Chapter 50
LINC
Standing in the plaza under the Meridian office building as the sun glints off the glass windows with a rainbow-bellied Care Bear in my hands makes more than a few people do a double-take.
It’s probably not my most dignified moment as a high-profile hockey player—I’m more recognizable as my beard grows in.
Not sure whether Jules will approve.—if she takes me back.
Big if there. But dignity seems less important than the woman I glimpsed in the office window thirty-nine floors above me.
I’ve been here for nearly an hour, pacing the concrete like a lovesick teenager, getting curious looks from early professionals and the occasional photo from someone who recognizes me.
Let them post it on social media. Let the whole world know that Abraham Lincoln Andresen is making a fool of himself for love.
The Care Bear—Cheer Bear, according to the tag—was an internet find of Herculean proportions. It cost me three times the asking price with overnight delivery service.
But if Jules misses her childhood comfort, then she’s getting a replacement.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Bīri??: You still standing out there like a statue? Girls love grand gestures, but breakfast is getting cold.
I’m typing back when the building’s glass doors open. Jules emerges like she’s being chased, her hair flying behind her as she scans the plaza. When her eyes find mine, she stops so abruptly that a businessman nearly collides with her.
We stare at each other across twenty feet of autumn-kissed concrete. She’s wearing cropped cranberry trousers, a white blouse, and a houndstooth blazer. Even from this distance, I can see she’s been crying.
But she came down. She’s here.
Neither of us moves for a long moment, as if we’re both afraid this is a mirage that will disappear if we so much as breathe.
It’s now or never.
I take the first step, then we’re walking toward each other, closing the distance. When we meet, just inches apart, I can see the silver streaks in her gray eyes, the slight tremor on her lips.
“Hi,” I say, because apparently my vocabulary has been reduced to monosyllables.
“Hi,” she repeats.
Her gaze searches mine, looking for something—apology, forgiveness, or proof that this isn’t a strange dream.
But maybe this isn’t yet a moment for words. Perhaps we need something physical. Without speaking, we reach for each other at the same time. The hug is desperate and fierce, like we were drowning and the other is the life raft. Like we need air and the other is oxygen.
“I don’t hate you,” she whispers against my shoulder.
“I’ll never stop loving you,” I say.
“Never say never,” she says, voice thick.
“Then I’ll say forever.” I draw back because I want her to see my face as I speak this truth.
She tips her head to look up at me, tears glassy in her eyes.
“I’m yours, Buttercup.”
The Care Bear plush is stuffed under my arm and I hold it out to her.
“Cheer Bear,” she says. “For when I need something to snuggle and you’re not around.”
Does that mean …?
With shaking hands, she takes the bear and presses the soft rainbow belly against her chest. “You remembered.”
“I remember everything about you.” I cup her face gently, wiping away tears with my thumbs. “Every ridiculous theory about borrowing and theft, how you like your coffee, and how everything about you makes me want to be better.”
Around us, fall leaves drift down like confetti, painting the plaza in shades of gold and amber. Chicago morning rush hour continues with honking horns and squeaking brakes, but we might as well be alone in the world.
“We need to talk things through.” Her eyes, heavy, land on my lips. She bites hers and lifts ever so slightly onto her toes, leaning closer.
“We do.”
“But first—”
She nods as if she knows what I’m going to say.
I drop my mouth to hers and kiss her, soft and tentative to start, then deeper as she returns the kiss. She tastes like coffee and hope and the future I want to build with her.
The sweetness of it overwhelms me—not just the kiss itself, but what it represents. Everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve survived, led us here. She nuzzles my nose with hers, playful and affectionate, and I can’t help but smile against her lips.
So cute. So beautiful. So perfectly Jules.
My chest expands with a sense of fulfillment I’ve never known, like every jagged piece of my life smoothed over. She invites me in. Smooths out my rough edges. Loves me in far greater measure than she ever hated me.
I can feel it in the press of her lips against mine.
In the hitch in her breath when I kiss the spot behind her ear.
In the way she clings to me, her pulse jangling.
This woman in my arms isn’t just my present, she’s my future. Every dream I didn’t dare to dream, every hope I was afraid to lose, it’s all right here.
When we break apart, both breathing hard, she says, “I’m sorry about everything—”
“I am too.”
Somehow, that’s all that needs to be said about. The sincerity, the surety, supercedes our mistakes. We’re equally at fault. Equally remorseful.
“Never again?” she asks.
“You mean we’ll never keep secrets again?”
“Never.”
“Never,” I echo.
“I love you, Linc. All of you. Hockey player, reluctant businessman, descendant of a president, intrepid underground adventurer. I love every part of you.”
“I love you too, Jules. Art expert, master forger, Care Bear enthusiast, woman who makes me want to write love letters like my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather.” I grin.
She threads her fingers through mine. “So you and me?”
I nod. “Want to play hooky today?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Hockey?”
I chuckle, relieved not to hear bitterness in her voice. “No, I mean take the day off. I promise your boss won’t mind.” I gesture toward the building behind her.
“What were you thinking?”
“I have some people I want you to meet.”
“Your teammates?”
“They’re still in town because of a league meeting. Fair warning—they don’t take losses well and they’re probably going to want a rematch against Chicago. They might question your loyalty since you were sitting with the Breeze fans,” I joke.
Shortly after, we’re at a diner near the lake, and Jules holds her own against five professional hockey players who’ve made it their mission to embarrass me as thoroughly as possible.
“So this is the woman who had our boy moping around training camp like a rejected puppy,” Stevens says, cutting his pancakes while his phone goes around the group, showing off video of his twin daughters cheering on the Outlaws to anyone who’ll watch.
“I wasn’t moping,” I protest.
“Were too,” Goudreau adds bluntly.
“He’d check his phone every five minutes to see if you texted,” Stevens confirms.
Pete Johannessen, never one to miss an opportunity for comedy, leans across the table. “He asked us if we thought sending flowers to the office as an apology was too much. We told him it was too little.”
Jules’s eyebrows lift.
“Then he asked about chocolates.” Stevens shakes his head.
“Then coffee—”
“There’s never enough coffee,” Bīri?? interrupts, swigging what now must amount to an entire pot.
“Or chocolate,” Jules pipes.
“We told him to be honest.” Goudreau grunts.
Some descendant of Honest Abe I am. I slope my head in hangdog agreement and mouth I’m sorry.
The corner of Jules’s mouth bunches with a grin.
“He should have listened to us months ago,” Goudreau barks from the end of the table.
“That would’ve saved everyone trouble,” I agree.
Jules laughs, the sound bright and unabashed.
Heat creeps along the tips of my ears. “I may have mentioned you once or twice.”
“Once or twice per conversation,” Johannessen corrects.
Bīri?? adds, “We were ready to stage an intervention.”
“Or lock you in a room together until you figured it out.” Butcher’s expression is grim.
That’s news to me. Then again, these guys are like brothers and can read me like a book.
Jules catches my eyes and her smile is radiant. “I like them.”
“They’re mostly harmless. Emphasis on mostly.” I imagine our dynamic reminds her of the triplets.
After breakfast, Jules and I say goodbye and walk along the lakefront.
The sun sparkles on the water like scattered diamonds, and the leaves paint the sky overhead in amber, crimson, and gold.
It’s a painting my mother would love. The little acorn of grief in my heart has transformed into a strong oak with roots and branches that reach toward the sun with loving affection for the time I got with her and the mending my father and I are doing to our relationship …
and most importantly, the future with Jules.
“What happens next for us?” she asks, her hand warm in mine.
I tighten my grip, not wanting to lose her because of these circumstances.
“You live in Ottawa during the season. I live here.”
It’s a question I’ve been dreading, but also the one we have to discuss instead of ignoring.
“I’ve been thinking about that. You could work remotely for Meridian.
Travel with me when you want to. Take online classes to finish your degree.
If you want to.” I stop walking and turn to face her.
“I happen to know a guy who would love for you to have a real diploma, if that is important to you.”
She shakes her head. “You can’t do that for me.”
“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me because I’m selfish and I want you in my life. Every day. Every night.”
I take her hands and she studies them for a long moment, how they fit together, big and small, rough and smooth.
I kiss each of her knuckles. “Also, I have a feeling your father would have wanted you to finish what you started. My father does too. We believe in you.”
Her eyes fill with tears again, but she’s smiling. “It’s a lot to think about.”
“It is. But no more secrets between us. No more hiding who we are or what we want.” I pull her closer with my arms wrapping her waist. “What do you want, Jules?”
She’s quiet for a moment, looking out at the lake where a few brave souls are still sailing despite the October chill.
My inhale remains lodged in my chest, waiting for her answer.
“I want to finish my degree. I want to become the art historian I always dreamed of being. I want to travel with you and see art in museums around the world.” She meets my eyes.
“I want to cheer you on during hockey games and wake up next to you and argue about whether anchovies belong on pizza and meet your teammates’ families and show you all my favorite spots in Las Vegas. ”
“Anchovies belong on pizza,” I say solemnly.
She gasps in mock horror. “Take it back.”
“Nope. This is what you’re signing up for—a lifetime of controversial pizza opinions.”
“A lifetime? I guess I can live with that.” She stands on her toes and kisses me, quick and sweet. “What about you? What do you want?”
I don’t even need to think about it because the answer is already waiting.
“I want to play hockey for as long as my body lets me, and I want to learn the art business from the ground up because it matters to you and because I’m starting to think it might matter to me too.
” I brush a strand of hair from her face.
“I want to take you to Ottawa and introduce you to the city. I want to spend summers at the cabin with you. I want to write you love letters and bring you coffee and never, ever let you doubt how much you mean to me.”
“That sounds perfect,” she whispers.
“So you’re in?”
“I’m in.”
I brush a kiss across her mouth. Then we walk back toward downtown as the sun climbs higher, our fingers interlaced, and our future spreading out before us like the lake itself—vast and shimmering with possibility.
Thank you for reading!