I stay there. My legs are flying, and my lungs are exhausting themselves as I cross the forty-minute mark.
One more minute. Hit ten.
I ramp up the treadmill to speed ten and feel the tension in my legs as they fly so fast that it doesn’t feel like I’m touching the tread. Just flying in place. My eyes focus on the countdown—thirty more seconds.
My pulse skyrockets.
My lungs search for air.
My legs feel like noodles.
Ten more seconds.
Five, four, three, two, one . . .
I slow the treadmill to a jog and then a walk, putting my hands on top of my head as I attempt to catch my breath.
The burn’s a satisfying sensation.
Until I look up to find Lincoln standing at the edge of the treadmill, a not-so happy look on his face.
“Jesus,” I mutter, startled. I grip the handles of the treadmill. I slow it down to barely a walk and try to speak over my racing heart. “What are you doing?”
“It’s been four days, Indie.”
I move my hands back to over my head and look away. “Haven’t been counting.”
He walks around to the buttons and stops the treadmill. “Brian said you’re running two-a-days in here, beating your body up. What the hell is going on?”
“Training. You should know what that is, Lincoln.”
He shakes his head and says, “No, you’re not pulling this bullshit on me.” He takes me by my arm and hustles me out of the training room and into a private corridor near the locker rooms. “Talk, now.”
“For being fuck buddies, you’re being awfully possessive,” I say, knowing it’s not the right thing to say but also not appreciating his abrasiveness.
“I’m being a concerned friend, Indie. Did you forget that part?”
Ugh, I hate that he’s right.
I lean against the wall and say, “Can we not do this here?”
“This is the only way to get you.”
“I mean, can I take a shower and then you come over?”
“Are you . . . will you let me in?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Okay.” He lets out an exhausted breath. “I’ll bring food. That work?”
“Yeah.” I push off the wall to walk by him but not before saying, “We have a lot to talk about.”
“I hope all good.”
I shrug. “We’ll see.”
“Indie,” he calls after me as I walk away. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
The door to my bedroom clicks shut and Lincoln stands in front of it, a small pizza in one hand, drinks in the other. I’ve been dreading this conversation ever since he pulled me off the treadmill. I’ve been dreading it because it still hurts to talk about what my mom told me.
Stings actually.
Burns.
Like I’m being ripped apart.
And I still haven’t heard from my dad.
Without saying a word, Lincoln sets everything down on my desk and then sits in front of me on my bed. He tilts my chin up and says, “Listen right now. I’m here because I care about you. Because you’re my best friend. Because when I sense that you’re not in a good headspace, I want to make sure you’re going to be okay. Do you understand that?” I nod, tears already starting to well in my eyes. “I’m not here to be lied to, to be tossed around as if what we have doesn’t matter, and I’m sure as hell not here to be ignored. So, you’re going to tell me what happened between you and your mom and then we’re going to eat some pizza. Got it?”
I nod and take a deep breath as the first wave of tears hits me. I wipe them away and then pull my knees into my chest.
“I’m sorry about distancing myself. It’s been a tough pill to swallow, and I haven’t wanted to talk about it.” Even with Scarlett, despite her pushing.
“I can understand that. But I’m here now and bottling it up isn’t going to help, so tell me what’s going on.”
“Can I ask you something first?”
“Anything,” he says, scooting farther on my bed and leaning against the wall while his long legs stretch out in front of me.
“You and me, this is just fun, right? I want to make sure this isn’t going anywhere for you, that we’re just playing it cool.”
His brow pinches together. “That’s what we talked about.”
“Okay, because this can’t go anywhere for me. It has to stay the way it is. Friends. I’m not emotionally available for anything else.” And I never will be.
“Where’s this coming from?”
“Just promise me, Linc,” I say, a tear spilling over my cheek. “Promise it will stay where it is. Relationships are fucked up. Marriage is a joke, something I don’t ever see myself participating in.”
“Did something happen with your parents?”
“Linc, promise me,” I say, needing to hear the words from his lips.
He looks down at his hands and I see him swallow hard before he looks back up at me, an intensity in his eyes I’ve never seen. “Promise,” he chokes out.
“Thank you.” Relief washes through me, and the tightening in my lungs starts to ease. I scoot back so my shoulder is touching his and we’re sitting side by side.
His hand falls to my knee. “What happened, Indie?”
“My parents are getting a divorce. And I know you probably saw that coming, but I don’t know, I thought their situation was a phase. But my dad got an apartment that my mom helped him pick out. He’s living with his girlfriend, and uh . . . my mom’s boyfriend is moving in.”
“Shit, Indie. I’m—”
“With his daughter.”
Lincoln pauses and then says, “Oh.”
“My mom came down here to tell me her happy news. That Dad and she were happy. Oh, and to ask me if Priscilla, that’s her name, could have my room. After they’d picked out her new comforter and the new color for the walls.”
“Have, as in . . .”
“As in, take it over. Mom’s packing up all my shit, painting the room pink, and gaining the perfect princess daughter she’s always wanted. Don’t worry though, I have you to support like the good little woman I am, so my mom thinks I’m taken care of.”
“Wait, what?”
I sigh in frustration. “It’s been a thing with me and my mom. She always thought soccer was something fun for me to do, has never taken it seriously, even when I signed my letter of intent, receiving a full-ride. She never got it. Always told me there’s more than soccer. She can’t see that I’m also getting a degree at Brentwood that will bring employment once I graduate . . . if I don’t go pro. She ignores that. As if I’ll never be able to be whole on my own or support myself. And I’m guessing that’s why she spent the whole summer trying to hook me up. Hook me up, when she’s the one who can’t even stay faithful in a committed relationship. A marriage. She’s such a . . . hypocrite.”
“Indie, it takes two people for a marriage not to work.”
“Are you defending her?” I snap, facing him.
“No,” he recovers quickly. “No, I’m not. I don’t know why I said that.”