Carol frowns. “Oh, I’m sorry. He’s not coming tonight.”
I shake my head, knowing she’s wrong. Carol has familiarized herself with most people in my father’s life—to a startling degree. However, with everything she’s been doing to get the wedding moved and planning this event, I’m sure she’s wrong. Hell, I’m positive because I personally contacted the wedding planner to confirm the fact. “No. He’ll be here.”
Carol shakes her head, her brow not creasing like it should as her eyes widen. “He had to cancel. Influenza. It’s that time of year, unfortunately.” She sighs quietly, looking at Dad. “I hope it doesn’t impact our wedding.”
Dad dismisses her concern, turning his attention to Raegan. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out. You know, he’ll be at the wedding. So, as long as my son stays in line, hopefully, you’ll be able to join us and meet him then.”
I swear Raegan’s shoulders fall, but it’s difficult to decipher if it’s disappointment or relief as she flashes a fresh smile. “That’s no problem. He’s such an accomplished and ambitious individual that even though I was looking forward to the opportunity to meet him, I have to admit, I was a bit nervous.”
Dad leans back like her disappointment is a personal burden. He’s smitten with her, and he doesn’t even know she’s smart and funny, and has more wit than most. That her heart seems three times larger than average.
13
Raegan
Aside from the trip we took as a family to Italy when I was a freshman in high school, and we toured The Vatican, I can’t think of a time I’ve seen a place so fancy and grand. It doesn’t seem possible that this is merely a house, let alone for just two people. I stare at the far wall, the line of paintings that interrupt the stark white lines of the house.
“You’re staring,” Lincoln whispers.
I startle, looking at him with an apology in my eyes. I want to ask him a dozen questions, but I know none of them are appropriate nor any of my business.
“Want to get a drink?” he asks.
I nod, wishing I still had my purse so that I had something to busy my hands with as I follow Lincoln farther into the space, moving toward the large kitchen that is all gold and white, peppered with minimal teal decorations. A bar is set up near the island, which is piled with gifts.
“Bourbon. Straight, and a vodka cranberry with a splash of orange juice.”
The bartender nods to Lincoln’s order.
“I didn’t age three years in the past two months,” I whisper.
He shrugs. “Tell everyone its cranberry juice if you want.” His mask of indifference is firmly in place tonight, making this dress and party and rows of beautiful artwork seem like a tragic chore.
Our drinks are served in heavy crystal glasses, poured with a heavy hand so they’re too full. Lincoln tips for the drinks and returns his hand to my back, guiding me a few feet forward, closer to the fireplace with a hearth so large five people could fit inside. I cradle my drink, terrified it might spill on the dress and mar its perfection, while looking at the guests milling around. Every person here looks dressed to go to a red-carpet event, pristine in every way. I wonder if the wedding will be fancier? If that’s even possible?
Lincoln’s dad and future stepmom are shaking hands with an elderly couple. Neither of them appears surprised to see that Carol is several years younger—young enough, she looks capable of being his daughter. That thought propels my mind to the girl in my dad’s office. Noah’s hand is on her shoulder, but his gaze rarely falls on her. What brought them together? What intrigued my dad to have an affair?
Lonely. That’s the word he’d used in the way of explanation.
Is that why Lincoln’s dad has been married so many times?
“How come you didn’t tell me tomorrow was your birthday?” Lincoln asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I stare at him a moment, waiting for sense to catch up, for realization to dawn. His stare doesn’t ease. “We’re not exactly chit-chatting,” I tell him.
He finishes his drink, his strong jaw tipping up, enunciating the cords of muscles in his neck and the hard plane of his chin. I once thought shirtless Lincoln was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, but tuxedo Lincoln is making a run for the title. “You’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?”
“With what?”
His eyebrows check me, the silent, you know what, clear and intentional. Even with his mask back up, I’ve started to know him and see past the mask by the way he answers, and the way he doesn’t, which is sometimes even louder. I know by the hardness of his jaw, the flex of his fingers, the tilt of his head, the tone of his voice—I’m learning all of his details and each of their meanings.
But he has no idea how broad this question is. I could easily list the things bothering me, including Maggie being gone, school becoming increasingly challenging, how I feel lost attempting to navigate my future. I could finally tell someone, admit that my dad is having an affair and has exposed distant and cold sides of himself that seem neither familiar nor warranted. Or admit that my mom is going to be crushed when she learns the truth, and how I feel obligated to be the one to tell her, and increasingly terrified as I continue dragging this mammoth of a lie. Or I could tell him how worried I am about Paxton, who has seemingly checked out of reality. Perhaps, I reveal how I’m risking my potential job offer with the aquarium as well as my future as a cetologist by continuing to fear the ocean. Then, I stare at him, realizing how him ignoring me has cast more doubt on myself than I ever thought possible, and how ashamed I am to admit the fact.
I shake my head. “Not tonight. Tonight, I just want to pretend.”
“Pretend what?”
“That everything is easy.”
He grins. “This is not the place to do that. Have you looked around?”
“This house is unreal,” I admit. “I’m pretty sure my entire neighborhood could fit on the bottom floor.”
He ignores my comment. “What are you doing for your birthday?”
“I was going to check out a brothel downtown, and then maybe get drunk on some Everclear.”
His patience is thin tonight, unimpressed by my growing desire to fictionalize everything. “It doesn’t matter.” I shrug. “I have class on Monday morning, and birthdays have never really been my thing.”
“Not your thing?”
“I feel like birthdays are reminders that nothing stays the same.”
“Is that a bad thing?” He raises a single brow, his dark eyes misleading as he stares at me. “Most things aren’t made to last forever.”
Unfortunately, it feels as though life is giving me a harsh reality check of that same lesson. “Do guys everywhere listen to a podcast or something that shares that same sentiment? One that cleanses your conscious, so that when you get bored or tired of the person in your life, you can make up some one-liners that make it all sound nice and easy?”
“What?” His brows lower, his eyes boring into mine, working to find a foothold that will allow him into my thoughts. I shut him out by closing my eyes and taking a long drink that also helps prevent more bitter words from spilling out of my mouth. I wish I had a watch on, or that there was a clock visible so I could gauge how long I’ll be obligated to stay.