5. Seraphina
5
Seraphina
My stomach is in knots—not a simple twist, but one of those intricate braids they taught Boy Scouts in the seventies.
I close my eyes and let the last few hours play out like a movie in my mind. When I met Mitch during my freshman year, I thought he was special. When we started dating sophomore year, I thought he was a prince. After our first breakup, I thought he was a decent guy, but maybe not the one for me. But now? After agreeing to a charade of a relationship to keep my parents from living out a legal and ethical nightmare, I hate him. I’ve never understood that emotion until now.
I thought I hated cooked carrots, going to bed late, and circuit workouts. But those things are nuisances and do not deserve emotion. The all-consuming, rage-inducing disgust and loathing I have toward Mitch is the first time I’ve ever truly understood the darkness of hatred.
Part of me hates my parents and my need to protect them from the potential danger, though there’s no power behind it. And all of me hates what I know this will do to my—friendship? Relationship? Possible relationship?—with Lincoln. Because as soon as I tell him that Mitch is coming back into my life, I know that all our communication, flirting, and banter will vanish.
And how can I blame him for the hate he’ll feel toward me ?
I feel guilt and self-pity, but I have to silence those emotions if I’m going to get on with my life in the best way I can, with the worst possible partner.
When I spoke to Mitch, I made it clear that this sham of a relationship would only last until the election results—a little less than twelve months. After that, I never wanted to see him, his father, or any member of his family again. As it stands, my life feels like a horribly written soap opera, one that housewives in the nineties would watch while ironing and scream things like, “Rebecca, he’s your long lost brother from your parents’ first marriage; don’t kiss him” at the television.
The guilt drives me to pick up my phone and type a text message to the man I ignored earlier this evening. When he texted me, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Mitch’s car, talking about the arrangement and what the expectations are. In romance novels, where there are marriages of convenience or forced arrangements, there’s almost always a happy ending—the villain gets the girl, and while the start of their union is chaotic, there’s love and sex, respect and protection. I told Mitch in no uncertain terms that if he tried to touch me in private or intimately in public, I wouldn’t hesitate to punch him between his legs.
Gnawing on my lip, I wait for Lincoln to read and respond to the simple “Hey” I sent, hoping he’s still up and willing to speak with me.
His reply is almost instant, and despite the bullshit happening around me, seeing his name pop up on my screen does something to me.
Lincoln : Hi
I don’t know what I expected, but the simple “Hi” wasn’t it. Letting my fingers fly across the screen, I try to engage him in conversation.
Seraphina : I’m sorry I’ve been so MIA today. What are you up to?
Minutes tick by as I wait, watching my screen to read his response. It takes longer than the first response, but I’m greeted with two messages when a response eventually comes through.
Lincoln : I thought you forgot about me, cierń.
Lincoln : We’re at a party with the girls. Attachment
My fingers zoom in on the selfie Lincoln just sent, spending long seconds reacquainting myself with his face before returning the photo to its original size. My eyes catch on my sister Ava, her boyfriend, Greyson, Celeste, her boyfriend, Dante, and their friend Serena.
Another text immediately follows.
Lincoln : Can you FaceTime?
My eyes widen, and I shoot off the bed, running into the hall bathroom to wash the acne medicine spotting my face. Scrubbing at my skin rougher than I should, I quickly apply tinted moisturizer and lip balm so I don’t look deathly pale in the dim light. Surveying myself in the mirror, I shake my head at my stupidity. He probably expects me to be in bed, not dressed up, ready to go out.
Drawing in a breath, I respond to his message as I walk back into my room and shut the door behind me.
Seraphina : Yeah, I can FaceTime.
The call comes in seconds later. I hesitate, closing my eyes tightly before swiping to answer.
“Cierń, you in bed?” Lincoln’s voice fills the room, though his camera captures the party rather than his face.
“Hi, Lincoln.”
“Is that my sweatshirt?”
Looking down, I silently curse at myself. The night I met Lincoln, before driving me home, he ran into his bedroom to grab me a sweatshirt to protect me from the early fall chill. I never gave it back, and I don’t plan to. “It’s cold.”
“Whatever you say. Oh shit, let me turn my camera. Wait, give me a minute.” He pauses, mumbling indecipherably before his face finally pops up on the screen.
He smiles at me, his green eyes vibrant even in the reddish lights of the party. “That’s better. Now, why are you up?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I offer lamely.
“Liar. You missed me, didn’t you?”
I smile, shaking my head. “You’re delusional.” We both know I’m lying.
“Cierń, as much as I want to talk to you, you should get some rest. Don’t you have school tomorrow?”
“If I’m not mistaken, you’re the one who asked to call me. Did you want to get me on the phone to yell at me?”
His smile is sinful, telling me everything I need to know without him having to pair words with his expression. He opens his mouth to respond when a high-pitched shriek cuts him off.
“Oh my god! Lincoln!” calls from behind him, just before a group of women enter the frame. I shrink into the pillows, trying to hide my plain appearance from the glamorous women peering at Lincoln and his phone. “Oh, how sweet. You’re calling your baby sister,” one of the girls comments, making me want to die a slow, painful death.
“I’m not his sister,” I mumble at the same time Lincoln says, “I don’t have a fucking sister.”
“A cousin then? Hi, baby cousin Simmons.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head, wilting rapidly at this turn of events.
Lincoln lets out a laugh as though the interruption is comical and not mortifying for me. “Sera, I’ll call you back in a few. If you need to sleep, go to bed, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“R-right.” My voice cracks. “Goodnight.” I hang up, not allowing him to respond.