Chapter Twenty-Five
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Lincoln / Present
T here are two missed calls and one voicemail from an unsaved number on my cell. But I know who it is before I listen to the smooth, professional voice and dial the number after getting home hours later.
“This is Theresa Castro,” is how she picks up.
“Hello, Theresa Casto,” I greet with a slur as I stumble up the stairs. “This is Lincoln Danforth.”
There’s a moment of hesitation. “Have you been drinking, Mr. Danforth?”
“So many formalities,” I muse, kicking one boot off at a time and tripping over one on my way to the couch. Dropping onto my back, I close my eyes and lay my phone down on my chest. “I may have indulged in a drink or two.”
Or twenty. Not sure.
I lost count after Shelly gave me glass number five. She also made me drink water and put a basket of chicken wings in front of me to absorb some of the alcohol. I’m not sure if the food came after drink number nine or ten.
“It sounds to me like you’ve had more than two,” she remarks, her tone almost sounding disappointed. Or was it judgmental?
I ignore the dull ping in my chest. “IPAs are heavy, doc. High alcohol content. You ever drink beer, or are you a fruity kind of woman?”
She doesn’t answer me. I already know the answer. She likes strawberry daiquiris. “You missed our session today. Is there a reason for it?”
Humming, I drape an arm over my eyes and settle into the couch. “Did you miss me?”
“I’m not in the mood to flirt, Mr. Danforth.”
Somebody is testy. Is it wrong that I like when she uses that firm voice on me? Maybe it’s the alcohol making my dick twitch to life, or maybe it’s the fact I haven’t gotten any in a while.
Seeing Georgia today sure as fuck didn’t put me in the mood. If anything, it made me want to find someone at the bar and bring her home. I debated it. But I thought about what Shelly said, and I knew she was right.
“I saw my wife today. Her new boyfriend bought me a coffee. Wasn’t that nice of him?”
The good doctor is quiet for a moment, her voice softer when she speaks again. “That must have been very hard for you.”
“Oh, it was the best part of my day. I think we had a dick measuring contest in the middle of the coffee shop.” I laugh at my pathetic joke, my eyebrow twitching when I think about his reference to Conklin. “Do you want to know whose is bigger?”
She clears her throat. “Not particularly.”
“Suit yourself,” I say with a grin.
Theresa Castro sighs. “You should have come to talk to me. Using alcohol to get through problems isn’t a healthy coping mechanism.”
“I’m not an alcoholic.”
“I never said you were,” she reasons when she hears the defensiveness in my tone. “But it’s obvious that you decided alcohol was a better way to sort out your feelings than therapy. All I’m saying is that there’s a reason I’m here. It’s to talk. To listen. To offer help.”
What could she do to help me? There are a few X-rated things I could think of that I doubt she’d be game for. “Have you ever drank to avoid your problems?”
There’s no hesitation this time. “Yes, I have. I’m human too. Which is why I’m telling you that it’s better to talk it out rather than to self-destruct at a bar.”
I’d hardly say I’m self-destructing. “What did you do when you lost your husband?”
It’s fifty-fifty on whether she’ll answer me. I know it’s a sensitive subject and none of my business. But curiosity killed the cat.
After a minute of silence, I almost change the subject when she gives me an answer. “I took time away from school. From work. From…life. I grieved. Mourned. Cried. Yelled. I’m far from perfect, Lincoln. In fact, I don’t think there is such a thing. We are all flawed in some ways. To be flawed is to be human.”
A small smile tilts the corners of my lips when I replay those words back. “You called me Lincoln,” I murmur, the name on her lips warming me more than the alcohol does.
“I think you should reschedule your appointment instead of waiting for next week’s,” she replies, not addressing the slip of the tongue.
The smile grows on my face. “Is that your way of saying you’d like to see me?”
“I would like to help you,” she states, that firm voice leaving little room to push boundaries. As much as I’d like to flirt with her, I have a feeling it won’t go anywhere.
“I’ll reschedule if you answer one question.”
I expect her to tell me no. To tell me I’m in no position to request anything. But she doesn’t say anything—doesn’t reject me or agree.
“Have you seen anybody since your husband passed away?”
It’s another prying question I’m not owed an answer to. I wouldn’t blame her if she told me to fuck off by asking it. I’m not surprised when she doesn’t.
“No,” she admits. “I have not.”
I nod to myself, not that she can see me.
“All right,” I agree without pressing her. It tells me all I need to. That she knows how I feel. That, to some degree, she understands. “I’ll reschedule.”
“Friday at six?”
I almost say, “It’s a date,” but stop myself at the last second. Instead, I say, “Happy Valentine’s Day, doc.”
When the call disconnects, I realize the anger I’d felt since my run-in with Georgia is nearly dissipated. And it has nothing to do with the buzz coursing through my body and everything to do with Doctor Theresa Castro.
And I don’t know what to think about that, so I choose not to think at all. At least not for the rest of the night.
*
My boots crunch over what’s left of the melting snow as I walk through the graveyard. It’s a short walk from the path to where a brand new marble gravestone sticks out in the back corner of the cemetery with CONKLIN carved in black lettering on the top.
“You always had a taste for the expensive shit,” I tell my late friend, stopping in front of the stone and wiping my runny nose. “I would have assumed you were a granite kind of guy if I didn’t know you better. Pretty sure your ritzy ass even requested a cherry coffin, which is a far cry from what you used to tell me to do with you when we were in the academy.”
Before Conklin met Marissa, he used to say he wanted to be cremated to get a head start to where he was going. It was funny because he was one of the nicest guys I know. There was no way he was going to hell, but it was his running joke that always got a few laughs. I guess marrying the love of his life made him think differently. He even went to church every Sunday with her and her family. Man was a sucker for that woman.
I smile to myself, but it wavers when my eyes scan over the dates listed on the piece of carved marble. “I saw Marissa and Coop the other day. I got him the new Grand Theft Auto game, much to your wife’s dismay. They’re doing good. As good as they can be, anyway.”
Kicking at the ground, I blow out a harsh breath and shake my head. “Man, this is bullshit. You shouldn’t be… there . Gone. You should be here, with us, kicking your son’s ass at video games and telling me what a fucking moron I am for sleeping with Georgia. You’d give it to me straight. Tough love. You’ve always been the best at that.”
Rubbing the back of my neck, I look up to the sky and close my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I count to three to try to calm myself down. Fists clenching and unclenching, I relax my arms and stand to my full height.
“It was all for nothing,” I whisper, unable to stop replaying the image of Luca Carbone’s hand on Georgia’s back. “After everything …” I choke on my words, swallowing them as the anger boils my blood. “I did everything I could to protect her from him, and she still went back. You died for nothing .”
The truth cuts deep—so deep I’m not sure anything can repair it. Not stitches or glue or faith. No amount of time will undo what’s already been done.
And seeing Georgia with him again cemented the hatred that’s been brewing inside of me for a long-ass time.
Because I loved her once. I loved having someone to come home to. Somebody to vent to. To take care of. I loved each milestone we shared that felt like the biggest victory to us, even if it was minuscule to others.
Georgia Del Rossi had once been mine .
A woman I was willing to sacrifice it all for.
I almost did.
Over.
And over.
And over.
And Conklin…
He did sacrifice himself for that love.
A love that I’m not sure ever existed outside of my head.
What the fuck was it all for?
“I’m sorry,” I tell my friend in a broken whisper, sucking in a breath to fill my stinging lungs. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it worth it.”
Looking down at the ground, I clench my eyes closed and fight off the burning sensation behind my eyes.
I will not cry.
Not today.
Taking another deep breath, I open my eyes and rest my hand on the top of his stone. “I’ll see you later, buddy.”
When I pull back, I stare at the freshly polished coin resting where my palm was. He used to collect them wherever we would go. It used to piss me off. What did a guy who made six figures need with a few meaningless pennies?
He flicked one over to me once and told me that finding coins on specific dates meant loved ones were reaching out from the afterlife. That day, he picked up a penny from the side of the road and said it was the day his grandfather had passed. Another time, he picked up a quarter on the day of his aunt’s death.
I stare at the penny that caught my eye earlier on my walk to grab lunch. I’m not sure why it stood out to me on the side of the street covered in dirt, slush, and grime. When I picked it up, it was spotless. Like it hadn’t seen the dirty ground at all.
That’s when I realized it was the anniversary of Conklin’s death. Fifteen agonizing months.
Swallowing the emotion rising up my throat, I check the time on my watch. “I have to go,” I murmur, looking at the penny, then at his name. “If I miss another therapy session, I don’t think the good doc will sign off on my paperwork.”
My lips twitch. Would Conklin laugh at me being in therapy? Or would he tell me he thought it was a good idea? When he and Marissa were having trouble after Cooper was born, they went to couples counseling. I’d been surprised when he said it helped. I’d even considered trying it with Georgia. Anything to make it work.
She didn’t want to.
The drive to the therapist’s office is quiet.
I don’t turn the radio on, but let my thoughts drown out the silence. I let myself feel the pain. The anger. The guilt. Holding it back has become exhausting.
Thirty minutes later, the good doctor opens the door to her office and gives me the same greeting as always.
But when I sit down on that green suede couch, it feels different. Her smile twitches downward like she can feel the shift.
She asks, “Are you all right?”
It’s not the first time she’s ever asked me that, but it’s the first time I’m honest. “No. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”