22
My right hand is still undergoing rehabilitation, but my left hand can now hold a pen, draw some straight lines, and I can start sketching clothing designs. Lincoln is happy about this and rewards me with a trip to the beach.
While Lincoln is sunbathing on a lounge chair, some young guys invite me to play beach volleyball with them.
I turn to look at Lincoln sitting alone, worry that he might feel lonely, and I decline their invitation.
A minute later, another young guy comes over and offers me a drink. Lincoln, wearing sunglasses and showing no expression, makes a sound like a hamster gnawing.
Our beach trip ends rather abruptly.
The next morning, we return to the rehabilitation center. After examining my right hand, the therapist says I no longer need to come every day, reducing the sessions to twice a week.
I'm thrilled and rush out to report this to Lincoln, but then remember that I still have ointment from the training on my hands and quickly head to the restroom to wash it off.
When I go out, I see Lincoln talking to the therapist. I approach and hear him thanking the therapist before we head home together.
On the way home, I'm sitting in the passenger seat, looking at my phone.
"To celebrate my progress, how about we go out for a big dinner tonight?"
"Mhm."
"I'll search for some highly-rated restaurants nearby."
"Mhm."
I glance at Lincoln, "You don't seem very happy?"
"I'm okay."
I go back to looking at my phone.
After we get home, I forward a few decent restaurant options to Lincoln, waiting for him to choose one, and then go to bathe our dog, Sandwich.
There are so many downsides to having a black dog, like how it's hard to see him when you get up for water at night, and you might trip over him; or like now, Sandwich looks clean, but when I rinse him with a hose in the garden, the water running off is black.
"Doesn't he look like a black T-shirt that bleeds color?" I joke with Lincoln.
Lincoln walks into the garden, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come with me, I need to ask you something."
I look up, "I'll come over after I finish washing Sandwich."
"He's clean enough now."
Standing in the sunlight, I look at Lincoln's face. He has no expression, but I can sense a strange tension.
"What happened?" I ask, turning off the hose and drying Sandwich, smiling a little.
Could it be that he found out I sneaked a drink last night? The therapist advised me not to drink, but I only had a little taste, and the bottle's level didn't even drop.
Or is it something else? This morning, I accidentally washed his white linen shirt with my clothes, and it turned pink. I've been trying to find different cleaners online to fix it.
Lincoln pulls me into the living room.
"This morning, the therapist told me the water pipes at her home were broken."
"Really?" I feel a sudden pang of anxiety.
"She heard that our pipes had broken once and that we had someone come to fix them, so she asked for the number."
I swallow hard, avoiding Lincoln's gaze.
He lifts my chin, forcing me to look up, "When did the pipes at home ever break?"
I dodge his eyes, "It was when you went back to England..."
Lincoln lets out a cold sneer.
He grabs my wrist and drags me to the computer on the table. "Find that plumber for me."
Looking at the screen, I suddenly break into a cold sweat down my back.
Did Lincoln check the house's front door security footage from when he was away? The playback from that day only shows me coming in and out. I turn to look at Lincoln.
"Explain," Lincoln says with a cold smile.
"I, I—" Just as I start to speak, the tense atmosphere is interrupted by my phone ringing.
"Which guy is calling you now?" Lincoln snatches my phone, checking the screen. "Is it the one who asked you to play beach volleyball? Or the one who offered you a drink? Or is it someone else you just met?"
"No, Lincoln—" I try to grab my phone, but he holds it up high and answers the call.
It's a call from the bartender. He tells me I might need to go to the hospital. Cary has overdosed on heroin and is now in a coma.
By the time we drive there, Cary is already dead.
A white sheet covers his body. When I lift it, I find that his body has turned cold. Cary's eyes, half-opened, didn't close in death—who knows if he left this world with love or resentment.
His cheeks are deeply sunken, his chest nothing but ribs. Standing beside him, it feels like I'm looking at a small mountain of bones.
I feel sorrow for the loss of this young life, remembering that we once had a good relationship.
On the first day I moved into Cary's house after my father's funeral, I was overwhelmed with sadness.
At a time when I felt abandoned by the world, it was Cary who patted my head and said, "This is your home now too."
My aunt and uncle had prepared a beautifully decorated room for me, with pink sheets and a cat-themed duvet cover. The wooden desk and bookcase were rounded at the edges, with a shelf beside them holding some dolls.
But adults are always busy—they sympathized with me but didn't have much energy to focus on the inner world of a relative's child, even if she had just lost her father and her mother was ill.
They thought that as long as I was fed and clothed, that was enough.
During that time, Cary was my whole world. He preferred playing soccer, but he was willing to sit at the table and draw with oil pastels just to keep me company.
But kids often fight. Whenever we argued, Cary would say hurtful things like, "This is my house, get out," and wouldn't let me use his oil pastels. And that was that—nothing more.
Now, livor mortis is appearing on Cary's face.
I recall the last time I found him in the bar, when he yelled at me.
Then I turn to look at Lincoln and say, "I'm the one who killed him."
Lincoln's eyes widen in confusion.
I take a deep breath, the smell of hospital disinfectant flooding my senses.
I meet Lincoln's gaze and continue, "When you went back to London, I skipped my rehab sessions to see him."
Revenge is one thing, but exposing the darkness within myself to someone who loves me, letting him judge me, is something else entirely.
I fall silent, feeling a strange and contradictory mix of ice and fire burning within me.
So, I close my eyes and confess, "I encouraged him to start using drugs. I turned him into an addict."
The air grows quiet for a moment.
"Do you use drugs too?" I hear Lincoln ask.
"No."
"Have you ever used drugs?"
"Never."
"Then let's go home."
I open my eyes abruptly, staring at him in confusion.
"The hospital and embassy will notify his parents. This doesn't concern us," Lincoln says, pausing. "Let's go, it's time to go home for dinner."
The car speeds down the road.
I sit in the passenger seat, watching his relaxed expression, one arm resting on the window, and I can't help but ask, "Aren't you curious?"
Lincoln turns to look at me. "If you hid it from me, it means you didn't want me to know."
"To me, nothing is a big deal except cheating. When you're ready to talk, you will."
Really?
I study his profile. If he knew I was a wolf in sheep's clothing, that I've never been as innocent as I appear, would he still love me?
I lower my head, staring at the ring on my finger. It feels mocking, wrapped around my ring finger.
After dinner, I sit alone on the bedroom floor, lost in thought. I lean against the door, watching the sky outside gradually darken.
The night pulls many memories back in with it.