47. the night is young and romantic
CHAPTER 47
THE NIGHT IS YOUNG AND ROMANTIC
IVY
By the time I get off the phone with Mom, it’s a rush to get ready before dinner. But I still manage to squeeze every juicy secret I’ve learned from Judy and Art into a half an hour ramble. Maybe it’s the thrill of finally being a step ahead, but I don’t hesitate to slip into the yellow dress, wearing my family pendants on a fine gold chain, and hope it’s not obvious to Lincoln when my heart skips a beat as he takes one look and calls me “absolutely gorgeous.”
He hadn’t been able to get a word in while I’d dissected all the Kyle information I’d gathered, nodding and humming in the way he does when he’s in deep thought. But it was impossible to miss the clench of his jaw or the steel in his eyes. The moment we left our room, he fit his hand in mine, and he hasn’t let go since.
Dinner is no less awkward the second go around, but at least now when I catch Judy’s eyes on me, I’m not worried she’s going to skewer me with her salad fork.
She’s still quietly terrifying, her fine hair slicked behind her ears and falling in harsh lines to her shoulders. But now that I can look at her without fear of turning into a pillar of salt, I can see that she and Astrid have the same nose.
Tonight is scallop ceviche followed by poached seabass. It’s delicious, but I’m sure it would taste even better if the soundtrack for tonight wasn’t the dull scrape of knives and forks under a hum of barely contained distaste from our host. Richard once again manages to dominate the conversation (I use that term extremely loosely).
The best part of the meal is that Kyle is holed up, nursing his injury in his room.
When we finally get to escape after dinner, Lincoln surprises me by pulling me to the right, in the direction of the gardens rather than the left of our bedroom. “Come, it’s a beautiful night.”
He should know by now that I’ll follow him anywhere.
Palatial is the only word that comes to mind as we cross through a thick wall of hedges into the gardens. They are a panorama of green, even in the moonlight. Lush on the outside but overgrown the farther in we walk. Like all things Bradbury, it’s about looking like you care, but not actually doing it.
I’m half expecting to be announced as we enter the inner grounds where the fountain lies, as though there are people hiding in the bushes waiting to say, “Mr. Lincoln Reeves and guest,” or perhaps one day— my poor, romantic heart supplies— “Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln Reeves.”
I’ve never been decided on marriage.
That’s what I tell people.
The reality is I did picture it once, a long, long time ago. Ciara and I loved to play dress-up, and when I discovered Mom’s veil packed away in the attic, I did what most kids do. I slipped it on and stared at my reflection and told myself that one day, a prince would come whisk me away.
I was six.
Twenty years later, and I guess I’m still that little girl, only now my prince is a six-foot-four tattooed millionaire who fills my room with roses and has an accent that makes my knees weak.
Hidden behind the tall hedge that separates us from the house, we walk toward the fountain at the center of the gardens, where cold, uncomfortable stone benches stand watch. The steady trickle of water is hypnotic. Everything else is a world away. We are completely alone.
The sun disappeared beyond the horizon a few hours ago, and any lingering warmth has abruptly retreated now, the night air whipping through my body like a cold front.
“Here,” Lincoln says. “I’ll keep you warm.”
I slip easily into his arms, where heat is rolling off him in waves. Clasping my hand, Lincoln begins to sway us in a silent dance.
It’s so beautiful, so perfect, and all I want to do is cry.
He can’t know it, but he’s given me a gift. A lifetime of memories to treasure, moments to live and relive, over and over again.
I sigh and press myself closer still, though I’ll never be close enough.
“I’ve always hated coming here,” he says. “Misery everywhere, breeding resentment.” We continue to sway. “I thought it was impossible to make good memories here, but you’ve proved me wrong,” he says softly, and the gentle stroke of his fingers along my spine is so deeply good that tears begin to prickle at my eyes. I bury my face in his shirt and nod, not trusting my voice. “Never thought I’d get this, either.”
Lincoln’s grip tightens around my hand, mirroring my heart, which clenches tight enough I can almost hear it cracking. How could I ever explain to him how long I’ve wanted to hear those words? It would be so easy to dive in, to go all-in and forget how much of this has been for show.
“It’s not like you to be so quiet,” he says. “What are you thinking about?”
“You,” I admit. “Us.”
Even in the darkness, his smile is devastating to my senses. “You have good instincts, darling. You should trust them.”
Trust… how perfect that we’ve come full circle.
He asked me once if I trusted him, and I do. In some ways, more than myself. But do I trust real life not to tear us apart? Do I trust we can make it work when he hasn't been in a long-term relationship? When I haven’t?
What if he’s only fulfilling my needs? Or am I just a prototype for his fantasies? A dress rehearsal before the real thing?
The questions pile up like dirty dishes in my mind, and I know I can’t put off the answers any longer.
“Unless you regret tying yourself to me?” he asks with enough concern that I know I can’t do this anymore.
“No,” I insist in a rush. “Not at all. That’s not…” I shake my head.
Words, words, words. Constantly getting me in trouble. Always getting in my way when they’ll cause the most damage.
Never there when I need them.
It’s been happening since school. If I went a week without a teacher telling me to be quiet, they worried there was something wrong. I’ve long accepted that my inability to shut my mouth at the right time would get me in trouble, and I’ve simply learned how to navigate my way out of it. But it’s when the words dry up, when my emotions grow so large even language isn’t enough to capture it, that I know I’m in too deep.
“Because I’m glad for it,” Lincoln says, dipping his chin as if to kiss me.
I might stop breathing in the second I wait for something to happen, but I’ve gone so still I ruin it, and Lincoln pulls back before our lips can meet.
He takes a seat on a nearby bench, pulling me in with both hands. “Something’s wrong,” he says, eyes shining up at me.
“How could anything be wrong in this perfect place?”
But as always, he sees beneath the facade, straight to the heart of me. I let my breath go. “Tell me something true,” I plead, threading my hand into his beautiful hair, needing an anchor.
“Kyle is a wanker.”
I can’t help a small laugh. “I already knew that. Tell me something else. Something I don’t know.”
He draws his hands up my thighs and hips, the heat of his palms easy to feel through the thin material of my dress. “If you let me, I’m going to make every moment of your future as wonderful as you are.”
It’s the kind of thing I wouldn’t blink twice at if he’d said it around his family. But there’s no one here but us. No one to play the part for.
“I wish this was real,” I whisper into the dark.
There’s day-old stubble on his cheek. It scratches my palm a little as he leans into my touch, his eyes never leaving mine. The sincerity there is almost too much to take. “It is for me. Tell me what I need to do to make it real for you too.”
It’s a good thing he’s holding me up, because I’m not sure I can feel my legs anymore.
“Is this not real?” he asks, pulling my hand up to kiss. “Is this?” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “What you feel is real.”
You think I don’t know that? What I’m feeling is the problem.
I don’t want to be everyone’s taste. I’m acquired. I want to linger.
I want to be the bar by which all other performances are measured and compared.
The legacy.
I drop my forehead against his shoulder. It’s broad, and I remember the way they flexed under my palms that night. Physically, I’m strong. But no deadlift in the world can protect my heart in this moment.
“Lincoln, I…” My breath escapes, shaky. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” It’s too hard.
His chest rises and falls in a controlled inhale. “And what’s that?”
“Pretend,” I whisper against his shirt. Maybe it’s ridiculous to be having this conversation with my head buried in his chest, but if I look up, I’ll lose my nerve. “I know I said it didn’t mean anything, but I was wrong. I can’t pretend anymore because I’ve really fallen in love with you.”
Lincoln takes my chin in his grip, tilting my head back until we lock eyes. The anger and fear I’ve been expecting isn’t there, only warmth. Fondness. Love.
“I know, darling.”