8. LINC
EIGHT
LINC
Heavy. It’s the only feeling that fully sinks in.
A fuzzy image plays in front of my eyes, slowly. Unfocused.
My lungs tighten while blurred figures spot my vision.
Heavy, heavy, heavy.
I think one of the figures is standing—no, kneeling—but sort of hunched over the other one.
For some reason, it feels like I’m one of them, but I can’t tell which one, or what’s happening.
“Easy,” I hear someone say. “Nice and easy.”
“Easy,” Ellis’s voice snaps through the fog.
Oh, fuck.
My untimely space out happens as I’m flat on my back, my inked arms starting to shake above me as I push the barbell back up and away from my chest.
The memory, in all of its blurriness, lingers as Ellis stands over me— close— which isn’t helping, and then curls his fists around the bar, locking the weight back in place.
Okay, so I guess he was helping.
Blinking rapidly, a long hiss pushes through my clenched teeth and my muscles half-release.
“Is it as hard as you make it look?” he jabs with a chuckle.
A raspy laugh escapes, relieved he didn’t seem to notice that I had zoned the fuck out. I cough to release the jolt of adrenaline. “Fuck y-you.”
Another deep breath.
A residual laugh pushes past his lips, shrugging. “No, man. That was good. Benching two hundred ain’t nothin’,” then he mumbles, “Looked like you were about to kill someone.”
The remnants of the disturbing coldness still feels like ice melting through my veins, and I shudder as I sit up and swipe the towel at the end of the bench.
“You doin’ all right? You’ve seemed . . .” he trails off as his gaze flicks down to my bobbing knee.
I actively work to slow it down and nod.
Quickly. Too quickly. Fuck.
Exercise usually helps. Lifting in particular usually demands that I stay present—the physical weight, the rough almost-granular metal bar that bites into my palms, is usually enough to keep me here.
So, what the fuck was that?
I can sense Ellis’s curious, possibly concerned , eyes on me, and a heavy sigh drops my shoulders—doing my best to appear indifferent.
Not too far, not too deep.
But Ellis has seen all the ugly parts of what I’ve become, and he’s obnoxiously intuitive, so concealing anything is a bit of an art form.
I have to give him just enough honesty that he’ll accept it and move on. But not enough that we’ll accidentally stumble into “worried territory.”
Luckily, I think my delayed response can be blamed on the fact that my body is still heaving from the exertion —and the realization that I was holding two hundred pounds while my mind was who-the-fuck-knows where.
I grab my water bottle off the floor, my voice hoarse as I mumble, “Just still a little m-messed up from going back to V-Venice.”
He nods, keeping his chin dipped for a moment. I think he’s satisfied with that answer. At least I’m actually admitting I went to Venice.
And to be fair, I do think it’s at least partially true. I hadn’t been back there in years, and I think it’s fucking with me.
Mom and Maisie don’t even live there anymore.
I’ve avoided going back for a reason, and now I know why. Revisiting a place where I wasn’t this version of myself —where my life was completely different— it feels like it opened some kind of portal. One where the memories are teasing the edges of my mind—pulling my focus even more than usual.
And it’s not that I can’t handle the memories . . . they still hurt like a bitch, but I can handle them when they surface—it’s more like what will happen if they continue to hit like this.
I cringe even thinking about it.
In the last five years—one of which being right before I went to Lending Lanterns—it’s happened twice. Two times where the visions —the memories— have pooled, stormed, and then crashed like a tidal wave through my skull.
And then I float. For God knows how long. And I can’t let that happen.
Popping up, I say, “W-Wanna hit the bag?” Flicking my eyes over to the boxing bag in the corner of the garage.
Ellis chuckles. “Ahh, man. Desmond’s gonna be here in an hour . . .”
My fists clench. The reminder of Desmond’s visit solidifies that I still need to work off some adrenaline, keep my mind busy.
The idea of the social aspect has already jacked up my heart rate, and I crack my neck. “It’s c-cool,” I stutter. Fuck.
That’s been a little worse too. Not that I talk a whole lot as it is—but when it gets hard to talk . . .
It’s cause for concern.
Taking a deep breath, I force a chuckle —force an easy tone. “It’s cool if you can’t hang,” I jab, walking toward the bag.
Ellis groans, “Dick,” but I hear his footsteps follow behind me.
“Linc. Good to see ya,” Desmond says, standing from his seat at one of the bar stools at the counter, as I step out from my hallway.
He extends his hand and I accept it, swallowing hard and clenching my jaw.
No matter how many times I visualize this feeling—the tough, calloused feel of his hand brushes my skin and a rushing, itchiness crawls up my throat.
My bare feet press as hard as they can into the floor. I don’t know what shit Ellis had them put in here—but it’s fucking magical. The wood is imported from Madagascar or something, but it’s always the perfect amount of coolness.
As soon as Desmond releases my hand, the tension pulling my body starts to loosen. “How’s it goin’?” he asks, giving a clap to my shoulder that shoots down my spine like a whip.
My fists tighten at my sides, and I immediately feel the pressure from his hand on my shoulder release. “Oh, shit. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking . . .”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Barely passed the handshake and I’m acting like a kicked puppy.
This is one of the many reasons I should just live in a fucking hole.
Ellis slides two beer bottles toward the edge of the counter, closer to Desmond and me, saying, “He’s fine,” casually to Desmond, but then looks at me. “ Cinderella Man probably just tweaked something while he was wailing on the bag just before you got here.”
Desmond’s concern seems to fade away completely with one look at my cracked, raw knuckles.
Buffy bless Ellis.
Whoa.
Where the fuck did that come from?
The old phrase hits me with enough force to knock the wind out of me. I do need a fucking beer.
Giving Ellis an appreciative nod, I silently thank him for veering the attention away from me. I pick up the bottle, and he picks up his too. He gives a subtle, easy shrug just as Desmond says, “Well, good for you, kid,” with a smile, clinking his bottle with mine. “Cheers.”
Ellis taps his bottle in too, and we all take a sip.
Well, I take a gulp.
I limit myself to one drink. Any more has the potential to get out of control—to send me too far away. But a single drink is usually enough to pull me out when I feel too deep inside— too lost in my own fucking head.
My toes push into the large grooves of the floorboard as the malty taste of the beer soothes down my throat.
Another perk to fancy flooring —at least to weirdos like me— is the unique grain pattern. A darker brown finish with big knots and grooves.
“I just saw this morning that The 5 got selected for Outskirts Fest, that’s pretty fuckin’ big, son. Congrats.” He tips his bottle toward Ellis before taking another sip.
My eyes widen, looking over at my friend, my mouth twitching at the corner. Really? I ask silently.
He gives a modest smile with a nod. “Yeah, it was definitely a long-term goal, so it’s a little overwhelming, ’cause films that do the best have a really big following. So I’ll have to step up the marketing, and it kinda delays the start of my next project.”
Next project?
Damn. He doesn’t waste any time. But it checks out. Sometimes it’s like he can’t turn his brain off. We have, like, the exact opposite problem.
My brain likely looks like an abandoned warehouse with an echoey voice asking, “Is anyone home?” While Ellis’s brain probably looks like some sort of mod-podge gathering, with interesting stories, tinkering glassware, general amusement—all swirling around him while he picks up ideas and inspiration like party favors.
I envy it sometimes. I used to love creating shit like he does. But to let that part of myself fully back in feels risky. Like if I let that back in, I’d let all of it back in.
I take another sip of my beer just as Desmond says, “Actually, speaking of work—Linc, I wanted to talk to you about a potential opportunity.”
Me?
My expression alone must show my confusion but Desmond says, “Let’s fire up the grill and we can chat while we eat.”