36. LINC
THIRTY-SIX
LINC
We’re driving.
It was her idea to drive together to The Window—as long as we didn’t take her car.
I didn’t understand it, but as I had already proven to myself this morning —when I lost my fucking mind and kissed her in the kitchen— I couldn’t resist the temptation of . . . her.
I never had a fucking chance.
Just to hear her humming along to the song on the radio is a goddamn dream. Her citrus and cinnamon smell wafting between the open windows. From the corner of my eye, I can see wisps of her blue hair, catching the wind.
It’s almost enough to believe things are the way they used to be.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel, and one glance down at the ink up my arms reminds me.
That’s “the dream” talking, dumbass.
The pretty, quiet sound of her singing has kept my pulsing anxiety at bay. Even for as little sleep as I usually get —two hours total in the last forty-eight hours has me feeling a little delirious.
Not to mention the ongoing loop playing through my mind of our kiss in the kitchen—mere hours after beating my dick into her underwear.
So, so fucked.
I already washed them, but that’s not the point. And that’s just the physical stuff.
She thought . . . God, it fucking decimated me. Learning she thought I left because I was . . . disgusted by her? For years—she thought I left because she did something wrong?
It makes me hate myself even more—another thing I didn’t know was possible.
I barely remember that time. I just know . . . it needed to happen. I had to go away after what I did to her.
A fact I suspect she’s still denying. If she wasn’t, she would have pushed me away immediately in the kitchen. And she certainly wouldn’t have gotten in the car and let me drive her somewhere.
Never underestimate the power of denial.
“Huh?” she says from the passenger seat, pulling her chin over to me.
Guess I said that out loud. If she’d heard me, she would have recognized the quote from American Beauty.
I shake my head, muttering, “I’m gonna have a smoke.” Shifting my weight, I pull the pack out of my back pocket. After I light it up, my eyes flick over to her.
There’s no eye roll, no scowl, not even a dramatic sound of disapproval. She simply closes her eyes, and leans her head back against the seat. My eyes watch as the sun catches her skin through the windows, casting small shadows over her collar bone.
Her chest seems tense but it rises and falls while her full rosy lips still sing along with the music. I pull off the freeway, allowing my chin to twist and see her hair billowing in tousled, silver-blue waves over her shoulder.
I wish we could . . . go somewhere. On one of our drives.
Or if wishes are a thing, I wish she’d let me film her all day. Just watch her.
Living, breathing, beautiful.
I can watch it even after she leaves.
My nose pulls in a sharp inhale. I won’t, though.
Even now, I have an entire box of home movies I took from our old house back in Venice. Countless hours that I have yet to brave actually watching, terrified they’ll destroy the miniscule amount of progress I’ve made in the last five years.
But I guess that’s shot to shit.
Flicking some ash out the window, I ask, “So other than drinking your weight in tequila, what’d you guys d-do last night?” The question is mostly an attempt to put my thoughts on a fucking leash.
She sighs. “That’s it, really. It ended up being a sob fest over Gram.”
Oh my God. I haven’t even acknowledged—
I am such an asshole. But saying sorry in this scenario seems fucking dumb too. Sorry, is what you say to strangers.
Clearing my throat, I awkwardly start to tell her, “I-uh . . . I went to Venice last weekend.”
Her inhale is audible, but she doesn’t say anything right away. In fact, she doesn’t say anything for a few long seconds, and I have a moment where I wonder if she doesn’t understand that I went back to her house, but then she says, “I saw you found your mug.”
My eyebrows hitch and my chin twists, just slightly, still keeping my eyes on the road. “Wh-Where did you find it?”
My eyes drift over to see hers, watching me, and my chest jumps with surprise. I can feel her eyes studying me. Like an ant crawling along the designs on my arms, an imaginary, featherlight touch of her thumb on my eyebrow. I can feel it all with her stare, and my body shifts.
Finally, she says, “In the hammock . . . just beside the lemon tree.”
That’s why I didn’t hear it break.
But I don’t know what to say to that. It makes me look creepy and weird on multiple levels. And the fact that she’s talking to me —staying under the same roof— I still can’t believe it.
But then I get that feeling again. The old, warm, familiar one—something resembling comfort as the words, ”Never weird,” roll through my mind.
My heart rate picks up and I try my hardest to give her any bit of honesty I can. I visualize the words, think of the signs, then start, “I went back last week. On the anniversary.” I take a breath, swallow, and she doesn’t rush me.
Her hand moves closer and my body tenses. A strange reflex quickly has me tossing the cigarette out the window, coughing out the exhale.
“I’m sorry—” she says quickly.
“N-No—” I croak, but give a quick shake of my head. “No, if you want to—it just . . . surprised me.”
How this girl willingly wanted to touch me was a fucking treasure. I could study it for the rest of my life and never understand it. And I don’t deserve it. But I won’t deny it.
Not while she’s here. I fucking can’t.
She still doesn’t move her hand back, and her words from earlier— “I thought you were disgusted by me” —beat into the back of my brain.
Timidly, I reach my hand over, fingers shaking, and I take her hand, then pull it over toward me. I hover it over my knee, then flick my eyes over to hers.
I know she was about to do it anyway, but I still wait for permission. Careful.
After another second she lowers her hand to my knee, holding it gently, and my heart pounds, feeling like it’s about to soar through the fucking windshield.
This is how it used to be. I remember.
When we were driving.
I used to keep one hand on the wheel and one hand on hers, which would leisurely hold my knee. She’d lie her head on my shoulder and sing to whatever song we were listening to—
God, the countless memories of that exact position—that exact feeling—it hits me with just the light contact of her hand on me.
Keeping me still. Here.
It’s the exact opposite of the feeling I’ve gotten any time I’ve had to make physical contact with anyone in the last seven years. Not just the contact, but the idea of it—the anticipation of touch—usually sends me into some sort of spiral.
I clear my throat after another moment, refocusing, then my eyes glance down to my knee, seeing she’s taken off the flannel she was wearing, and my eyes widen.
I dart them back up to the road, remembering I’m fucking driving, but I can’t shake the visual.
Her wrists are covered. Completely.
The lace wrist cuffs, the bracelets. I see a dangling penny charm on the one I recognize. The rest are new, I think.
But it’s what they’re hiding that’s scratching at the back of my brain.
Her voice reels me back in, she’s singing dreamily to some Norah Jones song, her hand on my knee, but she doesn’t put her head on my shoulder.
You’re lucky she hasn’t called the cops on you—be fucking grateful, dipshit.
And that’s my problem.
I’m so goddamn selfish with her. I always want more. More than I should.
I shake my head again, wanting to hold onto the lightness of this moment. Her hand on me, her voice in my ear.
Finally, I say, “I—uh—I stole lemons off the tree.”
Her hand on my knee squeezes and my gaze flicks over to her, seeing her eyes are closed.
Another moment passes, and her mouth pulls up at the corners as her eyelids slowly peel back open. The sun from the windshield finds the sparkle in her eye —the indigo glitter I’m addicted to— just as she . . . laughs.
A real laugh. And it just knocks me out of orbit. It’s the most beautiful goddamn sound I’ve heard in years.
My favorite voice. My favorite song. Her laugh.
This and the sparkle in her eye. I want to keep both.
I feel like the longer I’m in her presence the longer this list will become.
Her laughter settles a bit and she quietly says, “I saw,” then looks over at me.
God, how will I go back to life without her?
Even now, it doesn’t feel like it used to be. But it feels . . . better. Like I remember the idea of a life where . . . weird things weren’t so weird. Not with her.
It was never weird.
The remainder of our ride was spent pretending. A delusion I was all-too-okay playing along with given the circumstances. But the tether to reality snapped back when I noticed her wrists again.
She put her flannel back on just before we started our walk to The Window from the parking lot. And my eyes are currently hyper focused on the forcefield she’s built around her wrists.
It’s where my eyes are now, waiting in Beck’s office.
Distantly, I’m aware of Jackson and Paige talking, but I’m not paying attention.
All my mind can focus on is what’s underneath the lace coverings.
Would she let me see?
No. And don’t fucking ask.
“ . . . I have a team installing more cameras too,” I faintly hear Jackson say, and I blink back to now, realizing they’ve been having a full-blown conversation this whole time, while I’ve been trying to manifest X-ray vision.
“Do you take vacations, Jackson?” Paige asks.
My gaze drifts up to him. His silver eyes soften a bit, a film of amusement lifting them, as he says, “I’ve been told I have a hard time relaxing.”
Paige fights a smile, and fuck me, do I want it. But she works it out and evens her expression. “’Cause of the stick?”
He lifts his chin up, pointing his face toward the ceiling for a second, like he’s either fighting off a laugh or summoning patience —maybe both— before he lowers his chin again, “Yes. The stick.”
I have no clue what they’re talking about. But the conversation halts just as I hear the door open and close behind us.
Jackson’s shoulders pull back as he stands to the side of a big desk in front of us, just as a man says, “Ah, hello.” His voice curls with what sounds like practiced remorse.
He rounds the chair Paige is sitting in, straightening his pinstripe jacket. “Blue, I was hoping to see you again. I’m sorry that it’s like this,” he says with a soft tone.
My fists tighten. I have to suppress the urge to rip his styled blond hair right off his head.
I’m sure you’re really sorry, now, asshole.
Suddenly, he looks my way, like he heard my silent seething. “And you must be Cook. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Beck Davis,” he says, extending his hand to me as he crosses behind his desk.
Fuck me.