Chapter Twenty-Two
Linc
I drive an hour or so to the small town of Wānaka. It sits at the bottom of Lake Wānaka, surrounded by native bush and with the splendid background of the Southern Alps. We spend a while wandering through the shops in the town, which, as well as the usual high-street shops, sell themed mementoes and gifts.
We treat ourselves to a fancy box of truffles in the chocolate shop and a latte, then decide to go for a walk. Neither of us is dressed for a hike, so we choose the easiest option—the Outlet Track that follows the Clutha River, which should take an hour or so. Sipping our coffees and sucking on the truffles, we meander along the trail, admiring the willow, sycamore, and larch trees in their summer coats that are reflected in the crystal-clear waters. The mountains behind the lake are the color of the nearby lavender fields, and the sky is a brilliant blue.
About halfway along, I give Elora the gift I bought her. She opens it with the eagerness of a child, her cheeks flushing with delight. It’s another pair of earrings, these ones a white-gold disc engraved with mountains and the name Wānaka printed underneath it.
“I love them,” she says breathlessly, and promptly takes out her current earrings—which are the Southern Cross ones I bought for her—puts them carefully in her purse, and then slots in the new ones. “Thank you,” she says, sliding her arm through mine. “You shouldn’t spoil me.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t know. Can’t think of a reason.”
I chuckle and put my arm around her shoulders, and she slides hers around my waist.
I shouldn’t have asked her to join me on the cruise. Talk about a sucker for torture. But I’m not ready to let her go just yet. I’m enjoying myself immensely, and the thought of prolonging our time together was impossible to resist. I’m already tingling at the thought of taking her to bed when we get back, and the notion of being able to do so a few more times before I leave is exciting.
I’m not going to think about what will happen when I leave. In true Linc Green style, I’ll worry about it when the time comes, and deal with it on the fly. In my experience, even if you spend ages preparing for an event, it never occurs the way you expect, and you always have to change your plans anyway. So it’s best to be adaptable and flexible and make it up as you go along.
Eventually we make our way back to the car. It’s mid-afternoon now, and pleasantly warm. Elora put sun lotion on this morning, but her cheeks and nose now have a permanent light flush from the sun.
“You want to drive?” I ask, dangling the keys in front of her. I put her on the rental agreement, so she knows she’s covered to drive.
Her eyebrows rise, though. “Really?”
“Of course. Why are you surprised?”
“I don’t know… I guess because usually men prefer to do the driving.”
“You mean Fraser and Joel?” When she doesn’t answer, the penny drops. “You mean Atticus?”
Her lips twist as she reaches out and takes the keys. “He does let me drive. But he still instructs me as if I’m a learner. ‘Slow down, Elora…’ ‘Don’t get so close to the car in front…’”
I smile, because she’s trying to be funny, but as we get into the car and buckle ourselves in, something prickles inside me. I’m beginning to understand how she feels constricted. All the men in her life are well-meaning, and they want to keep her safe, which is commendable and understandable after what happened. But you can’t keep a person wrapped in cotton wool. Maybe straight after her assault it was important to look after her, and even now, it’s good that Fraser looks after her. But they treat her like a bonsai tree, planted in a shallow container, carefully pruned and trained so it doesn’t outgrow its pot. I know it wasn’t intentional. Fraser would be horrified if I told him my analogy. And maybe I’m being unfair; perhaps even if they let her spread her branches and flourish, she’d naturally be reticent to try new things and go to new places.
But I think about how she embraced the bungee jump; how, despite being scared, she leapt off that platform with me. She needs encouragement and support, a gentle, guiding hand, like a parent teaching a child to ride a bike. Eventually you have to take off the stabilizers and stop holding onto the back. You have to set them free.
“Penny for them,” she says.
I bring my thoughts back to the car. “Just thinking about what to do when we get back.”
“We could have sex.”
I blink. “Jesus. Subtle, much?”
“Aw, Lincoln. You need to be romanced a bit?” She’s mocking me now. As if to illustrate my thoughts, she’s already grown outside of her container; she’s spreading her branches to take in the rain and sun.
“Maybe a little,” I concede.
“Ah… okay. Here’s a beautiful line from Romeo and Juliet for you.” She performs it with a flourish of one arm. “‘My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep. The more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.’” She gives me a mischievous glance. “Now get your kit off.”
We both laugh, and she grins and returns her gaze to the road.
I look back out of the window, thinking about the quote she chose. I know it was a joke provoked by my mock indignation. But love is a dangerous word to throw around. I can’t afford to fall in love with Elora-Rose Bell, or to let her fall in love with me. This has got to stay strictly physical.
But how do I keep it physical when she brings me such joy?
I ruminate on that for most of the way back.
As she parks in the hotel car park, though, I attempt to push any deeper thoughts from my mind. She’s a clever girl, astute and self-aware, and she’s not going to let herself fall in love when she knows it can’t end the way she might want. She’s obviously keen to breach her boundaries and discover new things. She asked me for sex, so she clearly wants to learn how to share herself with men in that way. She’s not asking for marriage and babies. She’s asking me to help set her free. And if I keep that in mind, maybe everything will be all right.
Sex will have to wait, though, because we’re both hungry, the big breakfast and the chocolate snacks having finally worn off. So we head down to the restaurant, which is quiet at this hour, find a table for two near the window again, and settle down for an early dinner.
We decide to order the flatbread with cray butter and seasonal relish to share for a starter, then I choose the Lake Ohau Wagyu beef, while she opts for the Wild Shot West Coast venison, both served with duck-fat potatoes and seasonal vegetables.
“And to drink?” the waiter asks.
I glance at the wine menu—I’d love a glass, but I don’t like drinking when Elora doesn’t.
To my surprise, though, she says, “Um… Linc, I’d like to try a glass of wine.”
I stare at her. She flushes under the waiter’s curious gaze. I guess he doesn’t hear many people intimate they haven’t drunk before.
“Are you sure?” I ask gently.
She nods. “Just one. Can you suggest something for me?”
“Do you know whether you’d prefer red or white?”
“No idea.”
I look at the waiter. He’s an older guy, and he has a kind and gentle manner. “Can you suggest something?”
“To go with venison and beef, usually I’d say a Cabernet Sauvignon, but if you are new to wines, ma’am, how about a Merlot? We have one grown here in Queenstown, and it sits in the middle of the red-wine spectrum and is very pleasant.”
He points to it on the list, and I nod. “We’ll have a bottle of that.”
“Thank you, sir.” He leaves us to deliver the order.
Elora’s jaw has dropped. “Linc!”
“What?”
“That bottle was eighty-five bucks!”
“It’d better be good, then.”
“Oh my God. You’re spoiling me.”
“If you’re going to have your first glass of wine, it’s not going to be a nine-ninety-nine bottle of vinegar.” I lean forward, forearms on the table, and study her. “What made you decide to try it?”
She shrugs, turning her fork in a circle. “I haven’t drunk because I’ve been too scared. But I’m tired of being scared and letting fear guide what I do. You’ve shown me that it’s okay to step outside my comfort zone. I’m not saying I’m going to start drinking all the time or anything, but I’d like to have a glass with dinner.”
She sucks her bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment, while she weighs up whether to tell me something. I let her think, watching her mouth, and fantasizing about kissing her later.
“After the assault,” she says eventually, drawing my gaze back to her eyes, “I had a very difficult year. I was too scared to go out, and I got upset really easily. I cried a lot, and got stressed and anxious, and found it difficult to calm down. I know I worried my parents. Mum called the doctor several times, and he prescribed me some medications.”
“A benzodiazepine?”
“And an antidepressant. Mum and Dad had a big argument about it. She wanted me to take them—she thought that a short-term dose might help me. But Dad was extremely against it. Fraser and Joel told you my drink was spiked?”
“With Flunitrazepam.”
“Yeah. Because of that, Dad said he didn’t want me anywhere near Diazepam. He said leaning on drugs and alcohol to help deal with trauma is the worst thing you can do.”
I frown. “What do you think now, looking back?”
She looks surprised to be asked the question. “I think he meant well,” she says slowly, which seems to be the phrase I’m coming to associate most with her family. “I think he was partially right. These things can become a crutch, and difficult to give up, especially when they’re successful. I think drugs and alcohol work because they provide an escape from reality. Life is hard, and tough, and unpleasant at times. And it’s easier when we don’t have to deal with it. When we can lose ourselves in something else and stop the cogs in our brains whirring so fast. Sometimes I think it might have been easier for me to get over what happened if I’d taken medication. But I was only eighteen, and still heavily influenced by my father, especially. So I followed his lead.”
“How did he suggest dealing with it?”
“Therapy. Not with him—I don’t think he could have dealt with talking about what happened. There was a woman at Greenfield—her name was Sarah—and she was super nice, quite young, and very supportive. We tried different treatments, and EMDR seemed to work for me. Do you know what it is?”
I shake my head.
“It’s odd,” she continues. “It stands for eye movement desensitization and reprocessing therapy. It facilitates healing from trauma, and it’s recognized as the gold standard for treating people with PTSD. It doesn’t involve talking in detail about what caused the trauma, which I was pleased about. I didn’t want to keep reliving it. It involves moving your eyes a specific way while you process traumatic memories. It supposedly repairs the mental injury from a memory. It’s quite fascinating, actually. I’ve read a lot about it. And it works—for me, anyway.”
“Do you still go?”
“No, not now. I could if I wanted. But something else Dad was also keen on was physical therapy.”
“Of course.” It was the whole foundation of his role at Greenfield. His adventure therapy helped many troubled youths, including me.
“He got me a personal trainer who drew up a strict regime of diet and exercise. I’d lost quite a bit of weight, you see; I’d stopped getting out and about, and just lost interest in everything. Karl started by helping me to eat healthily. Small, regular meals with wholesome ingredients. He encouraged me to learn to cook my own meals, which I hadn’t done much of before.”
She leans back as the waiter arrives with our wine. He shows us the bottle, opens it, and pours a small amount into a glass. I take it and sip it, then nod, and he half fills our glasses before leaving the bottle on the table and retreating.
Elora picks up the glass. Watching me, she swirls the wine around it, sniffs it, then has a small sip. “Ooh,” she says. “That’s not what I was expecting. It’s very fruity.”
“What fruit can you taste?”
She has another sip. “Cherries?”
“Mm. And plums and raspberries.”
“It’s smoother than I thought it would be. I thought it would be really sharp.”
“Merlots are sort of in the middle, not too sweet or sharp. You like it?”
“I do.” She has another sip, then puts the glass down.
I smile. “So you were saying, about diet and exercise?”
“Yes, so I started eating more healthily, and Karl also got me into the gym. I began running, and I did some weight training. I must admit I gave that up eventually. But I do run still. I learned that I felt better after I exercised, which of course was what Dad was hoping for. I started going with him on his treks, helping out with the kids. Getting out in the open air. And gradually, I healed. Not completely, as you can see. But I’m so much better than I was.”
I think about the way she has to check the door locks ten times before she’s happy. That’s an improvement? How bad was she?
The waiter brings our flatbread over and places it between us. It’s piping hot, dripping with cray butter, and there’s a small pot of tomato relish to dip it into. We break off a piece each and eat it hungrily, groaning as the delicious taste of the butter floods our mouths.
“That’s heavenly,” she says. “I need to learn how to make this at home.”
“God, yes. It’s amazing.” I watch her eat the flatbread, smiling as she tucks into it. “I’m glad you feel healthier now, and that you’re eating properly. I bet your family is, too.”
She wipes some butter from her bottom lip, her lips curving up a little in a wistful smile as she recalls a memory. “Fraser and Joel used to go to great lengths to try to tempt me to eat when I lived with them. They’d go out, the two of them, and buy all these ingredients, and then the three of us would cook them together, trying out different recipes. They were so patient.”
She picks at the flatbread. “It’s why I feel bad criticizing them, Fraser especially. The day after it happened, when the Flunitrazepam eventually wore off, I got really upset with Joel and Fraser because they were so angry and kept talking about hunting down the guys and hurting them, and it felt as if their attention was on the wrong part of the assault—on them, not on me, you know?”
“Yeah, I get that. But look, a man’s role is to protect his family. Unless you’re spotted hyenas, obviously, we’re supposed to keep our women safe. It’s our job. Our raison d’être, in evolutionary terms. We’ve still got those animalistic instincts embedded deep in our brainstem, and they tell us to be aggressive and take charge. In a civilized society, we have to fight those instincts and accept that women don’t need looking after, and they’re perfectly able to take care of themselves, which of course you can most of the time. But the fact is that physically, most of the time, you’re smaller and not as strong as men. And unfortunately there are guys who haven’t learned to control those animalistic instincts. They take advantage of you. And that leaves us feeling angry and confused because we’ve failed you.”
Her brows draw together. “Is that how you feel? As if you’ve failed me?”
“Of course it does. If I hadn’t kissed you, and stayed here, I might have been around to help and saved you from those fucking animals.” I look down at my plate. Steady, Linc . I wipe up some butter with a finger and suck it off, then look back at her.
“Neanderthal,” she says.
That makes me laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth. “I kinda like it.”
I quirk a brow at her. “Do you, now?”
“Yeah. Back then it pissed me off. Now… the thought of you getting all grrr and being Mr. Protective is kind of a turn on.”
I push my plate away and lean on the table. “I see. Wow, you’re really getting into this giving up control lark.”
“I feel as if it’s one of the things like with drawing or writing, where you have to learn the rules before you can break them, you know? After the assault, I had to regain control over my own life, physically and emotionally. Joel took me to self-defense lessons, and we used to practice a lot back at the apartment.”
“I’m guessing Fraser didn’t join in.”
“I’d have had him flat on his back in seconds,” she scoffs. “Joel’s pretty good, though, and he’d come at me from behind and put an arm around my neck, and I’d have to try and get out of it. It was never about fighting or anything like that because obviously I’d never be able to beat a guy in a real fight, not unless I learned some serious skills or worked really hard on my strength. It was about disabling the other person so I could get away. It made me feel a lot more confident, and gradually I felt more in control of my own life. Enough to now give a little up to you.” She gives me a mischievous smile.
I smile back, but I’m surprised by the emotion that blows over me like a summer wind. I’m so touched that she’s chosen me to help her through this. That she trusts me enough to give over control sexually to me.
“Are you going to cry?” she teases.
“No.” I have a mouthful of wine. “Maybe.”
“Aw. You’re such a softie.”
“You mean a lot to me, Lora. I can’t explain how it makes me feel that you’re comfortable confiding in me like this. And that, even though I left, and for years you obviously thought I walked out on purpose, you still trust me.”
“I always trusted you, Linc. Even when I was mad at you, that didn’t go away.”
Our eyes meet, and just like before, a shock shoots through me, sharp as a paper cut. This girl does something to my synapses, sending all my neurons running around aimlessly like overexcited toddlers at a birthday party who’ve eaten too much cake. My brain won’t function normally. My heart’s racing, thudding like a bass drum in my chest. My mouth’s gone dry. All I can think about is getting her into bed, crushing my lips to hers, and giving her pleasure until she sighs my name. I want to do that more than anything in the world. I want to make her happy, to see her eyes light up with smiles, and to make sure no other man ever touches her again.
Jesus. I’ve got it bad.