Days, sometimes weeks, went by without them speaking, but it always became too much. There was a point, without fail, when it turned unbearable for Sara to continue to keep her distance from Lincoln, and she knew it was the same for him when he abruptly appeared at her house, surly and confrontational, but close-mouthed about that day he’d changed everything with his confession.
She didn’t know what they were doing to each other. It was like they tried to stay away from each other, and then they couldn’t stay away any longer. And his words. Those words Lincoln had spoken to her; they haunted her, made her hot and cold at the same time; caused her heart to race, and filled her with fear so intense she tasted it in the bitterness on her tongue. Why had he said those things to her?
Because they’re true. Sara swallowed painfully, eyes on the darkened house. It was obvious he wasn’t home. The truck wasn’t out front. Not a light was on in the house. Sara glanced at the clock on the dash. It was after eight.
She shivered in the cold car, ready to turn around and head back home when she saw something in the window. At first she thought it was merely the Christmas lights on the Charlie Brown tree twinkling, but no, it was a shape; large and masculine. And it was outside on the deck. That’s what had caught her attention; the lights had blinked out for a moment when the figure had shifted. She had the passing thought that it was odd the Christmas tree was still up when it was April, but it disappeared as soon as it formed. Apprehension followed her as she got out of the car, looming over her in a dark mass of unease. Why was he outside, in the dark? Had something happened to him? Pressure built in her chest at the thought, hurrying her steps.
“Lincoln?” she called as she walked up the deck stairs, her tennis shoes thudding on the wood as she went. She jerked to a stop, blinking at the murky form before her. Sara’s voice was slightly breathless as she asked, “What are you doing? Are you okay?”
Lincoln lifted his head, his features in shadow. “Define ‘okay’.”
“Are you injured? Do you need to go to the doctor?” Sara took a step closer to him, her heart beating a little too fast.
“Nope. Must be okay. What are your thoughts on alcohol?” he asked evenly.
“What?” she asked, dumbfounded by such a question.
He sat back in the chair, clanking something on the table next to him. Sara squinted her eyes at the clear bottle that looked disturbingly empty and then looked at him again. He wore a white tee shirt that glowed in the dark and jeans. He had to be cold, but he was strangely still.
“Are you drunk?”
“What does that mean, Sara? Drunk? What signifies one as drunk? Slurring of words? Imbalance? Large consumptions of alcohol? If so, I am one for three.” He smirked. Sara didn’t know how she knew Lincoln was smirking with it being so dark out, but she did. It was in his voice; slightly mocking and low. “You didn’t answer me.”
Sara frowned at him, crossing her arms. “What are my thoughts on alcohol? It’s okay. In moderation. I think you overachieved on the whole moderation thing.”
“I moderate. I moderate my hand going up to my mouth and my hand going back to my lap. Tell me that isn’t moderation.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
She gestured toward the bottle. “This. Drinking. You don’t drink.”
“Clearly…I do.” Lincoln grabbed the bottle and tipped it up to his lips, tilting his head back to finish it off.
Sara stared at him, knowing he was hurting and she was hurting because of it. “You don’t have to do this.”
Lincoln stood, carefully and slowly. “Yes. I do. I’m drinking my sorrows away. Isn’t that what people do?”
“Not you.”
“Not usually,” he corrected, leaning his hips against the wood railing of the deck and crossing his arms.
Sara’s arms dropped to her sides. A burning need began inside her—no, that wasn’t true—the burning need already inside her grew. Her arms ached to wrap around him, her heart pounded at the thought of him being close to her. Lincoln was too far away; physically and mentally. Sara wanted to bring him back to her, but she didn’t have the right.
“I never was a big drinker. I think I’ve found the error of my ways.”
“Going to turn into an alcoholic now, are you?” she asked quietly, her stomach knotting. Everything was wrong; his words, his behavior. None of it was Lincoln.
“Why not? What have I got to lose?” His eyes, previously hidden in the dark, sparked with silver fire as they trailed up and down her face. Not you, those eyes said.
Sara’s skin chilled more than it already was and she rubbed her arms. “Lincoln, this isn’t you.”
“Do you know the term ‘broken record’?” he softly mocked.
Her face flushed. “Yes. I do,” she said stiffly. “Are you implying something?”
“I don’t think implying is necessary. It’s pretty obvious. You’ve been saying the same things over and over since you got here. By the way, why are you here?”
“I wanted to check on you,” she said, sounding lame and feeling lame. I missed you. I need you.