15. Lincoln
15
Lincoln
“Gemma, what are you doing here?” I ask, exasperated by her possessive display. She knows who Ava and Grey are; she’s been to their townhouse, out to dinner with them, and we’ve had them over to our place.
She was staking her claim with Seraphina and making her feel as small as possible. I deal with a lot of Gemma’s shit, but when she turns into a catty mean girl, I don’t hesitate to call her out.
Wrapping her arms around my neck, she pouts, pushing her plump lip out as far as it’ll go. “What do you mean? You invited me.”
Grabbing at her wrists—again—I remove her hands from my body. “And you said you couldn’t make it. What changed?”
Breaking my hold, she rolls her eyes and sits, grabbing the drink in front of her—Sera’s drink—and sipping it until only fruit remains at the bottom. “Lacey’s behind the bar. She mentioned you were here.” She pushes the glass away, crossing her legs like a princess on the throne. I hear what she doesn’t say: her friend told her I was here with beautiful women.
Gemma is a lot of things, and jealous is one of them. Shaking my head, I look past her, following the direction Seraphina disappeared. I feel guilty as fuck. I could feel her anger at the mention of Mitch, and I felt like an asshole as soon as I said his name. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love her reaction—it reminded me of the fire she used to have when she was passionate about things, a stark contrast to the normally quiet and serene facade she typically presented.
But that fire melted as soon as Gemma came in.
Standing from my seat, I look at Gemma, so preoccupied with her phone that she doesn’t notice my movements. “I’ll be right back.”
“Bring me back a drink? A vodka club with extra lime, but none of the fake juice. I’ll know as soon as I taste it.” She shudders as though the thought is revolting. I look up, about to concede to her request, when I notice our waitress approaching our table.
“The waitress is coming around to take orders. You can order a drink with her.”
“But Lincoln,” she whines, sticking her lower lip out in a carefully fabricated pout.
“For fuck’s sake”—I run a hand over my face at the display—“just order yourself a drink, Gem.”
I start to move away, but Gemma grabs hold of my arm, digging her long red nails into me and preventing me from following after Seraphina.
“Don’t think I don’t notice that look in your eyes, Lincoln. You can either sit down next to me and get over whatever it is that’s going on in that brain, or you can make damn sure that I will cause a scene. So, which is it? You want to follow that little mouse, or are you going to sit next to your girlfriend?”
Warring emotions of anger and guilt crash into me, and I can’t help the sneer that twists my mouth. “Are you threatening me, Gemma? You were fucking rude to an old friend, and I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“No, you want something else, and I won’t let you embarrass me. So, sit down, be a fucking man, and order me a drink.”
Closing my eyes, I shake my head and pull out the chair next to Gemma, sinking back down to avoid the shit show I know will erupt if I follow my instincts and chase Seraphina to the bathroom. I don’t like when Gemma orders me around or tries to dictate what I do or don’t do, but even in my anger, I can admit that leaving my girlfriend at a table of my friends to chase down another girl is a dick move.
So instead of checking on her to make sure she’s okay, I order Gemma a vodka soda with extra lime and watch the hall to the bathroom, hoping that she comes out so that I can get some visual confirmation that she’s okay. The thoughts of how fucked up our relationship is slam into me, repeating the thoughts I had earlier in the week about how shit with me and Gemma is very obviously toxic.
How do you even rationalize it? Being with someone for so long that even the break ups feel like a habit, one you can’t break? Sitting here, next to the woman that I’ve shared a part of my life with, juxtaposed with the woman I was fucking obsessed with back in college, I feel like a piece of shit. I breathe in deeply, trying to calm the lead bomb in my gut.
I try to ignore my internal monologue and watch as Ava, Celeste, and Serena trickle back to the table, sliding into the seats next to their respective men. I keep waiting for the moment Seraphina will emerge from the shadows in the hall and come back to the group.
But she never does, and neither does Bianca.
“I’m running to the ladies,” Gemma murmurs beside me, leaning forward to kiss my cheek.
Nodding at her, I don’t turn my head as she gets up and walks toward the bathrooms. But once her figure disappears, I spin around to look at Ava and Celeste. “Where did your sisters disappear to?”
“They called an Uber.” Ava shrugs, taking a sip of her drink and feigning nonchalance, but her eyes tell a different story. Narrowed on me, they communicate everything she’s not saying: her annoyance that they left early and the very obvious fact that she seems to blame me.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You exist,” Celeste offers, and I bite back the words that want to lash out at her for that comment. Choosing to ignore her, I keep my eyes pinned to Ava.
“Why did they leave early?”
Setting her drink down, Ava crosses her arms and glares at me. “My sister has been through enough, Lincoln. A few years ago—hell, a few months ago—I thought maybe someday you and Ser would reconnect, and I could force Serena to write a cheesy holiday movie in your honor. But you have a girlfriend.” She pauses, looking over her shoulder before refocusing on me. “A very pretty, very scary girlfriend, whom you live with. So leave my sister alone. She’s the happiest I’ve seen her in a long time, and I don’t want anything to cause a setback.”
I open my mouth to respond but stop when I see Gemma’s body emerge from the hallway to my right. Gritting my teeth, I grab my beer and down the last of the contents, keeping my mouth shut for the rest of the night.
—
“God, it feels so good to be home. I get they’re your friends, but, ugh.” Gemma shivers, toeing off her shoes at the apartment’s entry. “They just talk about the dumbest things. And the tattooer guy looks like a serial killer.”
I don’t respond to her remarks on my friends, ignoring her comments in favor of power walking to the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge. Popping the top off, I chug the beer and drown out her words until the bottle is empty. Staring into the dark glass, I continue to tune her out until her feet step into my space.
Like a snake waiting to attack, Gemma grabs the bottle from my hand and throws it against the wall, shattering the glass and causing splinters to scatter across the room.
“What the fuck, Gemma?”
“You’re not listening to me,” she seethes, her face a study of anger and rage.
“And that means you should start destroying the apartment?”
“You’re not listening to me, and I’ve been speaking to you since we got in the car from that awful restaurant. You deserve better than that; I deserve better than that.” She stomps her foot, emphasizing how badly she wants to get her way in this, how she wants me to concede to her mood and apologize for tuning her out.
“You’ve been complaining about my friends, my job, this apartment for the last fucking year, Gemma. What do you want from me? You want me to pretend that I agree with you, that I’ll quit my fucking job and stand behind a camera instead of in front of a stove? You want me to what? Ditch my fucking best friends because they don’t bow down to what you want? You’ve been shitty to Ava since you found out she was a personal chef, acting like she’s beneath you. I told you to stop, but you didn’t.
“We keep going around in a fucking circle, Gem. This is going nowhere.” I sigh, dropping my voice. “We have this conversation, or a variation of it, after every night we go out. It’s either I’m not paying you enough attention, or I work too much, or I breathe too loud. I can’t do this anymore; we can’t do this anymore.”
“What are you saying?” Her voice shakes, though I’m not sure if it’s from anger or anxiety. “We’re not breaking up, Lincoln. You will not leave me.”
“Gemma,” I groan. “You can’t say you’re happy right now.”
“I’m not happy because you’re ignoring me!” she yells, pointing her finger at me. “You’re always too busy, always in that fucking kitchen. You’re not even a head chef; you chop vegetables, Lincoln. Vegetables! How do you expect anyone to take you seriously when they find out you make fucking soup for a living?”
I rear back as though slapped. I have so many things I want to say, so many ways I want to go back at her and yell and bellow that she’s fucking wrong. But one look at the clock, one glance at the fragments of glass scattered around my kitchen like confetti, has all the fight draining out of me. Running a hand over my face, I shake my head, knowing that whatever I want to say isn’t worth it.
“It’s one a.m. Go to bed, Gemma, and we’ll talk about it in the morning.” I walk to the hall closet and grab the broom and dustpan that have never gotten much use. Keeping an eye out for glass, I start sweeping the remnants of Gemma’s tirade.
“You can’t dismiss me, Lincoln. We need to talk about this.”
I continue my cleanup, keeping my back to her as I answer, “Fine, Gemma. In the morning. Take the bedroom, and I’ll stay out here tonight.”
“You’re not coming to bed with me? You’re going to make me sleep alone?”
I shake my head, not dignifying her with an answer. If I respond to her, it’ll only restart the fight, wake up the neighbors, and cause me a fucking headache.
“Fine. Be a pussy,” Gemma seethes from behind me before stomping down the hall. The sound of a door slamming alerts me to the fact that she’s not coming back out.
Sweeping up the last of the glass, I toss it in the garbage and turn off the lights in the kitchen. Checking the door and engaging the deadbolt, I grab a throw blanket my mom forced me to buy when I first moved in and settle on the couch. It’s deep-seated, comfortable enough to watch a movie on, but too damn tight to spend an entire night.
Yet, when I weigh my options—sleeping in that bedroom with an irate Gemma or on the couch where I can lose myself in my thoughts and get some semblance of sleep—the choice is easy. I’m not sure what it says about me that I’d rather sleep in the living room than in bed with my girlfriend, but I can’t deny that the quiet feels good.
Real fucking good.
When we first met, Gemma was vibrant and fun, and her independence intrigued me since my hours at work were so difficult. But that vibrancy became self-centered devotion, the fun became too many hangovers and missed events, and the independence became a wedge. We’ve found ourselves in a relationship that exists but just doesn’t fucking work, one we keep coming back to again, and again, and again, despite the fact we’re toxic together. And besides the obvious disconnect between us, how she dismissed my friends tonight left a skewer in my gut.
“Fuck,” I whisper into the living room, sick with the knowledge that shit has to change.
Maybe not tonight, but definitely tomorrow.