24. Seraphina
24
Seraphina
“Remember, you promised you wouldn’t leave my side tonight. You swore an oath, one that is nonnegotiable, okay? Olivia, I need to hear you confirm this.”
I don’t need to look at my best friend to know that she’s rolling her eyes at me. “Yes, I remember.”
“You’d think you’re walking into an ambush, Ser,” Bianca says from behind me.
Refusing to look at her, I scoff. “I almost was. I’m not sure I should thank you or kill you for giving Lincoln my new number.”
“Thank me, probably. If it wasn’t for me, you’d have no idea Ava invited everyone and their mother.”
“Shut up, B.”
“I’m just saying. Besides, don’t think I haven’t figured out that you disappeared with Lincoln last night. Your lipstick was smeared all over his mouth, and I doubt he put it there himself.”
Olivia, the traitor, laughs at my sister’s comment. Gritting my teeth, I quicken my pace and race to the front door, throwing it open without another glance at my sister and my best friend.
—
“Do you think I have enough food, Seraphina? I’m not sure that five steaks will be enough,” my mother contemplates, surveying the food in front of her. “Should I order some pizza, just in case? What do you think everyone likes?”
I laugh at her words, rolling my eyes at the drama. “There’s always enough food, and leftovers, and freezer-ready containers. You don’t need to order pizza.” My mother has been this way since I was a child, consumed with making sure there’s always enough food, enough nourishment, for everyone. Over the years, her obsession became excessive, and it’s gotten to the point where my siblings and I have to talk my mother out of doubling the recipes and orders every time we have company over.
Turning my back to my mother, I look toward Olivia and Bianca, arguing over the table setting in the dining room. Their voices don’t carry into the kitchen, but based on the animation on their faces and the hands they’re throwing around, it’s not difficult to surmise that they’re fighting over something.
Keeping my gaze trained on them, I release a sigh, knowing that I have to tell my mom about my run-in at the library, but also dreading the conversation. “Mom?”
“Hm?” she responds, distracted by whatever food prep she’s doing based on the banging I hear behind me.
Swallowing, I choose to rip the band-aid off. “I ran into Chris Kopicki.”
Noise stops, and the kitchen becomes unnaturally quiet. Looking over my shoulder, I see my mom’s eyes trained on me, her mouth turned down in a frown, and her brows furrowed. “When?”
“Yesterday, in the library.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
I nod, turning my head back around so that I’m not facing her when I say, “He mentioned Mitch.”
“Dammit, Seraphina,” my mom mutters. “We need to tell our lawyer, just in case.” When I took out the restraining order and filed the report against Mitch, my parents made sure I was represented by an attorney who specializes in assault and battery cases. I haven’t spoken to her in years, but apparently, that correspondence will start up again.
“Okay,” I concede, not putting any argument up, mainly because the thought of seeing, interacting, or otherwise engaging with Mitch again makes me physically ill, and anything I can do to prevent even the possibility of that happening is fine by me.
Looking past Liv and Bianca, who are still arguing over place settings in the dining room, my eyes snag on cars pulling up outside, the driveway and road filling up quickly. I watch the six bodies get out of the three vehicles and see them walk toward the house. Dante holds CeCe as though she’ll bolt at any moment, even after all the years they’ve been together. Grey has his hand wrapped around Ava’s, and Serena and Lincoln are walking side by side, lost in conversation.
I watch the group descend upon the house, looking like an insular, exclusive little family. Through the window, I stare as they round the front of the house and disappear just before the sound of the door alarm goes off, signaling the opening of the front entrance.
“Mom, I’m going to go to the garden for some herbs. Do you need anything?” I look at her, unsurprised by the concerned expression on her face.
“Sera, this conversation isn’t over, okay?”
I force a smile, trying to emote some semblance of calm when all I feel is a riot of emotion. “Okay, but I need more tomatoes for the salad.”
“I thought you needed herbs?”
“Yes, right. Those too.”
She nods, raising an eyebrow in a silent communication of, “You’re full of shit, but you’re my daughter, so I’ll let this slide.”
Biting down on my lip, I turn and leave the kitchen just as the voices of my sister and her friends break through the room. Slipping out the back door, I follow the worn path to the concealed greenhouse my parents built, a little sanctuary in suburban central Jersey. There’s something about walking into the still, fragrant air of the glasshouse that seems to calm me the same way the library does. I wish I could lose myself in the vegetation and florals more, that I could come home for a daily hit of the serotonin that the greenhouse provides, but I can’t. In a dream world, I would alternate my time between a garden and a library, basically living like a wood nymph.
Opening the door slowly, I ease myself into the space and savor the quiet before I check on my Black Magic roses. The greenhouse was supposed to be exclusively for vegetables and herbs, a way to cultivate seasonal vegetables all year round without worrying about frost or inconsistent soil. At the garden supply store, I found a bush of Black Magic roses, a variety of deeply red blooms that appear almost bloody.
Bending down, I suck in a breath, convincing myself that I can smell the rose fragrance even though they’re nowhere near mature.
“Did you plan to hide in here all night?”
The deep, familiar voice behind me startles me, and I jump, pricking my finger against a thorn.
“Shit.” I suck my pointer finger into my mouth and soothe the pain. Rough hands lightly grip my wrist, pulling my finger out of my mouth, and before I can comprehend what’s happening, Lincoln’s lips close over my finger.
My eyes widen at the action. Shock, disgust, and overwhelming arousal move through me, and I have no idea if I should step back or watch him consume me.
Literally consume me.
Lincoln makes the decision and lowers my hand, taking the digit out of his mouth with an audible pop.
“You should be careful, cierń. Thorns sting.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“You shouldn’t have cut your skin.”
I widen my eyes, a laugh escaping my lips at his rebuttal. I raise an eyebrow, challenging him. “You shouldn’t have surprised me. I wouldn’t have nicked my skin if you didn’t show up.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs, keeping my hand hostage in his. “Why are you hiding in here?”
I swallow whatever humor bubbled up at our exchange, sobering quickly as his eyes and hand keep me in place. “I’m not hiding. I’m getting herbs.”
“You were fondling a flower when I came in here, Seraphina. I watched you for five minutes, and you didn’t even notice I walked in.”
“Oh.”
Dropping my hand, he fingers the hair lying over my shoulder, gathering the tendrils until he creates a makeshift ponytail. Pulling gently, he moves the hair off my shoulder and lets it hang down my back.
I watch as his eyes zero in on the marks he left on my neck, a reminder of the moment we shared last night.
Lowering my chin, I rip my eyes from his and bite down on my lip. “Lincoln, we shouldn’t have—”
“Sera,” he cuts me off, tugging my hair and pulling my head back. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. Now tell me why you’re hiding from me. Tell me why you changed your number four years ago. Tell me that. Tell me why.”
“Lincoln—” I start in a placating tone, only to be cut off.
“No.” He shakes his head, keeping his hand in my hair. “Give me a real answer, cierń. I know you have one.”
“Stop calling me that!” I explode, lifting my hands to push him away. He drops my hair, letting me step away from him. “Stop calling me that.” I lower my voice, dropping it into a whisper. “I’m not a thorn. I’m just a girl trying to figure out what to do next and where to go from here. You want an honest answer? Fine. Mitch knew how to manipulate me, and like a stupid, stupid girl, I allowed it to happen without a single damn protest. I let him ruin my life for six months until the force of his hand was harsher than his control, and I couldn’t let it happen anymore. And then, I found out that every sacrifice I made was pointless. That’s what happened, Lincoln.”
His face is a tempest, jaw hard and eyes narrowed at my words. “He put his hands on you? I’ll fucking kill him, Seraphina. What did he do to you?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” I shake my head, deflating.
“Like hell, it doesn’t matter anymore. Sera, cierń, you fucking matter.”
“I don’t, Lincoln. Not anymore. You want to know why I ran from you last night? Because I’m scared that as soon as I’m happy, the feeling will be ripped away again. I don’t think I can go through that twice, survive the implosion a second time.”
I close my eyes, turning from him, and walk to the back of the small greenhouse to stand in front of a row of tomato plants. My heavy breathing consumes my ears, and I work to slow down the rise and fall of my chest. I almost have it under control when Lincoln’s hands cup my shoulders, drawing me back into his body.
I almost step forward to pull away, but I don’t. I stand still with labored breaths and wait to see what Lincoln will do next.
Instead of turning me around like I expect, he runs his hands over my collarbone, crosses his arms over my chest, and squeezes me. I let my eyes fall close and absorb his comfort.
His voice doesn’t break through the silence; no words or banal platitudes or offers of comfort come. The muteness is a relief, and I relish it before I have to go back into the kitchen and deal with the verbal onslaught of my family, Liv, and Ava’s friends.
Allowing myself another second in Lincoln’s arms, I take a deep breath and steel myself for the moment I step out of his embrace and have to face the aftermath of the confession I just gave.
I lift my hands and grip his tattooed forearms. “We should go back inside.”
“Yeah.” His agreement comes out on a rasp, but he makes no move to let me go.
“Lincoln,” I murmur, squeezing him in my hands.
He sighs, a deep, disappointed sound that bounces around the tiny structure. I imagine the plants weeping from his frustration as though they grow and wilt with human emotions. Lincoln’s arms drop to my hips and spin me around, placing my face at eye level with his chest.
“I want to rip him limb from goddamn limb for the pain he gave you. I won’t say I understand everything you’re saying because, honestly? My mind is going to the worst possible outcomes, and it makes me fucking livid. When you got back with that fuckhead,” he sneers, not bothering to say Mitch’s name. “I was mad, fucking livid. And then, when I saw how he treated you at that barbecue, I couldn’t understand why someone as smart as you would allow that behavior. I want to know everything, Seraphina. Every detail so that if I ever see that motherfucker again, he’ll know exactly why I’m going to kill him.”
I shake my head at his words, not ready to admit that Mitch’s treatment of me was the least of his infractions. “You’re not killing anyone, Lincoln.”
He scoffs like my statement is absurd. “We’re going to talk more about this later, okay? Now isn’t the time; I get that. But we’re going to talk, and you’re going to listen, Seraphina. And then, you’re going to tell me what he did— No, don’t shake your head. I’m asking for the truth. Do you understand?”
“Linc—”
“Do you understand?” he cuts me off, though his voice is still soft. Sucking in another gulp of air, I nod, silently agreeing to his decree. “Good. Now, let me help you grab some herbs so that your mom doesn’t think that you hiding out here is total bullshit.”
I don’t hold in the laugh that bubbles out of me, letting it fill the glasshouse and replace the anger Lincoln just released into the air. Over a comment that wasn’t even that funny but was one hundred percent true.
Lincoln’s mouth pulls into a smirk, amusement evident in his gaze. “I missed that sound.”
It takes a minute for me to sober, for the laughter to die out, but once it does, a heavy weight hangs between us. I don’t allow myself to be pulled under again like I was in the alley behind Garganello’s. Instead, I step away and feel the loss of Lincoln’s hands intimately.
Striding to the flower cart resting against one glass wall, I pick up a basket and shears and immediately start gathering basil and parsley. Even though I’m an emotional mess, I make sure not to press down on the leaves or pluck more than necessary.
Once I have all the herbs that dinner can handle, I set the shears down and turn back to Lincoln, surprised to see an armful of tomatoes cradled in his arms like a newborn.
He nods toward the flower cart. “Can you bring me a basket?”
“Here, there’s space in my basket.” I rearrange the basil and parsley, shifting them to one side of the wicker basket so that there’s plenty of room for the small harvest. Lincoln holds his arms out, and the tomatoes tumble in, weighing down the container in my hands. Though I’m more than capable of holding the five pounds of produce, Lincoln grabs the basket from my hands and assumes the weight.
With his free hand, he reaches out to move the hair hanging loose behind my back forward, letting it drape over my shoulder and conceal the markings on my neck.
“Come on, let’s head in.” He tilts his head toward the door, wordlessly encouraging me to lead him out of the greenhouse and back to the house. I take his cue, walking quickly to the exit and down the path.
I’m not sure how long we’ve been outside—maybe fifteen minutes at most—but I’m surprised by the scene that greets us when we walk back inside.
My mom, sisters, Liv, CeCe, and Serena are assembled around the kitchen island, glasses of red wine in each of their hands. That’s not surprising.
What’s shocking is that Greyson is dressed in a semi-constructed suit in the center of the kitchen, and my dad is hovering around him, putting pins and chalk markings on the cuffs and arms of the jacket.
I feel Lincoln the moment he steps into the kitchen, not because I have a sixth sense but because he bangs into me since I’m standing in the middle of the doorway.
“What exactly is going on?” Lincoln whispers, and I don’t miss the shock woven in his voice.
Without looking over my shoulder, I explain, “My grandfather, Dad’s dad, was a tailor, and my dad grew up sewing and making clothes. A few years ago, he started making men’s clothing again as a hobby, says it ‘relaxes him’ after being in depositions or trial.” What I don’t say is that the stress of reviewing the testimony and witness statements of the Clown Killer nearly killed him, and this was the outlet he chose to relieve his stress. Swallowing thickly, I continue, “My parents are always inundated with work, cases, and clients. But, somehow, he’s carved out some time for himself to pursue a hobby that gives him purpose outside of his job and role as Dad. He made my brother a suit when he came home from the Marines, and he told Greyson he would make him one too.” My dad’s construction isn’t necessarily good; it’s actually quite terrible. But who are we to tell him he can’t pursue a passion project if it makes him happy?
As long as he doesn’t delude himself into thinking he has a chance at winning Project Runway , there’s no reason to critique his work.
“Don’t most people buy cars for their midlife crisis?”
“I guess this is a less expensive option.” I laugh, biting down on my lip as my five-foot-five father grabs a step stool to measure Greyson’s shoulders. The heaviness from the greenhouse fully dissipates, leaving amusement over this scenario in its wake.
“I didn’t expect this when Ava invited us over. She said they wanted to have a conversation with the bridal party.”
I think over his words, wondering what my sister wants to tell us. I assume it has to do with specifics of her wedding, though, with Ava, it may be a proclamation that they eloped at city hall. “That’s the thing about the Gregori household; you never know what’s going to happen.”
No sooner do the words leave my mouth than Grey sneezes, causing his body to jolt and my father to stab him with the pin in his hand.
“Ow, fuck.” Greyson grunts, his face pulling into a grimace from the unexpected jab.
My dad huffs at Greyson’s response, smacking him right above where the pin is still lodged into his arm. “Language, young man. For shame,” my dad scolds.
“Dad, can you get the mini knife out of my fiancé’s arm?”
“It’s more like a needle, like in a doctor’s office,” Bianca chimes in, taking a large sip of wine.
“He’s a human pincushion, B. But really, Dad, pull the needle out. Why is it still in his arm? Grey, do you need a doctor? Are you lightheaded? Mom, call an ambulance!”
“Calm down, vixen. I’m fine.” Greyson reaches for his arm and removes the pin stuck to his body. “Here.” He offers it to my dad, who looks weirdly perturbed by the movement.
“I needed that there; now I need to remeasure your arm.”
“He’s taking this seriously,” Lincoln murmurs behind me, speaking directly into my ear. “And if Ava thought Grey needed an ambulance from a fucking pin, I’m a little concerned.”
“Hey, she performs well under pressure.”
“True, and I’ve watched her wield a knife with her eyes closed.”
I shiver at the trick. “God, I hate when she does that. I actually hate cooking with Ava. Any time she tries to cook here, she and my mother nearly brawl because they’re both so hardheaded.” The 2020 COVID fresh versus canned tomato sauce debate was borderline bloody. I shiver at the memory.
I can’t see Lincoln, but I can feel his eyes on me and his body pressed behind mine. It shouldn’t surprise me that he doesn’t miss my involuntary shudder. “What has you shaking?”
“During lockdown, my mom and Ava got into a mini war over the merits of canned versus fresh tomatoes for sauce. My mom likes fresh but will use canned without issue. Ava was a bit of a snob about it.”
Lincoln’s snort has me turning my head to look at him. “That’s fucking rich, considering she and I had a blowout over fresh versus canned peas when she showed me how to make pasta e piselli.”
My eyes widen at his admission. “Why would she teach you how to make that?”
His gaze is heavy on my profile, and I fight the urge to look away. “Because it’s your favorite.”
“Lincoln—”
Ava’s voice breaks through the moment. “Dad, stop stabbing him. I’m going to put an end to Gregori Tailors if you keep this up.” I look back at my dad and Greyson and notice four more pins sticking out of Greyson’s arm and the pained grimace on his face.
It’s not difficult to surmise that the placement of the pins is intentional and deliberate.
“Remind me to never accept if your father offers to make me a suit.”
I laugh at the image that pops into my mind, replacing Greyson with Lincoln. “Noted.”