13. LINC
THIRTEEN
LINC
FOUR YEARS AGO
Peak: Slept mostly for three hours.
Peak: Thought about unpacking.
My mouth flattened, annoyed. The twenty minutes I’d grown to dread was just about up. A fucking therapy assignment where I had to write down the “peak” and the “pit” of my day.
And yes, it took twenty minutes. Usually more.
And my pit was always the same . . .
Pit: Missing her.
And eventually, after another long stretch of silent minutes and aimless staring up at the moon, I finally wrote.
Peak: The memory of her smile laugh voice.
My butt shifted on the seat, sitting out on the porch at Ellis’s new house—where I’d been staying since I’d left Lending Lanterns a few days ago—meant to be some sort of emotional half-way house.
A year of the finest therapy money could buy and still, people were reluctant to let me live in a hole like I wanted to.
My mom and sister had moved up north, and . . . I didn’t know her new husband. The idea of staying with them, trying to fit into a new family when there was barely anything left of the person I used to be, felt . . . very overwhelming. Unbearable. And while all I wanted was to be alone—no one in my life would allow it at this point.
My eyes flicked down to the paper again, and I sighed. The best and worst part of my barely-there existence was a ghost. One I was terrified would eventually stop haunting me . . .
The sound of the sliding door behind me jerked my shoulders, and I twisted just as I heard Ellis call out, “Hey!”
Breathe.
I didn’t always need so many reminders to complete basic human functions, but the last three years of my life had turned me inside out. Despite the year away, everything still felt so raw. Exposed.
As Ellis started toward me, I scrambled for something to talk to him about. Just act normal.
I vaguely remembered him telling me he was starting to interview some unhoused families in different neighborhoods for his documentary.
I cleared my throat, and then opened my mouth, preparing to ask him about it, only to shut it again when he extended a bottle toward me. A beer.
“I thought we could hang tonight,” he said. “Sorry, I’ve been busy the last couple days—”
I cut him off by shaking my head. An instinctive grunt escaped, but I looked up at him from the chair I was sitting on.
Good fucking God, the last thing he should feel is guilty.
His green eyes looked darker with exhaustion, his sandy blond hair was a mop on his head. Subtly, I noticed he was wearing a shirt and sweats.
“Do you, like . . . turn into a sparkly vampire if you put on a shirt or something, or are you just morally opposed?” Paige asked him one day at the drive-in.
Ellis lay on the hood of his car, gazing down the landscape of his bare torso. “Don’t be pissed just because, unlike you, it’s socially acceptable for me to let my pecs peak out in the open and my belly button breathe.”
Her face scrunched in the cute way it did when either one of us annoyed her. Like she was mentally throwing a sneeze at us—
Stop.
I had to cut off the memories—a tightrope of awareness.
But the sentiment lingered. Ellis had been that way since we were kids. He hated shirts and shoes. Which meant the only reason he was wearing his shirt now was because of me. Putting aside his own comfort just so I could be a little less twitchy. For reasons he had yet to ask me to explain.
God, I suck. I felt like I should tell him he could take it off, but . . . that would definitely be a fucking weird thing to say.
The cold condensation in my palm reminded me that I was holding a beer. Ellis sat in the chair beside me.
Right. He wanted to hang out.
Shifting my weight, I dug my hand into my back pocket and grabbed my lighter. Using the bottom part of the lighter, I placed it under the bottle cap, then pushed up and flicked my wrist. With my thumb as a makeshift fulcrum, I popped off the cap, and snatched it from the air before it fell.
Ellis chuckled, mumbling, “Nice.”
Something passed through his expression but it was gone before I could even register what it was. “Cheers, man.” He leaned toward me, extending his bottle and I clinked it with mine, then timidly took a sip.
Whoa. My mouth smacked at the heavy, malty taste.
Ellis chuckled again. “Not into IPAs?”
Shaking my head, I took another sip. I didn’t want him to think I was ungrateful. Plus, I was hoping the liquid would help soothe the pathway of my throat so I could actually fucking contribute to this conversation.
My fingers fiddled with the bottle cap, pressing the wavy ridges into my thumb as he said, “I think there’s some tequila in the freezer.”
Clearing my throat, I felt the muscles in my neck pull and I shoved the bottle cap into my pocket. “Th-This is g-great. Thanks.”
Fuck. Well. The talking thing only stands to get better. Hopefully.
I was already talking more than I did a year ago—so, that was something.
Ellis’s mouth lifted at the corner, dropping his eyes down for a second. Just like before, a fleeting moment of something passed through the green color in his gaze, muting them, but it was like the emerald wave rushed back in just as quickly when he pulled them back up to me.
“Hey, I think I could use your help next week if you’re up for it,” he said, taking a sip. “I wanna shoot some exterior shots for the doc—mostly to get the vibes. I thought maybe I could get you to come with me? Could use some of your money-shots.”
I huffed but nodded. Of course I’d help him in whatever way I could— could being the operative word.
But, me and a camera? It was different now than it once was. And I wasn’t sure if I’d actually be any help to Ellis. I hadn’t filmed anything in years . . .
Which sounded insane. It was the kind of thought that gave me the. . . far-away effect. Like the me from three years ago —from before— was staring back at the me now. Confused.
I’m confused.
That was the only constant in the last three years.
Ellis sat back, taking a sip of his beer as he shoved his hand up his shirt and scratched his chest.
I clenched my teeth, trying to stamp out all the voices in my head.
He’s uncomfortable because of you.
You ruin everything.
Remember what you did to her?
I took another sip of my beer. The more I drank, the less I felt the bite on the back of my tongue. And hopefully the alcohol would quiet the intrusive thoughts.
Long seconds passed as we sat silently watching the sky.
The big moon. I couldn’t help but wonder . . .
Even if she isn’t in LA, she can still see it. Maybe she’s looking at it right now too.
Just the idea that we were both looking at the same thing tugged at my heart, just as Ellis said, “Do you remember that one Halloween? I think we were thirteen . . . it was Paige’s year to pick the costumes—”
My sharp inhale cut him off. Tension bunched at the base of my neck, and I felt my heart’s mighty thump pounding in the walls of my chest.
The silence thickened. Another beat passed before Ellis quietly said, “Everything I’ve read says it’s good to talk about your memories.”
Fucking hell. I clamped my eyes shut, shaking my head quickly. The idea that he’d researched anything made my stomach turn.
And thinking about her was one thing—but talking about her? Talking about before ? It was a sure-fire way to fling myself into the ravine just below the house.
“Maybe it’ll help,” Ellis whispered.
I had to remind myself that he was encouraging me to talk. Reminisce . Not throw myself over the side of the porch and plunge to my death.
Is there a difference?
“Linc,” he said again, his voice edging with caution, but the sound of my own name clicked something inside me, jumpstarting my heart and accelerating my pulse as I pushed to stand.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Shh.” A different voice slithered through my head —not one of the therapists. Not Paige. Not Ellis . . .
“I can help you. You don’t want to hurt anyone, right?”
“No,” I croaked out, screwing my eyes shut. The voice was close —too close— mixing with the voice next to me.
“I’m here, Linc. I’ve got you.”
“Let me help you.”
I couldn’t tell who was talking . . .
What the fuck is real?
My eyes bulged open as I felt a grip on my forearm. Lunging my hands at the chest in front of me, I kept my gaze on the white-cotton fabric, twisting it in my fists, instinctively pulling the body in front of me closer. The fabric, closer.
Wringing, twisting, grabbing.
I know this.
Distantly, I was aware that the person wearing the shirt —the shirt I was wrestling— didn’t want to be wearing it.
My brain felt like an exposed film reel, blotchy and unfocused, with bursts of light —awareness .
I was too scared to look up. Too scared to see . . . someone else in a white T-shirt.
“What are you doing?” the familiar voice in front of me rasped.
Ellis. It’s Ellis.
Right?
A stuttered inhale pulled through my chest, still too scared to look up as my knuckles turned white. The shirt I was still holding stretched between my shaky fists.
“You have to try, Linc.”
“T-Take this off.” My voice sounded different.
Is that me?
“My shirt?” His response was tunneled, but I recognized the voice. Confirming that the deep, monotone voice before it was me.
My eyes were still down at his chest, but we were essentially the same height, so I could still see him trying to meet my eyes.
“ Why exactly do you want me to take off my shirt?” he asked, his voice low. If he was alarmed, he didn’t sound like it. Just curious.
Because you don’t like it, I thought.
But the words got trapped in my throat, and I pulled the hem of the shirt up, awkwardly lifting it over his head.
He said something, but he helped me by shrugging out of it. I balled the fabric in my hands, pulling the soft material through my fingers and bunching it between my clenched fists.
My gaze shifted up just the slightest bit to his mouth, but it was as if my eyes hit a ceiling before they could make it to his eyes.
Just focus.
His lips moved like he was saying something, but I couldn’t hear it over the whooshing in my head, my thunderous heart. The intrusive thoughts now had a haunting melody —a taunting song— wailing at an ear-shattering volume through my head.
Maybe . . .
I took a deep breath in and out, cracked my neck to the side, and then grabbed the hips in front of me. Every part of me was shaking through the robotic, jagged movement. He grunted, roughly, “What—”
But his words got cut off by me—leaning in, grabbing his face, and slamming my mouth against his. His surprised whimper, his lips, his taste, sent a freezing cold blast through my limbs immediately.
Wrong.
So, so, wrong.
But everything feels wrong. The things that felt right were wrong.
On autopilot, I prepared to add my tongue into the mix just as the lips against mine gently pulled away, stepping back.
The second my eyes opened, my breath caught in my throat.
Green eyes and spearmint smacked my senses, and I suddenly felt like I was crashing through every layer of the Earth—plummeting toward the heated core.
Burning, burning, burning.
That—that isn’t . . . What . . .
“Linc, look at me,” Ellis’s voice snapped my attention back to him, and everything sharpened. Focused.
Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god.
It was me. That was me. I just fucking kissed Ellis.
The adrenaline pumped through me, still reeling, but the look on his face was a blow I wasn’t expecting.
He looked so . . . so fucking sad. So confused.
His seaglass eyes had a shattered glaze over them as he stared back at me like I was a million miles away. It looked like he was fighting back tears. After another second, he slowly reached out to me, but I flinched, tripping over myself as I cowered away like a wounded animal.
He yanked his hand back, his face breaking further. “Shit. I’m sor—” he lost his breath, but then said, “I won’t touch you.” A quiet, croaked sob broke through his voice at the end, and he shook his head, but he said it again, almost to himself, “I won’t touch you.”
Dread prickled like tiny pieces of glass just beneath my skin.
Why—why is he acting like this?
He should have been outraged —pissed— but not . . .
My breath stuttered. “W-Why are you looking at me like that?”
He shook his head, swiping his palm down his face, seemingly trying to rid himself of the emotion. He took a breath, then took a step back. “Why did you kiss me, Linc?”
My mouth sloped down and my throat tightened. I worked to swallow.
I don’t know how to answer his question. He won’t understand. That it’s just . . . easier—better—if people think—if I try—
God, even my thoughts are a fucking trainwreck. But I took a breath just as another beat passed, and I cleared my throat. “’Cause—I’m . . .” but the sound fell off. I suddenly felt my awareness splintering again. Like Ellis could see side-by-side versions of me —then and now— and he was studying them like a venn diagram.
The crease between his brows deepened before he said, “’Cause you’re what? You’re gay now?”
He didn’t say it in any sort of way—but for some reason I winced. Probably because it felt ridiculous—giving air to something like that with him of all people. Someone who had a front row seat to my obsession with Paige Michaels.
My breath shook. A beat passed before one of my shoulders lifted with a shrug, but I didn’t say anything.
What can I say?
Ellis’s chin dropped with a curse, shuffling his feet. It was probably only seconds, but it felt like hours stretched on with thick, suffocating quietness. Not even the typically steady breeze dared to whirl around the tension stacking in the weighted silence of this moment, but it slowly started to fill as Ellis’s eyes darkened.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
My heart dropped, as the sound stabbed its way through my head again. It always found me when I was teetering . . .
No. No, no, no.
Ellis’s gaze suddenly locked back with mine, holding my eyes hostage. “Did Jeremy tell you that?”
The name hit like a cannon blowing through my skull. The ticking intensified, but I could barely hear it through the roaring whoosh in my ears. I charged toward the body that let the name escape— the voice that gave it life. Then, a black hole of time took hold, and everything went dark.