3. Lillian
Lincoln
Can we talk?
Three words…and not the three I’ve been waiting to hear for the past twenty-four hours.
Three words and my heart sinks into my stomach. Never in the history of mankind have those words meant anything good. I’m not sure what the hell happened with his parents after I left yesterday, but everything in me says whatever it was, it’s about to be the end of our relationship.
Me
Sure. Now?
Three dots appear at the bottom of the screen. Stop. Ten seconds go by. Seconds that feel like minutes before three dots appear again and then:
Lincoln
Yeah. My place?
Not a single emoji. No sarcastic or humorous remarks. Our usually flirty banter is completely absent.
Shit.
It’s definitely not good news.
Tears start to build in my eyes, so I look up and blink rapidly to dry them before they have a chance to fall. Then respond.
Me
Be there in thirty.
He reads it and doesn’t respond.
Shit.
I pull into his driveway exactly twenty-nine minutes later, put the car in park, shut it off, and wipe sweaty palms on my jeans while trying to calm my racing heart. Lincoln must hear me pull up because the garage door starts to open, so I step out of my car and walk toward it.
When it’s opened enough for me to step in, I see him standing just outside the interior door that leads inside.
He gives me a small, heartbreaking smile, and I suddenly wish the bastard would have dressed in a trash bag. Or maybe some cargo shorts and Crocs. But no, he looks irresistible in a pair of white-washed jeans and a T-shirt.
I return his smile with a small one of my own and walk up to where he’s standing in the doorway, waiting on me. I stop a foot away with no intention of hugging him like I usually would. Every part of me is aching to. But if he’s going to dump me, I want to stay strong and not fold into him like a lovestruck girl.
He smashes all my plans to smithereens, pulling me into his strong chest, which smells so good, and holding me tight to him. A breath shudders from me, and I give in, sinking into his warmth and wrapping my own arms around his waist. We stay like that for a few intimate moments, just holding one another.
A little hope creeps in. Maybe this isn’t a breakup. Maybe he was distant because he was upset and it has nothing to do with us.
Then he pulls back. “Want to come inside?” And the hope dies at his cautious tone.
There’s a lump in my throat that I know will make my voice hitch if I speak out loud, so I nod and walk ahead of him. Neither of us says anything as I walk into the kitchen. I glance at the barstools, but I don’t think I want to be sitting for this conversation. I also don’t want to be so close to him for it.
Putting a little space between us, I lean against the counter by the fridge and cross my arms. A clear indicator. A boundary set. He reads it for what it is and stays on the other side of the kitchen island.
The silence stretches on as we stare at each other. Me with a quiet resignation, and him with a nervous, lost sort of look. Like he’s trying to figure out how to start the conversation, but either he doesn’t know how or doesn’t want to. So I decide to put him out of his misery.
“Is this the breakup speech?” Oh, how I wish he would shoot back with an immediate, hell no. I love you. But this isn’t a fairytale.
He stays silent. All the confirmation I need, really.
“Are you at least going to tell me why? Is it because of your parents?” I ask quietly.
Both his hands come up and he grabs the back of his neck in frustration as he sighs. But he does finally say something as his hands drop back down to his sides. “It’s just not a good time for me to be in something long-term.”
“Not a good time…” I repeat. “So for the past three months, we’ve just been… what? Friends with benefits?”
“No,” he shoots back automatically. “But I think we’re at that point where it’s time to get serious. And I’m not ready for that.”
“You seemed ready for it yesterday before your parents got here,” I challenge, pushing off the counter and walking up to my side of the island. Still keeping some space between us.
Silence. I watch as he looks off into space with a furrowed brow. When he turns to me again, something’s changed in his eyes. There’s a coldness, a finality in them that I’ve never seen before. “Or maybe that’s just what you wanted to believe.”
“What?” I laugh incredulously. “No. This has not been in my head.”
“I’m not saying it’s been in your head. I’m saying you’ve wanted more than I have from the jump. And you got your hopes up. But I’m not ready to go any further.”
“Any further?” I grit, raising my voice more than I usually would. But I’m starting to get annoyed at his implications. Like I’m pushing him for marriage or two point five kids when we’ve only known each other three months. “I’m not down on one knee begging you to marry me for crying out loud. Nobody said anything had to change from yesterday to today.” I turn away, and a humorless laugh slips free before I whirl back around to face him. “I mean… what the hell, Lincoln? Just be honest with me. What did your parents say to you yesterday?”
He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “They didn’t say anything.”
“Oh, okay. I’m convinced,” I shoot back.
The sarcasm in my comment, the disbelief, has his eyes narrowing. “Fine. You want the truth?”
The danger in his voice tells me I absolutely do not want the truth. That the truth will ruin me. But I’m a glutton for punishment. “That’d be great.”
“The truth is I didn’t want to introduce you to my family because I knew they wouldn’t approve. The truth is, I was embarrassed.”
A jolt slices through my heart. “Of me?” I whisper.
His silence is the only response I need.
I laugh. “Well…thanks for your honesty, I guess.” There’s nothing more to say. Nothing more I want to hear. So I walk toward the front door to leave.
“Lil,” he starts to say as I walk by him without so much as a glance in his direction.
“Go to hell, Lincoln.” I shake off the hand that grazes my elbow, and I’m out the front door, trying like hell to hold back the tears I feel coming on.
I get three blocks away before they really start in full force. Tears stream down my cheeks in a non-stop torrent, blurring my vision. The road is getting harder to see. The back of my right hand is soaked with the tears I’m wiping away.
Embarrassed. He’s embarrassed of me. The word rings through and around my head until it’s all I hear. Until his stony face is all I see.
My phone ringing drags me from my thoughts. As my eyes pull back into focus, I realize my wheel is turned too far to the right, and I’m barreling toward the sidewalk where a box sits.
“Shit!” I yell as I slam on my brakes, tires screeching, and the back end of my car fishtails, hitting the curb hard and sideswiping a meter. “Great. Just great,” I groan. At least the gut-wrenching fear has dried the tears.
With a sigh, I unbuckle and hop out to inspect the damage to the meter and car. The box on the sidewalk is inches from my front bumper. “What the hell,” I mutter, peering in at the…
Is that…?
“Oh my God,” I breathe in horror.