4. Lincoln
4
Lincoln
I sing along to the lyrics of The Gaslight Anthem’s “Old White Lincoln,” tapping my thumb in frustration as I weave in and out of traffic on the NJ Turnpike South. All morning, as I counted dishes and stacked plates, I thought of Seraphina.
All afternoon and evening, when I scraped food and remnants of shared meals, I worried about Seraphina.
And now, driving back from the city and toward home, I’m consumed by thoughts of Seraphina.
When we first met and exchanged numbers, there was no ritual or habit to our text sprees; sometimes, they would come in the morning, other times at midnight. But as we’ve grown comfortable and learned each other’s schedules, we’ve fallen into a pattern. I always text her in the morning since I’m least likely to wake up before eight, and she typically texts or calls at night so that I have something to look forward to on the drive home from work.
But tonight, she broke that pattern, and I can’t help but feel that asshole who followed her outside at school is the reason why.
“What’s going on, little cierń?” I speak into the dashboard, wondering if voicing the concern out loud is akin to the Sandman or Bloody Mary, where you’re supposed to feign ignorance and not call attention to them for fear of an attack. Or, in my case, the worst situation to come true.
My phone vibrates rapidly in my cupholder, and I fish it out, hoping it’s a call from Seraphina, but I deflate as soon as the name on the screen pops up. Lowering my music to background noise, I swipe to answer the call.
“ Cze??, Mamo .” Hi, Mom.
“ Cze??, Kochanie. How was work?” My mom seamlessly switches from Polish to English; barely an accent remains as she oscillates languages. Growing up on a dairy farm in the Polish countryside, she met my dad, a Louisiana Creole talent manager, when she started modeling as a young adult. They’re a study in contrasts, with my father’s dark skin, dark eyes, and patient personality and my mom’s fair complexion, white-blonde hair, and quick temper.
“It was good. I’m on my way back to the house.”
“Good. Now I wanted to speak with you about Mother’s Day.” I roll my eyes at my mom’s words. It’s November, and there’s no reason for us to speak about a holiday in May this far in advance.
Instead of telling her that, though, I humor her and let her absurdity distract me from my worry over Seraphina. “And what about it? It’s the second Sunday of May, right?”
“ Tak , and on May twenty-sixth. There are two we celebrate, as you know, American and Polish.” Yes, but only one Father’s Day in our house.
“Of course.” My tone is serious, but inside, I’m laughing at her.
“I’d like to go away the week between the two days this year. A family trip would be very nice. Can you arrange your schedule to take off?”
Since the request will come six months before I need it, I’m sure that won’t be a problem. But again, instead of snark and sarcasm, I give my mother the respect she deserves and commands. “Yes, I’ll tell Franki.”
“Good, good. And please, give Francesca and her wife my love, yes? And tell her to pass along to Sylvia that I’ll be calling her for lunch.”
“Why don’t you just call Dante’s mom yourself? You don’t need Franki to tell her that.” In high school, my parents became close with Dante’s parents, especially his mom after his dad was killed, and also Grey’s dad. Knowing each other for so long eased the transition from high school to college, and now, as adults, it makes the step into senior year and impending adulthood less dramatic.
“Lincoln.” My mom huffs, sounding about as scary as a housecat.
“Fine. I’ll tell her.”
“Good boy. I’ll let you go. Drive carefully. Kocham ci? .”
“Love you too, Ma. I’ll call you this weekend.” With that, I hang up, pulling off my exit as I do. Her lack of questioning about Seraphina confirms that my dad hasn’t told her—yet. Rolling to a stop at a traffic light, I check my phone once again for any messages from Seraphina.
Still nothing.
“Fuck it,” I murmur, typing out a quick message before depositing my phone back into the cupholder and continuing the drive.
Lincoln : Hi, pretty girl. You free?
—
It’s been three hours, and she hasn’t responded to my message, though I know she’s received it and read it based on the read symbol below the text. As I drink my beer, standing in an overcrowded room at a party I don’t really want to be at, I scowl, confused as to what happened in the twelve hours since I spoke to her and heard that fucker’s voice in the background.
I can’t help the feeling that some shit went down, and while I don’t want to be an annoying asshole demanding she speak to me, I can’t stop the need to constantly check my phone, wondering if and when she’ll reach out.
It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I’ve spoken to her, and this is how I’m acting, like a pathetic, obsessed schoolboy with an infatuation with the prettiest girl in class. I hate it, but I’m leaning into the feelings, not shying away from them. After seeing my two best friends get their asses handed to them by their girls, it may be that I’ve been conditioned these last two months to see the merits of a steady relationship. I’m man enough to admit that even now, with Dante and Grey standing next to me with their girlfriends and their friend Serena, I’m jealous that I don’t have someone to trade inside jokes or bullshit the time away with. I tell myself I want someone special in my life, that what I’m feeling is a need for companionship, not for any one particular person.
But it sounds like a lie. Maybe I’m feeling lonely, or maybe there’s just something about Seraphina Rose Gregori that haunts me.
I want it to be the former, but it’s probably the latter.
My mind buzzes as I continue sipping my beer and lean against a bare wall, surveying the party and drunk patrons around me. It’s so loud in here, and the beat of feet against the floor so steady that I nearly miss the vibrating in my back pocket.
As soon as I feel it, though, I can’t ignore it.
Grabbing the device from my pocket, my shoulders relax for the first time since before my shift this morning at the name on the screen.
Seraphina : Hey
It’s not a wordy text or playful or flirty like I’m used to. But it’s something, and I’ll fucking take it.