“This is amazing,” I say, stepping closer to see better.
“My dad thinks he likes Picasso and his style,” Lincoln says, stepping closer to me. “But he keeps buying ones that reflect the styles of Warhol and da Vinci.”
“Why?”
Lincoln stares at me, an answer reflecting in his eyes, but before he voices it, he steps away, walking to the far wall, filled with extravagant and simplistic images of scenery. “Because my mom liked them.” He turns, moving his gaze across each wall. “This room is a reflection of them and the realities of how they couldn’t be together, just like these paintings.”
“But, he still collects the works she loved?” It’s a question or maybe a point I’m not brave enough to add a period to.
“Just because people don’t last forever doesn’t mean the feelings don’t.”
“Your dad still cares for your mom?”
Lincoln’s gaze cuts to me. “He’s been in love with her since he was twenty, leaving a string of divorces and bad decisions to prove the point.”
“What happened? Why’d they get divorced?”
“It wasn’t one thing, but years of being chosen second. Dad thought if he invested all of his time early with work, he’d make enough money so he could retire, and they’d never need for anything. So, he worked all the time. He ensured she was comfortable—buying this house, getting her anything she ever wanted, the art…” He takes a couple of steps toward the paintings covered in shapes and colors. “But, she didn’t care about any of this stuff. She didn’t like parties like this or vacations where other people unpacked her bags. She didn’t want second houses or a room created to house art.”
I watch him, striving to understand what he’s telling me, trying to decipher if he’s simply opening up to me as a friend or trying to give me insight to a place deeper than friendship. Or if he’s exchanging another truth, this one greater in hopes that I’ll reveal something equally significant in my life.
“She wanted to be his top priority, at least part of the time, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t. My dad fell in love with success before he’d met her, and that love, while it was rivaled, was always his first choice. He’d miss dinners, birthdays, anniversaries, and the times he’d been there physically, he was still mentally absent.”
“Are you telling me this because you think I want to be a top priority?” The question somehow slips through every filter and line of defense. I regret it instantly because I know I’m not prepared for the answer—not tonight.
“Everyone wants to be first. It’s human nature.”
I should be focusing on him and me, clarifying his points and laying out all the pieces in the playbook, so I don’t get hit again, but I’m too busy trying to ascertain my parents’ relationship, thinking of years they both invested into their individual dreams, how they often tag-teamed parenting and other tasks because there was never enough time and always too many responsibilities.
“We should go. Gloria’s going to bitch us out for taking so long.” He walks back toward me, allowing me the space to see his entire form in the tux, the ease of his muscles paired with sleek style that makes my heart trip over itself.
My confessions line up, ready to tell him I selfishly want to be his first priority as well as his last, my fears, my concerns, the threats that keep me up at night, the fragility of my hopes and how they shatter a little more with each day.
“I’m sorry about your parents.”
His chin tilts as his steps slow. “I’m not. If they hadn’t divorced, there’s a chance my life would have played out entirely different.” His soulful eyes meet mine. “I may never have tried football, and Gloria likely wouldn’t have stayed with us. I’d probably be attending school on the East Coast, and then I’d never have met Paxton. I’d never know you.”
14
Lincoln
My bedroom is down the hall. I can see the door as we leave the art gallery—a space that is neglected and sadly underused like much of the house. I consider taking Raegan there under the guise of allowing her another step into my life when in reality, I want to kiss her until she can’t remember how to breathe, until she doesn’t remember pain, until she forgets about everything since her accident.
“How long have your dad and Carol been together?”
I shrug. “Eighteen months, maybe?”
She blinks away the shock, making me chuckle. “Did you miss the part about me telling you she’s his sixth wife?”
“That has to be hard—having people come in and out of your life.”
“I barely knew most of them.”
She nods, her gaze falling like an acceptance. Maybe she assumes I’m the same, and it’s a valid concern, one I’ve housed for most of my life. My dad’s drive, determination, and focus are all things to be coveted and admired. Still, there’s nothing about personal relationships he excels at, leaving a long path of destruction that leads farther back than my mom. I offer my arm again, waiting until she takes it before leading her back to the stairs.
Raegan stops, her fingers tugging gently at my arm. Indecision is apparent as her lips open and then close before she takes in a deep breath, the anticipation is like facing off with a cornerback knowing I might get leveled as I consider what thought is being mulled over in that head of hers.
“I’ve never been afraid of the water. Even when I was little and we’d read ghost stories about the Kraken and sirens, basilisks, and blood-thirsty great whites, I was never afraid. I’ve been swimming in the ocean and defying hypothermia for as long as I can remember. And now I can’t even look at the ocean without remembering that night. I know I’m safe. I know what went wrong and how to ensure it doesn’t happen again, and yet, I still can’t convince myself to go out there. I haven’t been out since that night, and I don’t know that I want to. And the reality of it is, I may never be able to make this into a career. I might be wasting this opportunity I have at an education, earning a degree I’ll never be able to use. What if I can’t afford to take care of myself? I don’t want to depend on anyone else. I don’t want someone to feel responsible for me.”
“Trust me; no one is going to feel responsible for you. Not like that. They’re going to be proud of you for following your passions, for loving something bigger than a paycheck and a title. They won’t be keeping tally of how much you’re making in dollars—trust me, money only gets you so far. My dad is the poster child for that sentiment. The person who sticks with you at your darkest, the one who remains on your side when everyone else gives up, the one who doesn’t lose faith—that’s worth more than any sum of money.”
She slowly brings her gaze to meet mine, her bottom eyelids tinged in red like she’s going to cry. “Does that really happen, though? Or do people just make excuses and want more—want better and move on?”
My chest expands as something similar to a traffic jam occurs, my words twisting with the reality she paints.
“We should go,” she says, her hand slipping from my arm. She gathers her dress and starts down the stairs.