Chapter 11
Lincoln
When I opened my eyes, my body screamed in protest. I shifted, my chin brushing against Nina’s temple. Her head on my shoulder brought last night back into focus.
Her hair spilled in long black waves, tickling my arm and ribs, right where I carried the inked songbird. I’d wrapped my arm around her waist, my hand high on her thigh. She leaned in, the faint curve of her nose, strong yet delicate, nudged my collarbone.
We’d talked until the night didn’t feel so dark.
Nina’s eyes had closed, her head resting on me, and I’d watched her until my head dropped back and sleep claimed me.
We slept snuggled against each other, sitting on the floor, my back against the bed.
Something had shifted in her. She wasn’t rushing into my arms, but we’d built a fragile bridge from the wreckage of losing our parents.
Careful not to wake her, I slipped an arm under her knees and lifted her onto my bed. Her hair fanned across my pillow as she curled on her side. For a moment, I thought she’d wake up, but she settled deeper into sleep.
The room was all wrong, cluttered and messy, a slogan for my thoughts. Before heading to the kitchen, I slid my mom’s photo album into the box and pushed it beneath the bed. It’d been safe there. So safe it was almost lost to me.
Since figuring out Nina and I had never been together, I’d hit pause. It unsettled her. I’d told her I was coming for her with everything I had, and she didn’t think I’d keep my word. But … I had.
Now, with Carmen feeding her clients and more calls trickling in, I was on a countdown. Unless I managed to change things between us fast, she had no reason to ever want to hear from me again. As much as the thought gutted me; I understood when I found that fucking text thread with Natasha.
It wasn’t just the sexting or the pictures even past me had ignored—it was the way she mocked Nina.
And asshole Lincoln, as I called that version of me, hadn’t stopped her.
He’d encouraged her. He only texted Natasha back when she trashed Nina.
That had sent me heaving, about to throw up more than once.
And then there was her cousin—my supposed best friend—egging me on in a different conversation.
The shithead wouldn’t even return my calls. Who does that?
Even though she wasn’t mine, I’d learned her.
I got up early to cook—not because I cared about the food, but because she lit up when it was hot on the table.
She kept the nebulizer in her room and hated having to get up to use it, so figured out what kind it was and ordered one to put by the armchair.
She hated it when I touched her work things, but if I left coffee next to where I’d move them to, she’d purse her lips and ignore my trespass.
She followed these little rules and expected you to figure them out.
Somewhere along the way, she’d decided that if someone cared, they’d notice.
And I did. I liked her at the hospital, and I talked a good game then, but now I was building my days around showing her.
If that wasn’t wooing, I didn’t know what was.
As I was getting ready to cook, there was a prickle in my mind that wouldn’t let me get started, and I had the compulsion to check on Nina. It was almost eleven and one of her work-from-home days, so she wasn’t in a rush, but she’d never slept in.
The sound that hit me as I turned into the corridor wasn’t anything I’d ever heard before. A raw, tearing wheeze, too jagged to be breathing, scraped through the quiet. My gut dropped.
“Nina?”
She was there—barely upright, one hand pressed against the wall was the only thing holding her up. Her other hand twitched in the direction of her room, but her body wasn’t listening. Her knees buckled, lips parting on a broken gasp.
I caught her just as she went down. Her shirt had ridden up, and her skin clammy and cold against my own. Not delicate but weak, not strong but brittle. None of this fit Nina.
“Jesus, Nina.” My throat closed around her name. I hooked an arm under her knees and lifted her. She sagged into me, head falling, sweaty temple against my chest. Each breath rattled sharp and wrong against my ribs. I didn’t understand what was happening, only that I needed to move faster.
I carried her past the bathroom and into her room, laying her down on the bed, my palms slick with her sweat. “Where? Where’s your medicine?” My voice came out frantic.
She raised a shaking hand toward the duffel bag on the dresser. I tore it open, shoving and pulling things aside until she rasped, “Bag …. Inside pocket.”
There it was. Her precious life-saving clear plastic bag of medicine.
I shoved it into her hand, and she got one of the inhalers out, but her fingers shook so badly she dropped it.
I picked it up and guided it to her mouth.
Two fast puffs, then another. I sat there counting her breaths, every second stretching, until finally her chest eased.
The hitching slowed, and the color seeped back into her cheeks.
Relief ripped through me so hard my legs wanted to fold. I raked a hand over my face, staring at her. “You scared the shit out of me. What the hell was that?”
She clutched the inhaler. “I overslept … missed my morning dose,” she whispered, voice scraped raw. “And … I’ve been skipping the nebulizer at night, only using it if I felt off rather than daily. Air’s been better here. Thought I was fine.”
We sat in silence for a second as she caught her breath, and I worked through my thoughts.
“Why would you skip it?”
Her only response was her coughing and rasping. I watched her chest stabilize, rising and falling how it did when she slept. Moldy apartment, unemployed, living with me, someone she didn’t trust. Money. That’s why.
It hit harder than the sound of her wheezing. This had been her life, hadn’t it? A gamble between her breath and everything else. I stared at her, my brain lagging behind, trying to imagine the weight of measuring air in dollar signs.
“I don’t—” My throat tightened. “I don’t understand. You were fine yesterday. You were fine an hour ago. And then you couldn’t even stand.”
I dragged a hand through my hair, the image of her clawing toward her room burned into me. How could something so invisible, so quiet, flip in an instant and leave her gasping in my arms?
I shook my head. “What are those inhalers?”
“That’s my rescue inhaler,” she explained between shallow breaths. “For when I get destabilized.”
“I need one of those.” The words came out rough, urgent. “I need one in my room, in my car—hell, one to take everywhere we go. This could happen anywhere, couldn’t it?”
Her eyes softened, the corner of her mouth tugging, not quite a smile. “Lincoln, it’s fine. I know it’s scary to see, but—”
“No.” I shook my head. The coldness of her skin still clung to me, damp and chilly where her shirt had ridden up. “It’s not fine. You were in my arms, fighting to breathe—”
Her lashes lowered, but not in softness. She’d gone into protection mode. “You don’t need to make this your problem. I’ve been dealing with it for years—on my own.”
She was putting a boundary around herself with barbed wire, and I wouldn’t stand for it.
I wasn’t studying this woman to miss this part of her.
The familiar coiling behind my vocal chords wrung tight, then snapped.
“Well, too fucking bad. You’re not on your own anymore.
So we’re going to deal with it. Your life isn’t worth your pride. ”
Nina’s eyes widened and her jaw clenched. Through heavy breathing, she pushed out the words “Pride? You think it’s pride? That’s your fucking privilege talking.” She drew in a breath, hands trembling. “I wish it were as simple as pride.”
The coldness in her words poured over me, dousing my anger.
This was one of those make-it-or-break-it moments.
I focused on her furious gaze—on who she was.
To her, this was another thing she’d always handled alone; she’d lost people in more ways than one.
The way she kept Lynnie at arm’s length told me she didn’t expect anyone to be permanent.
My chest tightened. I brushed a strand of hair from her damp cheek, and she slapped it away.
“I get it. I’ve been managing alone for a long time, too. Let me manage it with you. Please.”
She shook her head. “These are expensive, Linc.”
“I couldn’t care less about money.”
Her expression darkened.
I’d logged into my bank, seen the balance. Hell, even through my leave, I was paid. She was right, my privilege showed.
“I care,” she stated, her voice scratchy. “Because I’m the one who’s been counting dollars at the pharmacy counter.”
The words stung, but I didn’t back off. “Not anymore you’re not.”
She blinked at me, lips parting. As if leaning on someone else wasn’t even in her vocabulary. She’d pressed her lips into a stubborn line, that wavered into a wobbly, tired, raw curve. She pulled a different inhaler from the bag that looked identical to the one she’d used.
“This one’s new,” she explained, offering it to me. “It’s my backup for my backup.”
Our fingers brushed, the inhaler weighed almost nothing, but the trust in the gesture was heavy. Was this the start of outweighing whatever sins I’d committed against her?
I turned it over in my hand. Albuterol. Prescription number. Pharmacy. Nina’s information. My jaw tightened. She’d never ration medicine again.