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Lincoln stood behind Kali, his body close to hers. Not touching, he made sure of that, but close. He smelled it again, cinnamon and coconuts. He breathed it in.
Colours exploded over the harbour. Their brilliance lit up the sky and reflected in the black inkiness below.
“It's a good show this year.” Kali's voice was wistful.
Should he put a hand on her shoulder? “Yeah. It's nice.”
She tilted her head toward him. “Better in Montreal?”
“Yeah.” He let out a little laugh. “Even better in Toronto. I bet Ottawa's best. The Capital and all.”
“Probably.” Kali pushed herself from the sill. “Want another beer?” She turned. “Damn it!”
Lincoln spun. Theo stood in the centre of the room—hands over his ears, tears streaming down his face, terror in his eyes.
Kali rushed to him. “Oh, baby.” She covered his hands with her own and looked back at Lincoln. “The earplugs. I ... that damn beer.”
“What?” Lincoln followed after them, watched as Kali urged Theo into bed, cradling him, holding him close. She reached one hand away and pulled open the top drawer of her bedside table, then inserted ear plugs into Theo's ears.
Theo didn't make a sound. Lincoln wanted to do something, make the pain stop, but he stood, helpless. Never had he seen anyone cry so silently.
Kali wiped Theo's tears and urged him to lie down. She wrapped her body around his.
Lincoln leaned against the door frame, hands stuffed into his pockets.
Kali sang.
Theo's rigid muscles softened. His body relaxed into the bed. Lincoln stepped away from the door and returned to the living room. He perched on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, waiting.
Less than twenty minutes later he heard the creak of Kali's footsteps on the hardwood. She stood across the room. Weary.
She slouched past him and sank into the corner of his couch. She never sat on his couch.
Lincoln shifted toward her. “What was that?”
She reached for a pillow. Shrugged. “There was an explosion.”
“When your mom—”
“No, no. After.”
“Okay?”
“At his daycare.”
“Oh wow, uh—”
“Right as he spoke for the first time since my mom passed. It'd been weeks. Then he spoke. Then, boom.”
Shit. Lincoln ran a hand over the back of his neck.
“It's like he thinks it's his fault. Like speaking makes bad things happen.”
“That's, uh ...” Shit. “That's rough.”
Kali laughed. “Isn't it?” She reached for a fresh beer. “But what to do, right? I'm paying three hundred bucks a month for a psychologist. No daycares will take the weird, developmentally disabled child who won't speak.”
“Three hundred?” Lincoln shook his head. “And he's not ... I mean, he's smart.”
“I know that.” Kali drew out the words. “But I'm his mother. I'm biased.” She set the beer down. “I know he’s not weird. And he’s not developmentally disabled or delayed or anything. He’s just scared. He’s hurting.” Kali wiped a hand across her eyes. “It’s not just me who knows this. The psychologist said he was smart, too. Advanced, even though he’s choosing not to speak.”
“And the therapy, it's not helping?”
“She says it's helping. But he still doesn't speak.”
Music breezed through the window, loud and grating. 'Whoops' and cheers sounded along with it. A woman ululating. Was that what it was called?
Lincoln rose and started across the room.
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Stop.” Kali stood. “I want the music. I want the dancing.” She crossed to the window. “It's louder than usual.” She leaned out. “They're having a party!”
Lincoln stayed where he stood. Would Lucy be there? Joseph? Not likely. They'd be in Montreal—partying with the big dogs.
Kali stepped from the window, her hips moving, her arms swaying. Her feet ... doing moves he never could. She faced him. “Dance with me.”
“What?”
“Dance.” She came closer, her long red cardigan flowing around her.
Lincoln held his hands up. “I'm not a dancer. At least not like that.”
“So learn.” Her face was firm, almost frustrated. It eased into a smile.
“It's not that eas—”
She latched onto him. “Have you ever salsa'd?”
“No.”
She adjusted his hand on her back, pressed to make the hold firm, and raised her other hand in his. “This is your frame.”
“Okay.” Lincoln swallowed. Her breath was warm; her hands, her body.
“I'll have to lead. Hold your frame firm. But let the rest of you relax. Move how I'm leading you to move.”
Lincoln thought of one-two-three, five-six-seven. “Shoot.” He stumbled over her feet. “Did I hurt—”
“It's okay.” Kali positioned them again. “Relax. Then let me move you.”
Lincoln closed his eyes, held the count in his head, and tried not to think of his feet.
“Good.” A grin was in her voice. “I'd almost say you're a natural.”
Lincoln opened his eyes. She was smiling at him. He tried to push down a blush, closed his eyes again. The song ended.
“Not bad.” Kali looked up at him. New music rose. She took his hands. They went on like that. Two, three, four more songs. She taught him to move side to side, to push back. Two simple spins. She even showed him how to lead. The music shifted. His steps didn't work.
“What's—?”
“A cha-cha.” She laughed, moving without him. “If you can walk, you can cha-cha.” She backed away, stepped forward, all the while her eyes on him. All the while smiling. He didn't know she could be so light. “Try it.”
“My hips won't move like that.”
“They don't have to. Just your feet.” She toned down the movement. “Like this.”
Lincoln returned to the couch. “I'll sit this one out.”
“Your loss.” She closed her eyes, still moving. Swirling. Turning. With one smooth motion, she stripped off her cardigan, reached for a beer, and threw her head back, never missing a step.
“You used to do this a lot.”
“Mmhmm. I taught for a couple of years. Before Theo.”
“You must have been a teenager.”
“Mmhmm.” She turned away from him, swayed by the window, then stopped when the song did.
“Never thought of going back to it?”
She let out a hard laugh.
Lincoln stood and crossed the distance between them. “If you wanted ... I mean it's right next door. You could go see if they needed a teacher, or just go to dance. I could watch Theo.”
She rested her hands on the sill; the muscles in her shoulders tensed.
“You could even go now if you wanted.”
She turned. “Trying to get rid of me?”
“No.” Lincoln stepped back, a lump rising in his throat. She smiled, looking at him like he hadn't been looked at in years, as if she saw a part of him he hardly remembered existed.
“Another dance?”
Lincoln didn't answer. He swallowed and brushed the hair out of his eyes. He should say no. He should definitely say—
He took her in his arms.
Though shorter, her body was bigger than Lucy's. Broader. Not that Kali was large, not even close. She was solid. Muscular. Firm, with the most womanly curves he'd ever touched. Lincoln tried not to look at her breasts—so close. His hand slid to her waist. Oh, the sway of that waist. His eyes had been on it half the night, on her hips, the way they moved as though hardly attached to her body.
The song faded then transitioned to a new one. “Bachata,” she whispered. “This one's better close. Follow me.”
He tensed as her leg slipped between his. But then he succumbed, lost in the movement. Lost in her. Half way through, she adjusted his hand so it rested against her shoulder blade and urged him to lead.
As the song ended he pulled her closer, put his hand beneath her chin to raise it, leaned in.
She pushed. “What are you doing?”
“I—”
“It's a dance, Lincoln. A friggin' dance.”
Lincoln stepped back, extending the distance between them. “I know, I—”
“You know what?” Her body went rigid, her voice hard. “That this would be payment?”
“What? No.”
“Is that what you want?” Her voice twisted. She pushed her hips to the side, mocking a different kind of woman. “Payment? Will that make us even, make it so I'm not in your debt?”
“No.” Lincoln moved farther back. What the fuck was happening? “That's not ... I don't want—”
“Look at you. As if,” her voice faltered, “as if I'd want a loser like you. Someone who chose to be this way.” Her eyes narrowed. “I know you don't have to be here.”
“Kali—”
“Or maybe you do. Maybe you've gone crazy. Is that it? You've lost your mind, and so you're going to become a hermit in the woods. Or are you just some spoiled little rich boy who's throwing the biggest, stupidest tantrum ever? Daddy didn't love me so I'll show him by wasting my life and—”
Lincoln stepped forward. “Kali, what the fuck?”
“Get away from me!”
He backed up, hands raised. “I'm not. I—”
“What about when you're sick? Old? Will you still live in a tree?”
“I don't—”
“And here. In Nova Scotia. In friggin’ Nova Scotia where the winters will probably kill you. Why don't you go somewhere warm? Somewhere where you won't end up some frozen corpse for people to find however many years later.”
Lincoln stepped farther back, his mind reeling. He shook his head. Did she want an answer? He'd asked himself those same questions. Why was he here? Why was he trying to build his life of solitude here?
“This is my home.”
“Your home?” She raised an arm, gesturing around the room. “This is your home? I thought it was some transition—”
“No, not here. Not—” Lincoln stepped toward the hall. “You're drunk and I ... I don't know what I was thinking. I shouldn't have—” He shook his head. “Happy Canada Day. Thanks for the burgers and booze.”