Chapter 19 Nina
Nina
The kitchen clock ticked too loud, competing with the low hum of my laptop fan. I was on my second cup of late-night espresso while Lynnie blasted Guns n’ Roses through the stereo to keep herself awake.
A local TikToker with a huge following had gone viral after biting into one of our cupcakes and moaning, with the hanging chalkboard showcasing the new logo clear above her head.
Lynnie said we’d been lucky, but luck had nothing to do with it—none of my clients’ success did.
I’d spent hours studying hashtag fluctuations, making sure their posts landed in front of the right influencers who would hit share.
I’d worked my butt off, and that’s why I was being tagged as an independent marketing strategist who could deliver a tenfold return on investment for small and medium businesses across the Windy City and Chicagoland area.
I was finding success. It was still tentative, though precarious.
I’d had to buckle up and renew subscriptions, invest in a new laptop, on top of loans, insurance, and meds.
It simply just wasn’t enough for someone with my credit score to find an apartment without mold or cracked windows.
That’s why I was taking up Lincoln on his offer to stay in his home for as long as possible.
It, for sure, had nothing to do with the fact, that while I danced and laughed with Diego’s family, all I could think about was how Lincoln understood the ache of having your family ripped from you.
It had nothing to do with how Diego’s family didn’t ease my loneliness, but finding Lincoln watching me from across the bar, soothed the feeling a little.
Especially, the quite determination in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
No, my staying in that apartment had nothing to do with how the stupid Lincoln-shaped ache in my chest dulled a little every time he looked at me the way he had for the past two months.
I shook my head, the BrightMark deck glared at me from the screen, bright slides cutting through the midnight haze. I’d scribbled every margin of paper in front of me with notes from other clients. Coffee rings bleeding into my outlines proof I’d been here too long.
Lynnie moved to the rhythm of the music while she piped cupcakes like crazy, streaks of pink-and-teal hair swinging sharply around her jaw, her Pearl Jam tee hanging loose on her frame.
The faded graphic stretched, and when she turned her back to pull out another tray from the oven, I recognized the washed-out sheep against a fence.
Lynnie shimmied and shifted across the kitchen, belting out with all the defiance of someone who knew she was off-key and didn’t care.
Her glasses slid down her nose as she twirled, sneakers squeaking on the tile.
She jabbed a finger at me, her only audience, then spun back around.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t make it to Lalo’s. I think Diego would get a kick out of”—I gestured to her movements—“this.”
Lynnie’s gaze swept down to her red Converse, and her cheeks turned bright pink. “Yeah, sorry I missed it.”
“I don’t mind. It was very loose, but fun.”
Lynnie slid into the chair across from me, fidgeting with the hem of her Pearl Jam shirt. The music had softened to background noise, more hum than guitar now.
“What were things like for you, living with your aunt and uncle?” she asked, voice small enough to make me glance up from my laptop.
I hesitated, cursor blinking on an unfinished slide. “Things weren’t … as warm as you’d expect. They had their own idea of how the house needed to run and what my role in it was.”
She leaned in a little. “What does that mean, Nina?”
I clicked my tongue, eyes back on the screen. The question sent me somewhere I didn’t want to go. “I worked. I had to contribute.”
“You were the kid, Nina, to be cared for.” Pity shined in her eyes.
I shrugged, skating my fingers over the trackpad just to give them something to do. This is why I never got into it. I hated being pitied. “It is what it is.”
“And with your cousin?”
I met her eyes. Vinny’s awkward comments from his visit to Reality Bites drifted back: his signature flirting.
But Lynnie didn’t shut him down. Why did she insist on discussing my cousin?
The skin at the corners of her eyes wrinkled and her mouth dipped at the same time.
That wasn’t gossip. I dismissed the thought that maybe—
“Sometimes good, sometimes bad. Like any cousin, I suppose.”
“I wish you’d tell me. Really tell me. I’m trying so hard to understand where you’re coming from, but you won’t help me.”
My spine ramrodded, the muscles in my back tensing. “I don’t know what to tell you, Lynnie. Neither my aunt, uncle, nor Vinny were happy to have me there. Vinny and I had some good moments, sure. But we were never close, and it showed then—it still does now.”
“He came to check on you, though. Doesn’t that count for something?”
I shrugged. No, it didn’t. With a flat tone, I added, “He didn’t have a say in his parents’ house, sure. And he tried more than they did, I’ll give him that.”
“So, you’re not on bad terms?” she asked, leaning in.
“Wouldn’t say we’re on good ones either.” My fingers closed around my mug, thumb worrying the rim. “Honestly,” I added after a beat, “I’m mostly mad he didn’t help with Lincoln.”
“So you don’t think he’s a bad guy?”
“No. Sometimes, I think Vinny just lets himself get sucked into shitty things.” I met her eyes again.
“What do you mean?” Lynnie ask, shifting closer.
“It’s not important.”
“I’m trying so hard to understand and be here for you, Nina!” Lynnie countered. “I thought we were getting closer, friendly, again.”
I opened and closed my mouth before responding; Lynnie wouldn’t understand it’s safer to never have than to lose people. “We are but it’s pointless to talk about things I can’t change.”
Lynnie tilted her head and pressed her lips into a thin line before swallowing.
I stared down at my notes for the BrightMark pitch. Lincoln’s throat had worked on a thick swallow, hurt etched in his features when I’d rejected his help.
“You’re thinking about Lincoln,” Lynnie said with renewed determination as if she wanted back those nights when we talked ’til midnight about anything and everything.
I snapped my gaze up. “No, I’m not.”
She grinned, sharky but soft. “Uh-huh. All glowering, all grumpy energy. Well, except secretly you want him to serenade you under your window with a boombox.”
I laughed despite myself, covering my face with one hand. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re in denial,” she singsonged, leaning back in her chair. “But hey, you’re allowed to hate that the only thing you hate about him is that you don’t hate him. Not even close. Not even at all.”
I couldn’t handle how her words rang true. So I deflected. “I think you’re getting your pop culture references mixed up. There’s no boombox when Heath Ledger sings.”
Lynnie laughed. “True, true,” she said, shrugging. “However, 10 Things I Hate About You, way more applicable.”
And just like that, I was thinking about how Lincoln had been trying to do better.
Except the Lincoln I knew would peek through sometimes.
With Diego. With Natasha. It felt different.
Having him lashing out because of me rather than at me.
But I still didn’t think I could trust who he was trying to be now.
Carmen and I had snagged a tiny corner table at a bustling taco spot at Six Corners, the kind where the salsa came in mismatched bowls and the tables were always just a little sticky.
Taco Tuesday deal came in handy, but I had some pocket change to eat out and be social.
As I bit into the tortilla, relief seeped into my bones.
“So,” Carmen said around a chip, her dark eyes narrowing with playful suspicion. “What’s the deal with you and Diego?”
I nearly choked on my Mexican cola. “Diego and me?”
“Yeah, he didn’t take his hands off you at Lalo’s last weekend. It was like watching a telenovela.”
“Your family’s awesome. You could feel how close y’all are.”
She waved me off. “Doesn’t make a difference. Sometimes, you get shipped off to schools in the suburbs anyway.” Her brow furrowed, and she swirled her straw in her frozen pina colada. “Anyway, you certainly enjoyed the closeness.”
Her expression closed off, and I decided we weren’t close enough for me to push. “Diego’s sweet, Carmen. He’s like—” I paused, searching for the right word. “A marshmallow. Fluffy and gooey, but—”
“But you don’t want to fuck him?”
I grimaced. It felt harsher when put in those terms. But if anyone would say it, it’d be Carmen. Brother or not.
“There’s no fire there,” I stated, dunking a chip in salsa for emphasis. “He’s … easy. Safe.”
“But he doesn’t tie you up in knots and fill your head with steamy thoughts?” she teased.
I took a long sip of my cola to avoid responding.
“Guess what the latest one says?” Carmen let it go with a little shrug, pulling out her phone and holding it against her chest so I couldn’t see.
“Another one?” I asked, my stomach doing that confusing, traitorous flip.
Carmen smirked. “Straight from the guy who does tie you up in knots.”
Responding to Lincoln’s attempt at self-deprecation, scribbled all over Post-its and whiteboards in his workroom, had been an impulsive decision. I hadn’t expected it to turn into … this.
My “In Lincoln’s world, stalking is foreplay” had gotten a response in the form of a green Post-it in his messy handwriting: “In Lincoln’s world, harassment was an acceptable form of romance.
” So I’d fired back: “I’m not saying you’re predictable, but I saw your snappiness coming a mile away at Lalo’s. Thought harassment was off the table.”
Lincoln’s reply had been scrawled crookedly across two sticky notes: “Only hurting you again is off the table. Asshole Lincoln was bad at getting your attention. I’m the new and improved version.
” To that, I’d said: “You can break the news in Lincoln’s world.
This is a much more effective way to hold my attention. ”
Carmen groaned dramatically. “I’ve essentially become a glorified gopher. Passing freaking love notes. What are we, twelve?”
I grabbed her phone and looked at the picture of the newest one, Lincoln’s barely legible handwriting spelling out: “In Lincoln’s world, the greatest accomplishment is becoming mildly tolerable in Nina’s world.”
My stomach flipped hard enough to make me dizzy. My first impulse was to tell him he was way past mildly tolerable, but instead, I blushed and covered my face with my hands.
Carmen’s smug smile said it all. “This is not just casual banter. You two are flirting.”
“It’s stupid,” I muttered, but I still sent myself the picture of the note so I could look at it later.
Carmen noticed, of course, and her smile softened. “Stupid can still mean something, you know.”
I grabbed a napkin and wrote back in all caps: ALL I CAN DO IS ADMIT I DON’T HATE YOU.
Then I pretended to focus on my tacos, but my pulse was hammering hard enough to drown out the noise of the restaurant.