Chapter 4 Lincoln
LINCOLN
I’M SUCH A PRICK
She’s far prettier in person than her pictures imply.
Average height, but with a small waist and observant eyes.
I watch as she climbs out of the car and straightens her shoulders, though I know she was crying while the doors were closed.
While a hundred mourners surround Nichols’ plot and chatter across a casket built for a soldier, it’s not until Nova Nichols starts this way that the true heart-wrenching emotion overtakes the crowd.
Which is an interesting tidbit of information to tuck away for later.
Mourners whisper Nova’s name, while others gossip about how tragic the car accident was.
He was so young.
So strong and kind and with such a promising future.
They discuss how brave he was to be in the military, and repeat stories only Nova could have told them—like how he practically raised her after their parents passed, despite being the same age.
They lament how sudden his death was, and some of them, with quieter voices, discuss how horrible Nova herself looks.
Not her clothes, or her hair, or the way she stares at her brother’s casket.
But the long, purple bruise stretching from her temple to her jaw.
The small butterfly Band-Aids holding her brow together, and the swelling at the side of her neck that could only result from a deep gash held together by stitches.
Ryan Nichols died at the intersection not so far from here a week ago. And Nova Nichols… well, shit, she could’ve just as easily faced the same fate.
For whatever reason, she chose not to wear sunglasses today.
Instead, she exposes herself and the tears already on her lashes to a group of a hundred or more.
When an older guy—short, round, and a total blubbering mess—approaches her with flowers, she accepts them with the strength of a thousand men, firming her jaw and clamping down on lips I know would otherwise tremble.
She holds the bouquet between her ribs and arm as she’s passed from one mourner to the next. Hugs, kisses. She accepts each with a forced smile and a nod of her chin. Tears flow softly, silently, from her eyes and over her cheeks.
There will be no hysteria or fits of rage today.
There will be no screams of anguish or, my personal hatred, falling to her knees and crying up at the Heavens. Thank fuck. The last is awkward for everyone in attendance.
Maybe Nova’s firm hold on her feelings is born from growing up in a military family. Or it could be because she’s already buried people before. Fuck knows, maybe she didn’t actually give a shit about her brother at all. But her stoic stance and quiet grief make for an easier transition for all.
I stand at the back of a chattering, sniffling crowd while they work through the motions of saying goodbye. And though Nova’s eyes flicker to me, I lower my gaze and allow her a chance to bury the man before I step forward and make my introductions.
I already feel like an asshole for infringing on a deeply personal event.
Despite what Richard says about my past, I’m not as unfeeling and cold as he thinks.
I’m just a man with a job and a desire to keep Scarlett out of prison and not six feet underground.
So I watch through the music. The eulogy.
The loud tears—the older, rounder guy’s—and then the click, click, click of a casket lowering into the ground.
For that, Nova’s almost-detachment breaks away, and her knees turn to shit. But her friend, the one who drove her over, wraps an arm across her back and holds her close as the young soldier disappears beneath ground level.
And then it’s done.
Time to fold in and secure an introduction.
I’m such a prick.