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Kali tiptoed out of the room, one arm still wrapped around her middle. Lincoln brought his gaze back to his tea. He'd seen it again: Anger. Frustration. But also insecurity. Embarrassment. She seemed just as mixed up about this arrangement as he was. He wanted them gone, wanted to get back to his life, to work on his models any time he wanted, and not worry about it interrupting dinner or, God forbid, their sleep. He wanted to come and go as he pleased. But he'd miss it, happening upon her in unplanned moments, like this morning. Seeing her at ease, unaware, until he'd broken the moment with his greeting. He'd miss knowing, in some small way, that he wasn't alone.
But he was alone. He always would be alone. It was what he wanted, what was best.
Lincoln finished his tea, grabbed a banana, two apples, three of the peanut butter cookies Kali had baked earlier that week, and the sandwich he'd made before she woke up. Maybe he wouldn't lug any tree trunks, but he'd swing the axe. He'd clear limbs. He'd make progress. At last, he was on his way back to the woods.
Lincoln rolled down the windows in the truck while Romper barked with delight at the wind whipping back his ears. The dog looked at Lincoln, barked again, as if to say thanks, then pushed his head out farther. The forty-five minute drive seemed to only take minutes. Lincoln grinned.
Several hours later, Lincoln stretched before calling Romper to the truck. He'd taken it easy, comparatively, but still he ached. His back throbbed, his ankle felt as if it had regressed almost a week. The pain would go away, though, would ease with rest. He'd pushed himself, but not too hard. Even though it meant cutting the day's intended work in half, he stopped before real damage could be done ... he hoped.
Still, it felt good. He felt good. Once back on the road, Lincoln laughed and slapped the wheel. It was like some strong and benevolent drug had seeped into his veins—better than the pain meds. He was back on track. He was working toward the life he intended.
And tonight he'd take advantage of the life he was living now, while he still had time. He stopped at a grocery store and, a basket on his arm, strolled the produce section. Eggplant. Zucchini. Fresh garlic. Onions. Orange, yellow, and red peppers. Carrots. Next, the meat department. Fresh, free-range chicken. Whole chicken, so the flavour of the skin would soak through.
Lincoln grinned again, feeling giddy. When was the last time he'd cooked for himself, not just thrown some packaged, processed, crap together? A week before Lucy's accident? Two? Maybe more.
Of course, in those last days in Montreal it hadn't been cheap, packaged, processed foods. It'd been nothing but the best: take-outs full of fresh, locally grown ingredients. Business dinners at acclaimed restaurants. All as he tried to seal one of the biggest deals his father's corporation had ever had.
The one pleasure during those sixteen-plus hour days had been the food. And on a Sunday he could actually take some time off to cook for Lucy. For him. Candles. Mood music. Expensive wine. The belief in love. All before life, as he knew it, imploded.
“Find everything you were looking for?”
“Sorry?” Lincoln snapped to attention. A young, pimply faced cashier smiled nervously at him.
“Did you, uh,” she gestured to the items she rung through the cash, “find everything?”
“Oh,” Lincoln stared at the items. He was in the mood to say something pithy. Do we ever? But she wouldn't get it. Would maybe even think he was mocking her. “Sure.” He smiled at the girl.
She nodded, keeping her eyes averted for the rest of the transaction. Lincoln noted his hands. Dirt coated them, each fingernail encrusted with black. He could only imagine what the rest of him looked like. Next, he took in the items the girl was bagging. An incongruous picture? Probably. He chuckled to himself and handed over his credit card, realizing he hadn't used it in a while.
Had groceries always been this expensive? Of course, in Montreal he got most of his produce at the market—Marché Sainte-Anne his favourite, with Jean-Talon a close second. He loved the haggling, the trips between vendors, the simplicity of it. The only simplicity, he realized, his Montreal life had.
Lincoln took the last of the groceries and headed to the car. Romper, head half out the window, gave a boisterous bark. Back at the apartment, Lincoln eased his way up the steps. The throbbing worsened. He hoped for peace, quiet ... though it wouldn't be awful to see Theo's smile or have him rush over, holding his latest painting like he had the other night—a picture of Lincoln, Theo, and Romper in a field, all smiling. Or to hear if Kali had saved someone rather than watched a life disappear. To see her smile instead of frown. That wouldn't be awful at all.
The apartment was empty. Most likely they wouldn't be home before seven-thirty. Plenty of time to shower and make a dinner that would wow. Wow himself. He was the one he was making this meal for. Still, after all the meals Kali prepared the past week, he hoped she would enjoy it too, enjoy having a meal waiting when she got home—back—when she got back, not home.
At eight-o-clock, Lincoln sat at the kitchen table. He tapped his fork on the rim of his plate. The food had been warming for over twenty minutes. He stepped to the stove. The vegetables looked wilted and pathetic. Would the chicken be dry?
It was stupid to not eat. To not enjoy the meal he'd made the way it was intended. Several times when he'd been out Kali had simply left food wrapped up for him to pop in the oven later.
Eight-o-five and Lincoln stood. She could be hours. Perhaps she'd gotten a double shift. Perhaps she'd eaten dinner out. Perhaps she'd found a new apartment. His plate full, Lincoln's gaze travelled from the table to his couch. Eating at the table was Kali's thing. He stretched side to side. His back could use the couch. Soft. Inviting. Protective.
Moments after he settled into the cushions, familiar steps, followed by the sound of keys jingling, sounded outside the door.
Kali stepped inside, Theo's backpack dangling from her arm. She dropped the backpack on a pile of boxes and nudged at Theo to take off his shoes. Romper darted over, his tail wagging in front of Theo, who bent down to wet kisses. Kali raised her head, sniffing the air, and walked to the kitchen. “Lincoln?”
“Yep.”
Kali spun, a hand to her throat. “I didn't see you there. What are you—”
“This is where I eat.”
“Oh.”
“Usually.”
Kali stared at him.
“There's food left. I had extra, so—”
“Thanks.” Kali smiled. She shuffled her feet. “Smells amazing.”
“Now that I'm on my feet.”
Kali smiled a moment more, a curious smile. “Theo, go wash your hands.” She kept her gaze on Lincoln. “Good day?”
“Very.”
“Wasn't too hard on the ankle? The back?”
“I'll be okay.”
Kali stood there, staring at him. Lincoln shifted the cushion. She crossed one arm over her middle, her hand propping up her opposite elbow. She rested her chin against the other hand, staring at him.
“I kept it warm but it's not getting any warmer.”
“Sure, yes. Of course.” Kali turned to leave then stopped. “Not that you have to, of course, but looks like you just started. Want to join us?” She gestured her head toward the kitchen.
Now it was Lincoln's turn to stare. Did he want to? No. The couch was just fine. The couch was comfortable. His back was sore. And why should he be the one to adjust? This was his house. His kitchen. His living room. “No, not really.”
Kali opened her mouth, leaned forward, then turned. Sounds of utensils, the tap, Theo's footsteps, travelled up the hall. Lincoln listened. Kali asked Theo question after question about his day. Silent answers. They’d be with his face, nods or shakes of his head, sometimes his hands, or, if he was annoyed with her, felt she was pushing too far, no answers at all.
Lincoln wanted to know.
He pushed himself off the couch, trying not to limp as he travelled toward the kitchen. He set the plate down and, using a hand for support, lowered himself into a chair. Kali and Theo looked at him.
“And Mrs. Martin said how many new kids were coming next week?”
Theo held up two fingers.
“You think they'll be your friends?”
He let his head wobble back and forth and shrugged, a hopeful smile coating his face.
Lincoln smiled at the kid, glad he was seeing the answers.
After dinner, Lincoln migrated back to the couch and picked up his most recent book on solar power. He'd done good work today. He was hurting, exhausted, but the pain and tiredness were worth the progress. And being home felt better than it had in weeks.
Theo's laughter, along with the sound of sloshing water, travelled up the hall. Lincoln kicked up his legs and stretched out on the cushions, enjoying the sound. He hoped the kids at the daycare would like Theo, be nice to him. The kid was different, and children were cruel. Could be cruel. Theo didn’t deserve that.