’t.”
He couldn’t go into her bedroom. He couldn’t put his touch on the room; mask the room’s scent with his. Lincoln would change it. Lincoln would take over it, like he did with everything. She could see it happening; Lincoln was sweeping all that was him away and replacing it with himself, whether it was his intention or not.
Lincoln swung his head around to pierce her with his gaze. Sara’s hands slowly fell away. His nostrils slightly flared with the force of his breaths. “You didn’t die. You’re not dying. You don’t get to die, Sara,” he ground out. “Start living.” Lincoln grabbed the door handle and swung the door open.
She didn’t know what she expected to happen when he opened the door. Her breath hiccupped at the view of the room. It was normal, nothing to mark it as a room filled with ghosts. It smelled faintly of the vanilla lotion Sara favored. The room was cast in shadows. The king-sized bed was to the left, under a set of windows. The dressers were against the wall and a full-length mirror was along another wall. The walls were painted a marshmallow white; the bedding was lavender with brown accents.
He walked inside and Sara’s heart cried a little. Lincoln stood in the middle of the room, his back to her. The seconds ticked by, turning into minutes. Sara hovered by the door, unable to walk into the room, not with Lincoln in it.
“You moved it in already.”
She frowned, not knowing what he meant. Sara followed the direction he looked and saw the hope chest at the foot of the bed. “Yes.”
“You walked into the room you never sleep in to put the chest I made you in front of the bed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” he demanded, his broad shoulders tense.
Sara stared at the back of his head, scrutinizing a wayward lock of hair that curled up on the nape of his neck. His shaggier, unkempt hairstyle fit him better than the shorter one had.
“It had to have been hard to move it. Why do all that?” Lincoln turned, his features swathed in nothingness. His face was perfectly neutral.
“Because…” She searched her brain for the right words.
“Because?”
“Because…” Sara looked at the bed she hadn’t slept in for over a year. “Because the room isn’t so lonely with it in here. It’s not so sad, with that…with what you made me in here. I know that sounds dumb, but…” She shrugged.
Lincoln approached her, the blank expression shattering and sadness and ferocity; a strange combination, bursting through the shield he tried so hard to keep erected. “It doesn’t sound dumb. It sounds…”
He swallowed, looking like he was struggling for words. “It sounds fucking beautiful.” Lincoln rubbed his eyes, sighing. “I can’t believe I just said that. I swear I’m turning wimpier the longer I hang out with you.”
“Adding the swear word made it sound more masculine.”
He dropped his hands from his eyes, a grin forming on his lips. “Ya think?”
“Definitely.”
“Good ‘cause that’s what I was aiming for.”
“Spot on,” she murmured.
He laughed and Sara realized no one had laughed in this room since him, the night of the accident. Lincoln said her name and her head jerked up, a question in her eyes. He held out his hand and motioned her forward.