Chapter 18 Lincoln
Lincoln
Isank into the mustard-colored couch. Dr. Ross sat across from me, legs crossed with the ease of someone who owned whatever room she walked into. Her dark hair was pulled high, severe but elegant. She wagged her finger at me, reprimanding my last comment while seeing into my fucking soul.
Val, she insisted I call her that, didn’t bother with small talk.
I’d lost count of our sessions. Apparently, I was an “interesting case study.” And if I heard her say words along the lines of avoidant patterns or repressed emotions one more time, I wasn’t sure if I’d bolt or give her the blow-up she seemed to be orchestrating.
“Not true.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and hit me straight on. “You bullied Nina.”
My jaw locked so tight it ached. “Yeah, we’ve been over that.”
“We haven’t gone over why.” Her pen tapped against her pad, sharp little clicks that made my teeth grind.
“And don’t give me that spiel about how she was just there.
That’s surface. Your mother died when you were a kid.
Your father broke you every chance he got.
Don’t you think it’s worth asking why you perpetuated a pattern of abuse? ”
My stomach knotted. I stared at the corner of her rug, the threads blurring as my vision tunneled. “You make it sound like some math problem. Mom dies, Dad hits, I pick a girl and ruin her life. Congratulations, you’ve solved me.”
“No douche-bag energy, Lincoln. Of course it isn’t math, it’s pain. Yours.”
I huffed a laugh under my breath, sharp and bitter. “Pain makes people drink. Gamble. Screw up their marriages. Not … do what I did to her. It doesn’t have to be a big revelation about who I am.”
Her expression didn’t change. “But it does. You were relentless. That kind of focus takes fuel. Anger. Hurt. Obsession.”
I folded my arms tight across my chest, nails digging into my biceps. “Or maybe I was just an asshole.”
She leaned in, sharp yet calm. “You were made, Lincoln. Not born.”
I gave a short, mocking laugh. “That’s how you’re going to fix me? Telling me I have daddy issues?”
Her brow arched, controlled and cutting. “There was something about her that triggered you. And bullying her made you powerful for five minutes.”
My throat burned as her words shook my insides. “It wasn’t like that.”
Val’s gaze pinned me, steady and merciless. “Tell me what it was like.”
I couldn’t. My mind went blank except for Dad’s voice booming through the house and Nina’s face when she wheezed and squirmed and went pale on the ground behind the bleachers.
She leaned in closer. “You’re afraid.”
“Of course I’m fucking afraid!” I shot to my feet, voice ricocheting off the walls.
Val smiled—just faintly, enough to sting. “That’s healthy. It means you feel there’s something to lose. A part of you thinks there’s hope.”
Anger shot through me. “I’m not doing this.”
She sat back, unruffled, and scribbled something on her pad. “That’s fine. But the truth doesn’t go away just because you refuse to say it. And until you do, there won’t be progress.” She glanced at me, calm as ever. “I have a feeling people are counting on you.”
I dropped back onto the couch, arms crossed so tight my shoulders ached. With my eyes fixed on the window, I stared past her, counting down the seconds until the clock released me.
The lounge smelled of burned coffee and permanent marker.
Neon Post-its still littered the corkboard and cabinets.
My road map of penitence before I realized it was pointless.
It was insulting to even think I could make anything better.
My eyes locked on one I didn’t recognize, fresh and vicious, penned in Nina’s loopy handwriting: In Lincoln’s world, stalking is foreplay.
My jaw tightened. Nina’s words. I plucked the napkin with the brand-new Reality Bites logo off the fridge.
I’d helped design it. My chest buzzed with the mix of shame and dark hunger.
For her. I wanted to read her complaint, decipher any clues she might have left in her message about how to redeem myself.
I was ravenous for the delusion. She could set me on fire in five words flat, and the worst part? I wanted to burn.
I tugged a Sharpie out of the cup on the table and bit the cap as I yanked it off. My hand hovered over the sticky square, pulse thudding in my ears. I slapped a note next to hers, black ink pressed hard enough to tear the paper:
In Lincoln’s world, harassment was an acceptable form of romance.
Carmen let out a low whistle. “Christ, you two are insane.” Her phone clicked—she’d taken a picture, because of course she had.
I leaned back, cracking my neck, but the heat in my chest didn’t ease. Not even close.
“She doesn’t even have a clue,” Carmen muttered, slumping into the chair across from me. Her voice dropped lower, her face tighter. “No idea how much money her parents had. It makes me so mad.”
That rage I’d been caging, shifted and found a new target.
My knuckles whitened on the Sharpie. “Her aunt and uncle squandered most of what her parents put away,” she said.
“She’s been carrying herself on fumes, they cashed everything in.
Most of Vinny’s tuition came from her parents.
Out-of-state tuition. Nina had to get fucking loans. ”
I balled my fists. “If I don’t put my fist through a wall, it’ll be a miracle.”
Carmen pressed her lips together. “I never thought it’d be this bad.”
I surged forward, elbows braced on my knees. “I’m done waiting. First Natasha. She gets buried for what she pulled with Infinity Weddings. I want her fired on the spot. Blacklisted. I don’t want her working again, not in this industry, not in this city. Like the bitch she is. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Lincoln—”
“I mean it.” My voice came out low, dangerous. “She went after Nina’s livelihood. She tried to erase her. She doesn’t get to walk away from that.”
Carmen’s face pinched. “You did too.”
That stopped me in my tracks. She wasn’t wrong.
“The second you go for Natasha, she’ll retaliate. You’re out for blood.” Her eyes showed determination. “I get it. Just … won’t you regret it?”
Her question pulled at my urge to lash out, but I pushed it down.
I barked a laugh that carried the force of habit more than real humor.
“Regret? That word doesn’t exist for me.
Or did you forget who the hell I was before I hit my head?
Don’t play shrink, Carmen. Leave that to my fucking therapist.”
Her eyes narrowed, lips pressed flat.
I shoved the Sharpie back in the cup with too much force, plastic clattering.
Her cheeks heated. “I need something uploaded onto Curt’s account.”
I blinked. “Uploading … what?”
“That’s my business.” She paused. “I don’t care how. Bluetooth, email, Morse code. I don’t give a fuck. Make it look like you wanted to share porn for all I care.”
I furrowed my brow. “Carmen—”
“You won’t be in trouble. This is for later, something I’m saving for a rainy day.”
Silence stretched. Carmen exhaled slowly, weighing her words. Finally, she said, softer, “In the meantime … how about you come to this DJ show on Saturday at Lalo’s? Let’s play up this roomie routine we’ve got going for us.”
I dragged a hand down my face, the static of rage still humming under my skin. The idea of bass-heavy music, dark corners …. I didn’t answer right away, but I didn’t think Carmen was giving me a choice anyway.
I hadn’t been back to my hometown in years. I never bothered to return, standing there now, time hadn’t stood still for my neighborhood. Not at all.
I’d parked half a block down because I couldn’t stand the thought of pulling right into my old driveway or theirs; I was no prodigal son coming home.
Walking up the cracked sidewalk, I stood outside the two-home building.
There was a fence in the middle separating the two houses.
My old place next door looked well-kept—the new owners had painted over the years.
The scent of lavender detergent rose up from someone’s dryer vent.
Vinny’s home carried the brunt of time at twice the speed. Their duplex slumped against mine, warped and weary. The siding curved, streaked with water stains that spread like veins. Wallpaper visible through the windows curled away. It wasn’t just neglect. It was rot.
The contrast between both homes was stark. Same building, same bones. One half alive, the other half barely standing. My building had been in bad shape when I lived there. Now hers was crumbling. A twisted metaphor hitting too close to home.
Dirt crunched beneath my boots as I walked past the leaning mailbox.
I mapped the inside in my head—my old room pressed up against hers, those thin walls I used to lean into to hear her muffled music.
“Songbird” on repeat. She also played punk, alt rock, and Spanish ballads.
Her voice was often off-key and raw, spilling through the plaster and into the silence of nights I prayed my dad would leave me the hell alone.
I’d tapped the wall, but she never tapped back.
Never responded. And it never occurred to me that every desperate knock, every half-assed attempt at connection, she probably just thought it was another one of my cruel tricks.
If I’d only realized all I wanted was a chance with her.
Vin’s father, Matt, opened the door before I even knocked. His eyes were still that cold blueish silver. He scratched his graying beard and leaned against the frame, not bothering to invite me in.
“Well,” he said flatly, “you’re Vinny’s friend, aren’t you?”
Behind him, Sarah, the mom, shuffled in, sandy curls bouncing around her chin. “Lincoln. Look at you.” Her brittle smile looked forced, rehearsed.
They urged me in. I didn’t argue. It’d be best to talk behind closed doors. The smell hit me—fried grease clinging to curtains, something sour underneath.