46. matters of the heart
CHAPTER 46
MATTERS OF THE HEART
IVY
When we hit the end of the bottle, I excuse myself. My eyes are already stinging as I find the fastest way outside, avoiding any chance of bumping into Kyle by taking the front doors, and walk over to the pergola I spotted yesterday when we arrived.
I need fresh air. I need to pull myself together.
Outside, the kiss of the sun helps. Leaning against a pillar, I close my eyes, drinking in its fierce heat, taking long, slow breaths to dislodge the ache in my chest.
I can’t stop thinking about Mom.
It’s so obvious Lincoln has family who cares about him. Maybe not all of them, but enough. And he doesn’t see it. He hears their care only as criticism, not concern.
Suddenly, I’m hearing Mom’s fears for the first time. How many times have I leaped and left her to stand on the sidelines to watch and hope her words would be enough to keep me safe?
I’m so grateful for her, but I can’t remember if I’ve ever told her that.
When she picks up, I skip right past pleasantries with “I love you” and follow it immediately with “I’m sorry that you have to worry about me so much.”
“Don’t be silly,” she replies, and the sound of a TV gets quieter until I hear the click of a door closing. “I will always worry about you and your sister. But I know I don’t always trust you to make your own decisions.”
“No, you don’t. I have good instincts, Mom, and I’m ready to try things my way for a little while. I want you to be okay with that, but I won’t change my mind if you aren’t.”
“I know.” The fondness in her voice brings tears to my eyes. “Just promise me you’ll keep me in the loop. I don’t handle surprises well.”
That’s an understatement. “I promise. I couldn’t keep a secret from you if I tried.” And I’ve tried. “In fact, you should probably sit down, because there are a few things I need to tell you. Starting with my landlord…”
Sometimes I wonder if my heart works correctly.
Lincoln wants the whole nine yards with someone, and I can’t even decide which ice cream flavor is my favorite. I shouldn’t even be eating ice cream because I’m almost certain I’m lactose intolerant.
Pain lances through my heart, sharp and deep, because I’m stealing something from Lincoln, even if he’s offering it up freely and plentifully.
It hurt waking up next to him, my nose buried in his neck, the faint rumblings of his hummed exhales against my lips.
It hurt when he woke up and smiled at me, fuzzy with sleep and so sweet I wanted to rip my heart out of my chest, so I didn’t have to feel it anymore.
He might want me now, but how long will that last? Maybe he just misses the sex. I know I do. (Every hopeful corner of my heart is screaming that he doesn’t. That he wants more. But it’s still in time-out from the last person it pulled this shit with, so she can scream into the void while I keep us both protected).
Living the fantasy is easy. The reality is so much scarier.
We need to talk about it, but every time I try, it hurts enough that I can’t get the words out.
I’m just asking for one love story before I go. Just one. That’s not too much to ask for, is it? One person out of eight billion?
It can’t be normal to want this much. Some days it feels endless and beyond reach. So much so that I’m scared I’ll never be able to fill the well inside me. That even if I’m lucky enough to meet someone, I’ll ruin it simply by wanting.
What if I find love and it’s not enough?
What if I’m not enough?
LOVE, the kind that eclipses lowercase and blares with the wattage of a Broadway marquee, dogs my steps like Eurydice. Longing threatens to choke me with every breath. But I’m terrified if I ever attempt to search for it, I’ll turn and find out the truth— it’s not there and never will be.
So, I don’t look, and I keep on pretending.
But sometimes… Sometimes I can almost believe it, especially when Lincoln looks at me.
Maybe that’s why faking it with Lincoln isn’t easy anymore. Everything he does fills the gap, but I have to keep reminding myself it’s not real.
When it isn’t a show for his family, it’s a study for his work or practice for his dream girl.
And I agreed to it. Hell, I started it. It wasn’t Lincoln’s foot getting lodged in my mouth at the ball, getting into this mess. It wasn’t Lincoln who said too much at the restaurant and led Kyle to blackmailing him.
This is my own fault.
Just like in school. Just like every other time I’ve slipped on my own imagination and fallen head-over-heels into a fantasy.
Limerence is a hell of a drug.
Which is why I need to put an end to this. As soon as the weekend is over, I’m going to bow out. Curtain call, no reprises, no encores. Done.
I want the steel in his voice when he fights for me, the gentleness in his eyes when he’s reassuring me, the strength of his desire when he’s kissing me.
I want his slow wake-ups and sly grins and undivided attention.
I want the overboard gifts and poetic seductions and the grip of his hand in mine.
I want, I want, I want.
It’s all I’ve known since we met, an endless sea of want that might drown me if he wasn’t keeping me afloat.
Wanting has always been easier than having.
Wanting requires nothing but an object of desire. It’s fulfilling, an act of giving over to myself, of finding every gap in my heart and pouring myself into it until the emptiness is less noticeable.
Having risks everything.
It takes holding out all the soft, fragile parts and saying “This is me” and “I’m yours,” knowing how easily they can be broken.
It’s so much easier to pretend, because the alternative? The idea that this is real? It’s terrifying.
And I’ve never wanted anything more.