Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lincoln / Present
T he ladder creaks under my weight as I reach up to secure the next section of Christmas lights above the window. “Remind me why we’re doing this now ?”
Hannah watches me from the ground, squinting past the sunlight beaming down on us. She uses her hand to shield her eyes. “Because Christmas is in two weeks. Duh.”
Grumbling as I line up the next string of lights, I look down at her. “Exactly. Why did you guys wait until two weeks before Christmas to decorate? Before you know it, you’ll need to take everything down. It’s a waste of time.”
My little sister shrugs. “You know, if Mom had her way, we’d start decorating before Thanksgiving. But they’ve been preoccupied.”
“With what?” I ask, lifting the nail gun and fastening the next section to the house. “They’re both retired, and Mom only babysits twice a week now.”
Hannah is quiet, causing me to look over at her twisted expression.
I pause what I’m doing, setting the nail gun down on top of the ladder. “What is it? There’s something you aren’t telling me.”
She makes a face. “How do you know?”
“Because you’re a horrible liar,” I state, tapping my eyebrow. “When you’re keeping secrets, your eyebrow starts twitching, and you can’t look people in the eye.”
Hannah forces her gaze up but flinches as soon as we lock eyes. Her right eyebrow twitches despite the effort she puts in to keep it still.
When she realizes I’m right, she throws her hands up. “Ugh. Fine. They told me not to tell you because they didn’t want you to worry.”
Alert has me stiffening. “Is one of them sick or something?”
She nibbles her bottom lip. “Dad was diagnosed with diabetes a while ago, and it’s gotten hard to manage even with the pills they gave him. He needs to go on insulin.”
Jesus. “Why didn’t they want you to tell me?”
Evading my eyes again, she kicks the ground with her shoe, sending a pebble rolling down the driveway. “Because you’ve had enough to deal with on your own. They didn’t want to add to it.”
Of course they didn’t. They’re always trying to put my feelings first. I’ve told them to stop worrying about me, but they never listen. “I want to know what’s going on in all your lives.”
Hannah peeks up at me. “ Do you?”
Her question strikes a nerve. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She holds up her hands in surrender. “I’m just saying that you tend to get so caught up in your own stuff that we’re usually not a priority. I’m not trying to be a bitch, but it’s true.”
Am I that much of an asshole they think I wouldn’t care about their problems? “I’m constantly around here helping out. We have a meal once a week together and catch up. Do you really think my head is so far up my ass that I don’t give a fuck about you?”
My sister groans. “You’re getting testy. I don’t want to fight.”
“Then be real with me.”
We lock eyes, except this time, she doesn’t look away. “You want real?” she questions, crossing her arms. “Fine. We get that you’re in a bad mood because of everything that’s happened lately. You’ve had shit luck, and we all feel for you. But you won’t talk to us about any of it, so we have to walk on eggshells whenever you’re around because we don’t know when you’ll blow up. Not working full-time makes you mad. Taking time to heal makes you mad. People caring about you makes you mad. Georgia makes you mad. Your friend dying makes you mad. You’re mad at yourself and the whole world. But what are you doing about it, Lincoln?”
Shoulders squaring, I grind my teeth. I have the right to be mad, don’t I? That doesn’t mean I’m incapable of feeling other things too.
“I’m in therapy,” I tell her, picking up the nail gun and grabbing the next section of string to hang.
“Which you always bitch about going to,” she points out. “So how much is that really helping if you’re fighting it every time you go?”
Sure, I don’t love talking about all the ways my life went south, but that doesn’t mean I don’t utilize the time. Reluctantly, maybe. But I show up. “I talk about shit in it, Hannah. It’s not like I sit there for an hour in silence.” Anymore. “I’m just not going to come here and tell you everything I talk about there. That’s none of your business. And, frankly, you should be thanking me for not dragging my bullshit here. I don’t know what you want from me.”
“I don’t want anything,” she replies.
Then why are we even having this conversation? “It’s good to know that the family thinks I’m too emotionally damaged to give a fuck about anybody other than myself. Guess I have a new topic to talk about during my next session.”
Hannah scoffs in exasperation, knowing that arguing won’t get her anywhere. But what did she expect? I care about my family, even when they’re annoying and pestering me about things I don’t want to discuss.
Gripping the nail gun tightly I pause before saying, “Dad’s okay, right?”
My little sister only pauses for a second before answering. “Yeah, he’ll be all right. It’s just an adjustment for him. For all of us.”
I nod. I’ll have to talk to him when I get inside to make sure there’s nothing I can do to help.
As I shift my weight on the ladder to reach over and hold the strand of lights into place with my left hand, a shooting pain sends shockwaves down my whole left side until I’m teetering backward and sucking in a breath.
“Lincoln!” Hannah screams as I fall, the nail gun tumbling in front of the ladder as I drop onto my back behind it.
The impact steals my breath away, making the pain in my bad arm seem dull in comparison.
Groaning, I blink a few times before seeing Hannah hover above me, blocking the sunlight. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Are you okay? Did you break your back? How many fingers am I holding up?”
She shoves five fingers in my face. “Stop,” I groan again, closing my eyes and shoving her hand away. “Give me…a minute.”
I hear the front door open, followed by a frantic, “What happened?”
“He fell!” Hannah tells our mother.
“Should I call nine-one-one?”
I say, “No,” the same time Hannah screams, “Yes.”
Opening my eyes, I take a deep breath before slowly moving my fingers and toes, then my hands and feet, and do a silent examination of my body. I hurt, but nothing feels broken. I count to three and then force myself to slowly sit up, my mother and sister helping me until I’m seated beside them on the pile of leaves Hannah was supposed to clean up days ago.
“I’m fine,” I tell them, rubbing my back and wincing when my bad arm pops. Trying to breathe through the traveling pain, I release it and pat the ground. “The leaves broke my fall.”
Hannah blows out a breath before falling onto her butt in relief. “See, Mom? All those times you and Dad got mad about me not cleaning up the yard just saved Lincoln’s life.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I muse dryly.
She shrugs, taking the credit anyway.
Mom examines me, completely ignoring her daughter. “Are you okay? What happened, honey?”
Moving my head to the right makes the left side crack. It feels good, so I try doing the same on the right side with no luck. If anything, it pulls on all the wrong muscles and adds to the intensifying pain throbbing there. “I moved my bad arm the wrong way and lost my balance. That’s all.”
The two women frown at me.
“The doctor said it’s healed,” I tell them, rolling it and hissing through the bite of pain still lingering there.
They share a look, probably trying to figure out who I’m trying to convince—them or me.
“Stop doing that,” I grumble at their silent communication.
Mom sighs. “Maybe we should take you to the doctor to make sure you didn’t do more damage. We don’t want your recovery to be delayed any more, do we?”
I shake my head, making myself stand and stretch out my sore muscles. It hurts like a bitch, but I don’t want them worrying. “I don’t need to see a doctor.”
Hannah picks up the nail gun where it landed in the bushes. “I’m just glad this thing didn’t go off and shoot one of us. All I can think about is that episode of CSI: Miami when the nail went through that guy’s eye.” She gags, setting the tool onto the ladder carefully and backing away like it’ll pull its own trigger if she moves too quickly. “I think we should call it a day.”
I’ll agree with her there. “I’ll finish this tomorrow.”
Mom walks us toward the front door. “Don’t worry about it. Your father can get one of the neighbors to help him finish.”
“I can do it,” I insist, following her inside. “I just need a break for today. I don’t go into work until tomorrow afternoon, and it’s not like desk work is strenuous. This is good for me.”
I can tell my mother wants to disagree, but she doesn’t. She sits me down on the couch and comes back from the kitchen with an ice pack in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
“Speaking of Dad,” I say, eyeing my mother as she sits across from me. “I think we need to talk.”
She instantly looks at Hannah, who checks out of the scolding before she gets a lecture. “I’m not having this conversation. I’ll be in my room. Good luck.” As she passes me, she pats my head like a damn dog and adds, “Glad you’re not dead, big brother.”
I roll my eyes.
Mom sighs.
And the entire time she updates me on Dad’s health, I can’t help but wonder if I really have become that selfish that they think they need to hide things from me.
*
I get a call from the good doctor about rescheduling our next appointment for personal reasons, and I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. Mostly because one hour of each week has been filled with something other than sitting alone feeling sorry for myself, working out, arguing with my family, or working.
I don’t love talking about my past, but I like the weight that lifts from my chest whenever I walk out of the building afterward. It’s small, but I can tell the difference.
I chalk it up to companionship—that little extra need for… something . Even if the topics we talk about leave a lot to be desired.
When the silence at home gets to be too much, I find myself grabbing a bottle of booze off the bar in the dining room, my car keys from the table by the door, and driving fifteen minutes outside of the town limits until I’m pulling up to the white colonial home with CONKLIN in gold lettering on a boulder by the front entrance.
I knock twice before the door opens and lift the bottle of scotch in greeting.
Marissa looks at the liquor, then at me. “I can’t drink that,” she reminds me, gesturing toward her stomach.
I grin and show her the sparkling cider I bought on the way here. “I’ll drink enough liquor for the both of us then.”
She steps aside. “Is that your way of saying you’re sleeping on my couch tonight?”
Stepping past her, I shoot her a wink. “Only if you tuck me in.”
“You’re an idiot, but Cooper will be happy you’re here. He’s been talking about you guys playing video games since the last time you popped by.”
I set the two bottles down on the kitchen counter and stare at the stove where two pots are resting on the front burners. “Where is he?”
“I told him he had to clean his room before he had any fun,” she says, stirring whatever is in the first pot and glancing over her shoulder at me. “Have you eaten? We’re doing spaghetti and meatballs. I just tossed some garlic bread in the oven to toast. If you’re going to drink, you might as well absorb some of the alcohol.”
My stomach rumbles at the talk of food, making her chuckle. “I could eat.”
She grabs three plates from the cupboard and sets them on the counter beside her. “No better plans tonight?”
I watch her dish out the food evenly on each dish from where I lean against the sink across the room. “Plans changed, and I didn’t want to stay home. It gets too quiet there.”
Sympathy carves into her face as she passes me a plate loaded with spaghetti and meatballs slathered in her famous homemade red sauce. “I know that feeling well.”
We’re quiet as I grab a fork from the drawer and sit down at the table. She prepares Cooper’s plate, then hers, before going to the end of the stairs and calling up to the five-year-old in his room.
She walks back in, props her hip against the fridge, and watches me. “Why here?”
I stop eating to look at her.
“You could go anywhere else,” she notes matter-of-factly. “So why did you choose to spend your night with a hormonal pregnant woman and a child?”
Setting my fork down, I lean back in the creaking chair and answer as honestly as I can. “Because I needed somewhere to go to quiet my thoughts without making poor decisions, and this was always a safe place.”
Her smile is small. “It always will be.”
My eyes lower to my food as footsteps run above us toward the stairs. “I could have seen Georgia,” I admit quietly.
“What made you change your mind?”
Wetting my lips, I watch the hallway for Cooper to appear before focusing back on her. “I decided I needed a friend more.”
“Georgia definitely can’t make spaghetti like I can,” she teases. “It’s the sauce.”
I grin. “You must have made millions selling the recipe to Ragu.”
She chuckles. “And you wouldn’t believe what Betty Crocker offered me for my world-famous brownies.”
Snorting, I go back to eating as Cooper slides into the room with a bright smile on his face when he sees me. “Mom, can I play Super Mario with Uncle Hawk since I finished my homework? Please?”
She holds out a plate. “After you eat, and only if Uncle Hawk wants to play video games with you.”
Cooper’s hopeful gaze turns to me.
“Sure, bud. Let’s eat dinner first.”
That night, I don’t think about anything outside mindless video games and the inner ramblings of a five-year-old. I shoot the shit with Marissa, we drink, and I fall asleep on their couch so I don’t have to go home to the thick silence that I hate so much.
I wake up in the middle of the night to a text from Georgia consisting of two words.
Georgia: Can’t sleep
I stare at the text, my fingers hovering over the keyboard to tell her to give me twenty minutes. But my head feels fuzzy from the booze, and there’s a reason I came here. So, I decide to turn my phone off, roll over, and fall back asleep.
She can call her new boyfriend if she needs somebody tonight.