***
Sara marked each day off on the calendar next to the refrigerator, wondering when that elusive day would come when she would be healed, when the pain and guilt would be gone. One month. It had been over thirty days since his body was lowered into the ground.
She set the black marker down on the counter, staring at the bold X on January 2nd. Another day down and still no relief. Sara ran a hand through her stringy hair, not even sure when she’d last washed it. She shuffled toward the phone, staring at it. She hadn’t heard from Lincoln or seen him in almost a week. Maybe he’d finally given up on her. Maybe he finally blamed her.
Sara had been waiting, the thought always in her mind, no matter how far away she tried to shove it, that the day would come when Lincoln realized everything he’d lost was because of her. It would kill her, losing Lincoln on top of losing her husband. It would take what was left of her life and end it. She swallowed painfully and turned away from the phone. Staring at it wouldn’t make it ring. Thinking of him wouldn’t make him appear. Remembering her husband wouldn’t make him alive.
The knock at the door was soft and Sara almost didn’t hear it. She paused, her head tilted, as the faint knock came again. Sara moved toward the door, not sure who it would be, and almost hoping it would be no one. Her nerves came to life at a name that slithered through her mind: Lincoln. A glance at the clock showed her it was close to eight; late enough to try to shut the world out.
Sara hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. She could ignore it, lie down, and pretend no one had ever been on the other side of the front door. Only she couldn’t, because she knew who it was. Somehow she could feel him, feel his body heat even with a door between them. Even if he hated her, Sara didn’t have the power to ignore Lincoln. She’d rather deal with his loathing than his absence.
And so she opened the door.
Flint-colored eyes set in a face pale with strain stared at her from the shadows of night. It had only been days since Sara had last seen Lincoln, but his cheekbones seemed more prominent, his jaw more angular than square. Stubble covered his jawline and his dark waves were long again, giving him a disheveled look. The death of his brother was physically ravaging him; stripping him down to someone Sara didn’t know. Or maybe she did. He was her.
“You look horrible,” he said in a gruff voice.
Sara couldn’t get mad. She knew it was true.
“Can I come in?”
She nodded, not moving; her stomach churning as she imagined all the hateful words about to leave his lips. One dark eyebrow lifted and Sara flushed, backpedaling into the house to give him room to enter. Lincoln inhaled deeply, his eyes trailing over the kitchen to the right and the living room they stood in. Sara wondered if he saw his brother in the smallest of details, like she did.
He looked at her, his features impassive, shoving his hands into the pockets of his green hooded sweatshirt. Wisconsinite through and through, Lincoln rarely wore a jacket, even on the coldest of days.
“How’ve you been?” Lincoln muttered something and glanced away. “Don’t answer that. Stupid question.”
“Are you okay, Lincoln?” she forced out, immediately regretting her words. Of course he wasn’t okay.
“No. I’m not okay. You’re not either.”
Sara shook her head, looking at the floor.
“My parents left yesterday.” Her head jerked up and her eyes searched Lincoln’s face. “They wanted to hang around until after Christmas.” His mouth turned down. “It was awful, Sara. Christmas. My mom cried, like usual. My dad barely said anything. And the whole time, all I could think about, was you. If you even knew it was Christmas. If you even cared. What you were doing. If you were alone. I hated the thought of you being alone.”
“It’s—it’s okay, Lincoln,” she whispered, turning toward the couch. Sara hadn’t realized it was Christmas until it was the day after. She was glad she hadn’t known. Christmas had always been with the Walker family. A stab of pain in her chest acknowledged that that was no longer the case.
“They don’t blame you, Sara.”
“Don’t lie, Lincoln,” she said wearily.
“They’re just grieving and aren’t doing a very good job of it. That’s all. I just…I don’t want you to think they hate you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Lincoln rubbed his head and sighed, casting a bleary-eyed look her way. “It does matter, Sara. It matters to me, okay? I hate the thought of you hurting any more than you already are.”
“Why?”
His jaw tightened. “Because I—“ Lincoln cut himself off, snapping his mouth shut.
“What, Lincoln? What is it?”