03
Actually there is an inch-long cut on his hand, like it was made by a sharp object.
I jump up from the sofa, completely forgetting Mateo's order to stay by the door.
"I-I'll get the first aid kit."
"Thank you."
In the hallway to the right of the main hall, there's a utility room where we keep the household's common medicines. I grab the first aid kit and want to hurry back. Then, as I push the door open, I catch a glimpse through the crack.
It's Mr. Daniels' wheelchair.
His health has been deteriorating, and he's now resting in the quiet back yard of the old mansion. He didn't even show up for Mateo's and my anniversary party, saying it was too noisy; yet here he is in the front hall late at night.
I peer through the door crack and see Lincoln smiling, standing in front of Mr. Daniels. The suit I used is now draped over his arm, covering the cut on his hand.
"Dad, you shouldn't have to come out to see me off," Lincoln pauses, then turns to the servant pushing Mr. Daniels' wheelchair, "It's late, take him back to his room to sleep."
Mr. Daniels asks the servant for his cane and shakily stands up, "I told you, I want to be buried with your mother."
"And I told you, no," Lincoln refuses with a smile.
Mr. Daniels' body trembles, and he bangs his cane on the floor twice, making a dull thud, "So you're in charge of this house now, aren't you?"
"I didn't say I'm in charge. But given your health, it should be my elder brother who makes the decisions now," Lincoln pauses, "Unless you want me to wake him up and see if he's willing to let you be buried with my mother?"
Mr. Daniels begins to cough violently.
The servant hurriedly helps him back into the wheelchair, "Sir, the doctor said you mustn't get upset."
Lincoln sighs softly. "Dad, you're old now. please stop messing around. When people die, they turn to dust, without consciousness. Why insist on being buried next to a specific woman?"
"I," Mr. Daniels pants, "I know I wronged you and your mother, but—"
"You didn't wrong us," Lincoln interrupts, "The person you wronged is my brother's mother. She is the one you legally married. And now you say you want to be buried with my mother? Think about it, is that appropriate?"
"Or do you know my relationship with my brother is strained and want to provoke him to kill me?"
Mr. Daniels' coughing grows more intense.
Lincoln waves at the servant, "What are you standing around for? Take him back to the backyard."
"And, Dad, if the next time you call me home is to discuss this, we really don't need to meet anymore."
The hall is in chaos. Mr. Daniels' cursing, the servant's apologies, the sound of the wheelchair.
Behind the utility room door, I'm suddenly unsure if I should go out.
The noise gradually fades, then the sound of footsteps in leather shoes approaches.
The door opens, and Lincoln, still with the suit draped over his arm, smiles and asks, "Did you find the first aid kit?"
The utility room is small. He stands at the narrow entrance, making me instinctively uneasy.
"Here you go." I hand him the first aid kit, slipping through the gap between his shoulder and the door.
The hall door is still open, and it's still snowing outside.
My steps slow down automatically—it's too cold, and I wonder if I could survive the night out there.
"Is there anything to eat?" Lincoln suddenly asks behind me.
I turn around.
"I didn't eat enough at dinner. I'm a bit hungry now," he says, looking at me.
"I'll check the kitchen," I reply.
It's not my fault. It's not that I'm escaping the punishment.
If Mateo asks tomorrow, I'll say I was entertaining his brother. Mateo doesn't like his half-brother, but it's okay. I'll explain that it was for the family's reputation and superficial peace. Otherwise, if the news of the Daniels brothers' discord spreads, the family's image will suffer.
There are no leftovers or snacks in the kitchen. I cook some pasta to stall for time.
His portion is large; mine is small.
When I place a basil leaf on each plate for garnish, Lincoln has already bandaged his wound, and the suit jacket I used for warmth is back on him.
"Thank you—" he looks at the large portion of pasta, "I don't know your name yet."
"Ali." I pick up my fork.
He looks at my portion, then at my face, "You didn't eat enough at the dinner either?"
"Uh huh," I think he's stating the obvious.
Lincoln looks at me, then suddenly smiles. He leans in a bit, like two students whispering secrets in class, "My brother is pretty terrible, isn't he?"
I don't want to answer that question, fearing it might reach Mateo's ears someday.
Lincoln's injured hand is his right one, and now he's holding the fork with his left hand, which seems somewhat awkward.
So I change the subject, "How did you hurt your hand?"
Lincoln sits up straight and smiles, "This actually has nothing to do with my brother."
"I was arguing with the old man in the backyard. He threw a glass, and a shard of it flew up and cut my hand."
I nod, not saying anything else.
After dinner.
"Technically, since you cooked, I should wash the dishes, but—" Lincoln shakes his right hand slightly.
"I know."
I put on gloves and wash the two plates, placing them in the sterilizer. When I take off the gloves and turn around, I see Lincoln smoking on the balcony. He smiles at me through the glass door.
Maybe it's his overly sunny smile; maybe it's the emptiness of the mansion with just the two of us on a snowy night; maybe it's the fact that we just shared a midnight snack at the same table—I find myself walking over and opening the door, saying, "Nicotine is bad for wound healing."
"Thank you, sis—"
I frown slightly.
I don't like his teasing tone when he calls me sister-in-law; after witnessing the discord between Mateo and me, each time he calls me that feels like a sophisticated mockery.
"Ali," he sees my expression and corrects himself in time.
He takes one last drag, blows a jellyfish-like smoke ring into the air, then extinguishes the cigarette in the ashtray. He opens his arms, making a gesture as if to hug me.
His next words make me gasp.
"Ali, would you like to smell my clothes again?"
I freeze, trying to process the meaning of his words, then search my mind for all the curse words I know, but only manage to say, "You're crazy."
In the afternoon, when we first met in the garden, he suggested I have an affair to get back at his brother; during our second private encounter in the early hours, he has the audacity to blatantly seduce me, offering himself as the option of the affair.
"So—I've been rejected? I'm truly heartbroken." Lincoln shrugs, his tone somewhat sorrowful, but his demeanor utterly nonchalant.
I step back sharply, closing the glass door to maintain physical separation.
But he actually waves at me through the glass with his bandaged hand, his face showing a regretful yet understanding expression.
"No worries, I can wait for you," he mouths.
I quickly draw the curtains.
Since I've already broken Mateo's orders, I decide to stay a bit longer in the warmth of the house. This night, I sleep in a guest room on the first floor.
The next morning, I go to the dining room for breakfast, ready to face Mateo's interrogation. But his usual seat is empty. I ask the butler, who tells me that Mateo left for a business trip at four in the morning.
He probably doesn't have time to bother with me anymore.
Feeling much better, I drink an extra glass of milk at breakfast and then head to school.
This semester, our theme is "The Intersection of Fashion and Architecture." Students are required to draw inspiration from architecture to design clothing, as the saying goes, "Fashion is a moving architecture."
I walk into the classroom, take out my drawing tools and sketchbook from my canvas bag, along with an architecture book. Just as I open the first page, I hear two classmates beside me mention that the school has invited the most outstanding architect in North America to give a lecture today.
"North America? It takes at least seven hours to fly from there to the UK. How did the school manage that?"
"No, no, he's originally British. He was living in North America but now he's back in the UK to further his career."
"Is he an old man? The type who worked abroad for many years, made enough money, and now has come back to retire."
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you, but I just walked past the dean's office and caught a glimpse of him through the door crack. He's tall, handsome, and absolutely stunning! Our dean's eyes kept resting on him. I just wonder about his orientation..."
Listening to the conversation, I couldn't help but smile. Design department is known for having a high number of gay men, especially in the fashion design section.
Our dean is a typical example. He has had three different men pick him up from get off work just this semester.
Could it be that his fourth boyfriend is coming?
As the lecture time approaches, the classroom fills up. I close my book and look curiously towards the door.
When the architect's face comes into view, the room bursts into a collective gasp.
"Is he really not a model who walked into the wrong classroom?"
"I want to invite him to model for my graduation project..."
The comments from my classmates are spot on. The man is indeed very tall and handsome, with a casual smile at the corner of his mouth. He seems polite and warm, yet you can feel there's a vast, oceanic distance between him and everyone else at the same time.
I also realize that our dean has no chance with him—because this architect is straight. He had just invited me to smell his suit jacket last night and said, "I can wait for you."