Chapter 35
Fifteen Years Earlier
Lincoln’s bed frame was just like him: straightforward, sturdy, and timeless. I ran my hand over the side of it, the rest
of me inside the thick down comforter. Lincoln was at his 1980-something gas stove cracking eggs in a pan with toast popping
and seasoning the cozy home with its scent. We’d been together for months by then, spending each and every free moment together.
So much for a summer thing.
“Order up,” Lincoln said, arms filled with plates.
I stretched and rolled myself from the bed and padded over to the wobbly bistro set. He put down the plates and joined me.
I dug into the fluffy eggs. “My compliments to the chef,” I said through a bite.
“Can’t have my girl leave hungry.”
I laughed and blew on my hot coffee. “My fangs come out when my blood sugar drops. It’s a medical condition.”
Lincoln smiled gently, and we ate in comfortable silence until the plates were bare.
“You cooked. I’ll clean,” I said, gathering the dishes from the table.
My arms were elbow-deep in soapsuds when Lincoln arrived at my side.
“Look, there’s something we—”
“I told you,” I said with a grin. “I can’t take you up on the offer for bowling unless you sign a waiver. You’re great, and
I’ve been known to throw things when I lose.”
The fact that Lincoln was bowling on an actual team with a group of three seniors over on James Island was information I’d
unearthed a few weeks ago. They weren’t allowing spectators at the moment, which I found awfully suspicious, but he’d already
provided dates for the matches I’d be allowed to observe. I was already working on a “bowling girlfriend” T-shirt for the
special occasion.
Lincoln looked back at me seriously.
“I got some news,” he said.
My hands stopped in the water. I whipped them out and grabbed a dish towel as I spun to face him. “Is everything ok?”
He stood still in a way I’d never seen him do before. “Yeah, it is.”
I let out a deep breath and went back to drying my hands. “Good, so what is it?”
“Well, remember all those long-shot applications I sent to photography studios?”
“Yeah, of course. You said you’d never get one. Probably never even hear back from the stuck-up idiots.”
Lincoln bit his lip. “Well, turns out I did. Hear back, that is.”
I felt the blood rush out of my stomach, down to my toes, and what felt like outside my body entirely. “Oh.”
Lincoln tried on an unsure smile. “I actually got offered a spot at the Marcus Wilson Studio in New York. Can you believe
it?”
This was probably the moment I was supposed to screech in celebration for him, maybe rush to him and cover him in kisses, maybe cry in pride if I wanted to really do it up big. But all I felt was gutted, cut open along the middle like a prize fish caught and forgotten.
“In New York?” I said. “Like, you’d move there?”
Lincoln nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s the deal.”
I swallowed hard as tears crept up my throat and spilled out of my eyes. “You weren’t supposed to get it. You deserve it,
of course—but you said this wouldn’t happen.”
Lincoln frowned. “What do you mean?”
“How could you do this?” I heard the words come out of my mouth, and I knew I didn’t have a right to say them, but I did anyway.
Because I felt them. To my core. “You’re leaving?”
“So you’re not happy for me?” Lincoln turned and began to pace the small apartment. “Wow, I knew you were an only child, but...”
“Congratulations,” I said, flat-faced. “I’m sorry—it’s an honor to be chosen, and you should be very proud.”
Lincoln slowed. “Thanks for the formalities, Mack,” he said. “But why don’t you tell me what you really mean. What’s your deal?”
“My deal?” I crossed my arms. I looked down so I could put my thoughts together, but as I contemplated the why he was asking
for, my arms slowly slipped apart and fell to my sides. I looked up and met his eyes. “I love you, Lincoln. This thing between
us is different for me—it’s made me notice different parts of me. I don’t want you to move.”
Lincoln’s face softened. “Look, I’ve been fighting off those same feelings—”
Fury hit me, and the words flew out. “ Fighting off ?” I demanded. “You’ve been fighting off feelings for me? Wow, how nice.”
Lincoln threw out his hands. “You called this a summer fling. What was I supposed to do? Literally, to this very damn day, you’ve called me your summer lover or some other cutesy version of it. I met your mother, and it was the ultimate train wreck. She made it very clear I couldn’t be a guy that would work out in the long run.”
I couldn’t argue with him because he was right, and it would sound unbearably lame to make my case that what I said wasn’t
what I meant.
Lincoln pulled in a breath. “Look, I’m sorry I raised my voice, but Mack, you have to understand. This is my chance to make
it as a real photographer. It’s my chance to break free of the accountant’s office.”
“It’s all you’ve ever wanted,” I told him.
That was the moment I sat on the very edge of all my hopes. My insides swelled as they waited to see if he would tell me I
was wrong. I wanted more than anything for him, even if he left me, to tell me I was a fool to say that. I wanted him to say
that photos and a career big enough to carry a life weren’t all he might need. He could say it, even indirectly, even without
an ounce of gusto, but I begged the heavens and the earth that he’d say he wanted me too. Just a few simple words...
Lincoln held my gaze for an excruciating beat, and he didn’t open his mouth. He nodded firmly.
“And I’ll be fine,” I said, knowing the shake in my voice gave me away.
And then for the very first time in my life, I channeled my mother, the original Magnolia, the source of all things cold and
unfeeling. She’d never let Lincoln hurt her, and she’d tell me he wasn’t worth my tears.
I dabbed my tears on my T-shirt and sucked in a breath. “I think I should get going,” I said. “Can you handle the dishes?”
I didn’t wait for an answer before I calmly hung the dish towel back in its place and walked to the bedroom. There, I pulled
on my jeans and systematically loaded my things into my tote bag.
Lincoln followed me. “Can we talk about it? Mack, I love you too.”
He stood in the doorway with a face full of hope, like I’d have something to say about it. Like it wasn’t all a little too
late. I turned back to my packing.
“Can we stay in touch?” Lincoln asked. He crossed the room and touched my arm gently.
I looked at him with a steely glare executed perfectly from years of receiving it from my mother, and I hoped it hurt him
like it had me for all those years. “I’m not really a long-distance-relationship kind of girl,” I said.
With that I slung the bag over my shoulder and marched out of the apartment, shoulders back, head high. It was the first time
I was grateful for Magnolia’s raising, because these things were muscle memory enough for me to pull them off. On the inside
I was a swirl of hurt and shame—never enough, not even close. He didn’t want me, and I couldn’t imagine tomorrow without him.
I trudged home, down impossibly quaint streets, past happy tourists toting ice cream cones, an insult to my inner unraveling.
The farther I got from his apartment, the more my facade fell away. My shoulders slumped, my chest heaved, and eventually
I dropped to a bench so I could hang my head.
It wasn’t supposed to go this way.
I pulled out my phone and I blocked his number. I set a filter on my email to delete his messages.
I wouldn’t be burned by him again.
Because he was getting what he wanted, what he’d earned. He was getting his dream in arm’s reach, one he very much deserved,
despite the way it stung me.
They were so very lucky to have him.