Chapter 18
JULES
We’re quiet during the drive back to my place. I sense that Linc is thinking, working through a high-level equation where the variables keep shifting. His fingers tap rhythmically against the steering wheel—thumb, index, middle, ring repeat.
When we pull up in front of my building, neither of us moves to get out.
This feels dangerously like junior year all over again—when I got bold. That breathless moment when I realized the boy I’d been arguing with in debate class might actually like me back.
The game we played was pretending we didn’t notice when the other person stared too long, acting like accidental touches didn’t send electricity up our arms. It was all kinds of awkward, but exhilarating too.
That’s not what this is, right?
Monday feels like a lifetime away, and questions are burning in my throat that won’t survive the weekend, never mind that we have to keep it clandestine if there is any amount of corruption—at least for now.
“Can I please see your license?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I immediately want to crawl into the back seat.
Smooth, Juliana. Real smooth.
He tucks his chin. “And my registration?”
I shake my head. “No, you said this is your father’s car. I believe you. Just your license will suffice.”
“Do you run a background check on all guys? Let me remind you that you already let me into your apartment. I saw the doilies, needlepoint projects, floral wallpaper, oh, and the Care Bear.”
“All guys? First of all, you’re my boss. Second of all, I do not own doilies, do needlepoint projects, or have floral wallpaper. Though I wouldn’t object. Sounds like my kind of Friday night. However, even if I did, that’s not something to criticize.”
“I wasn’t. But you do have a Care Bear.”
I cut him a Care Bear STARE. Which, fine, is adorable and glowy.
He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. It’s leather and surprisingly nondescript. Manly. Though I’m not sure what I was expecting. One made out of holographic material? Gold plating?
He says, “By the way, I’m not officially on the payroll at Meridian.”
“How does that work?”
He pinches his license between his first and middle fingers, passing it to me. “Haven’t received a check yet.”
Of course, he has a good picture, unlike most humans whose driver’s license photo is a poor representation of what they look like—ironic since it’s used for identification purposes.
I read the stats: Abraham Lincoln Andresen. His address, eye color: blue, height: six feet four inches—I knew it!—weight a buck ninety-five. I bet his muscles have muscles.
Then my gaze snags on his name. Abraham Lincoln. This is either a very good fake ID or there’s a story here. One I have to know.
“You want to come up? I have root beer.”
“Root beer?”
“Not regular beer. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Root beer is my favorite,” he says in slow motion.
Then his eyes float over me, coming in and out of shadows from the headlights of passing cars. “Nothing about you could disappoint, Jules.”
I suddenly feel quite wobbly inside.
Apparently, he’s sticking with “Jules” for the variation of my name. I don’t hate it. Maybe I don’t even hate him.
He follows me upstairs. I’m keenly aware of how lived-in my single room studio is compared to the office and the extravagance of the party.
In my postage stamp-sized home, to the left of the front door is the kitchen quadrant, designated with a non-slip mat.
Along the wall on the right, my sofa and coffee table make up the living room, designated by a jute rug.
The bookshelf creates a vague border wall to my bedroom area, designated by a plush faux fur sheepskin that’s a delight to step on when it’s cold out.
He eyes the Care Bear on my bed, then eyes me, and we stare at each other for a long, meaningful moment.
“Cute,” he says at last, breaking the standoff.
I take that to mean he thinks I’m a child. Yay. My thoughts tune to the sarcastic station.
Linc plants himself on one side of my two-person couch—a glorified love seat.
I bring him a can of root beer and plop down beside him.
It cannot be helped. Our knees brush. The denim of his jeans is like soft grit sandpaper against my bare skin, and neither of us pulls away.
Instead, we both take simultaneous sips of root beer as if waiting for the picture show to start.
I have to get a handle on myself. I cannot be tricked. Refuse to let myself be attracted to a guy who hates me. I don’t want to become a cautionary tale of heartbreak.
“So,” I start, biting the inside corner of my lip. “Abraham Lincoln.”
“What about him?”
“The penny flipping, the interest in Civil War paintings, your given name!”
He nods. “He’s my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather.”
I don’t know what answer I expected, but I inhale liquid instead of sipping my root beer. After sputtering a few times, I ask, “Your what?” The words come out as a garbled squeak that would appall my church choir leader.
“On my mother’s side. Her family line traces back to the Lincolns.”
“You’re kidding.”
The only likeness between this guy and Honest Abe is the height and those refined cheekbones—they’re of the type that many would say could cut glass, but in this case, they could split wood.
Whereas Lincoln was all sharp angles and prairie-worn edges, this Abraham Lincoln is handsome in a way that makes my brain forget how to form complete sentences.
Full biceps that strain against the hem of his t-shirt and hands that look like they could build something or tear it apart with equal ability.
“Why would I kid about something like that?”
I bump my shoulders up and down. “Clout.”
He rolls his eyes as if he’s above that. Easy since he’s a billionaire’s son.
I tilt my head and squint.
“What’s that look for?”
“I’m trying to picture you in a stovepipe hat,”
He fights a smile around another sip of root beer. “I have a closet full.”
“Giving speeches about preserving the Union …” I gesture dramatically with my root beer. “Four score and seven years ago—”
He chuckles.
Continuing with the oratory bits and pieces I remember from history class, I’m standing now, one hand pressed to my heart, the other extended like I’m addressing a crowd.
“You’re ridiculous.” He reels me back toward the couch by my wrist.
No, his touching me and setting my skin ablaze is ridiculous. Feeling flammable, I tuck myself into the corner cushion.
He sets down his root beer and leans forward. “My mother spent years researching our family history. She found documents, traced bloodlines, and was fascinated, but more than that, she was most interested in the love story.”
“Between Abraham and Mary Todd?”
“Mom said it was love at first sight. He courted her, but then something happened and they were kept apart before ultimately reuniting. During that time, my mother believed they exchanged love letters. She always wanted to find them.” His eyes crinkle with affection and warmth.
It’s a rare sight and makes me confident this man would never wear guyliner.
Like a chime indicating I got the right answer on a quiz show, I realize exactly which piece is missing from the Fairfax Collection. “And the Civil War painting?”
“I believe Echo & Answer might contain clues about Lincoln’s personal effects. Letters, documents, or something that points to the location of the lost love letters.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I know how it sounds. Crazy, right?”
“No. Maybe you want to feel connected to something that mattered to her.”
“Yeah.” He exhales through his nose.
“And why did it, aside from the obvious that it’s a piece of history?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, studying my face.
“To confirm that true love exists. I know my father loved her in his way. At first, they had a good relationship. But he got swallowed up in work. They never fought or anything, but she kept a journal. It took me a long time to read it—more than the twelve years I’d had with her. But when I finally did …”
My hand drops on top of Linc’s, letting him know I see and feel his sorrow. He thought or hoped his father would be there after his Mom passed away. That he’d step up. Step in. Save her? There are all kinds of heartbreak. Linc is still part lonely puppy under all that raw, cut manliness.
“The content of her journals was mostly upbeat, tracking our day-to-day lives, noting little things as I grew up. It was really sweet.”
And tragic.
“She also commented a lot on her relationship with my father. It’s almost like, at times, he forgot about her, wrapped up in work. For instance, she kept a little tally of the number of days that passed before he’d simply ask, ‘How was your day?’”
My hand presses to my chest. “How sad.”
“She always smiled, though, and prayed for him. For us.”
I whisper, “She still is.”
Breath unsteady, Linc takes a sip of root beer, signaling the conversation is closed.
I say, “So you’re really a Lincoln.”
“I’ve read all of his speeches—have the Gettysburg Address and passages from others memorized.”
“Wow. So how does a guy related to Abraham Lincoln end up knowing people like Aiken and Iva?” That was not the question I should’ve asked, but since he was talking about romance and love, it slipped out.
“I dated Iva for about five months. I was her mystery man—she never confirmed publicly who she was seeing because it was better for her image to seem available. I recently ran into her at a smoothie shop for the first time in ages.” He leans back against the couch cushion.
“As for Aiken, he’s her flavor of the week. ”
I prefer my simple life and the Sweetheart Report to that kind of drama.
He asks, “Do they change your opinion of me?”
“Why would you care about my opinion?”
“What about the Lincoln thing?”
I consider this seriously. “You’ve given me a lot to think about tonight.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have right now.”
He finishes his root beer and then says, “Back at the party, when Iva and Aiken were talking about us being a couple—”
I nearly choke again and then cover it with laughter. No need to make it any more awkward than it needs to be. “Ridiculous, right? I mean, you and me? We’re very different people. And we’re coworkers. Sort of. Not technically, but you know what I mean …” I trail off.
“Very different.” He nods but doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
My heart hiccups as I say it. “I would never—don’t worry about it. We’re on the same page.” The last thing I need is for my sort-of boss to think I took that the wrong way. In fact, I pointed out that we hate each other.
Or so I thought.
Linc unfolds himself from the couch, a hulking figure in the small room. “Thanks for coming with me tonight. And for the root beer.”
“Thanks for the adventure. Even if it was weird and kind of disturbing.”
“Illuminating?” he asks, recalling my comment earlier.
I nod. Very much so. Though not in the way that I initially thought.