Lincoln opened his eyes to Kali's smile. “You make a wish?”
He nodded. A lie. How could he wish, when the thing he wanted, he absolutely did not want? Her hand was inches from his. When he reached for the cupcake their fingers grazed, and it was more intense than the entire fireworks show combined. Touch. He missed it. His skin tingled with want. It'd been creeping up on him these last weeks. Not even in a sexual way. Or, not only in a sexual way. Theo reaching for his hand to lead him to a puzzle, snuggling into him and holding out another book and then another. The other night he'd wrapped his arms around Lincoln's legs when he returned from the lot. Dirty, probably smelly, yet the boy hadn't cared. That touch was like a salve.
Kali's touch, though, was entirely different ... or entirely more. A salve too—her hand on his arm, his knee. His hand at the fireworks, reaching to draw her close so he could whisper in her ear. It took that wanting, the want of touch, to a whole other level. A base level. A level that made the weight in his gut grow at the thought of leaving her, of her leaving.
Solitude. Escape. A life with no expectations. That's what he wanted. What he needed.
Yet at the lot these past weeks, without Romper beside him, he filled the silent moments wondering what Kali's day was like. Had she watched someone die? Had she helped save a life? And Theo, would today be the day he spoke? The day he let go of whatever fears kept his voice chained away?
Would they be home when he arrived? Would Kali smile at him, or frown? Would they chat like friends or walk past each other, silent. How much of tonight's outing was for Theo, and how much for him?
“These are good.”
“Double chocolate. From a bakery, not the grocery. I splurged.” That grin. That smile that came easier now, that was directed at him.
“Worth it.”
She leaned her side against the couch, her body turned toward him, her knees just inches away. She seemed so comfortable in his space. Even the fact that she'd sat on his couch without asking, it didn't bother him anymore. Not at all. Not even the slightest. He almost loved it.
“Any luck with an apartment?”
Her lips pressed together. Her brows furrowed. Damn. She thought he was asking how soon she'd leave. He wanted to know how long she'd stay.
“A couple possibles. I'll start looking more now that I have mostly night shifts. I needed a couple of days to recoup from that training.”
“Yeah, absolutely. No problem. No rush.”
“I'll find something, though.”
“Really, no rush. It's fine.”
She bit her lip. Shifted away.
No rush. It's fine. Did he mean it? Could he want them and not the rest of the world? Could he want them and his house in the sky?
The words hovered on his lips: Stay. Maybe not forever, but for now. Stay. But what did that mean? Did he want to date her? Call her son his own? Or was it her presence, the consistency and familiarity, the illusion that with them here he wasn't alone?
“Two minutes.”
“Hmm?”
Kali pointed to the clock. “Two minutes left of your birthday.”
“Ahh.”
Her voice was soft, weighted. Her eyes heavy, her blinks long. “Was it an okay birthday?”
The minute hand clicked forward. “Moments.”
“Mo—?”
“Moments were great. Moments were perfect.”
“Good.” She kept her gaze on the clock. When the hand shifted again she braced her hand on his knee and pushed up.
She stood over him and he wanted to reach out again, tell her not to leave, tell her ... what? “Sleep well.”
She smiled and was gone.
Lincoln's thoughts shifted away from her. In the darkness he thought of his mother: how she viewed his choices, whether she was angry, how pathetic he'd look showing up now, after all this time, admitting he'd been here all along, that his travels were a lie. Because if he went to the party, he couldn't keep lying. Over email was one thing, but to her face? No.
And Joseph would know. And Lucy. And his sisters, his cousins, his aunts and uncles. Or maybe he could lie. Say he just came home. Came home for his mother's birthday—wouldn't that be admirable? People would think, oh that Lincoln, devoted son. But then they'd ask about his travels, and he'd sound like a fool making up stories of elephants in Thailand and the Scottish moors.
What are you doing now? they’d ask. What are you doing next? Would he lie, or tell the truth? I'm building a tree house in the woods. They'd look askance, but slightly interested, at first thinking it was a business venture. And then, as he continued, they'd shift away, step back. Say they were hungry or needed to make a call or, look, there's cousin Peter, who they haven't seen in ages.
They couldn't understand. They wouldn't. But what did it matter?
Kali was right. His mom would want him there, would want to know he was safe, okay. That was what mattered.
***
SEVERAL DAYS LATER Lincoln stood in front of his closet yet again, knowing it was hopeless. The moment had felt so empowering, when he'd packed up all his suits and loafers and wrinkle free dress shirts and taken them, in three large bags, down to the nearest Salvation Army. He'd wanted nothing of the life that destroyed him ... but could keeping a jacket or two, some khaki pants even, have been such a bad idea?
He'd have to shop, as Kali said. He looked to the mirror in his closet door and rubbed his beard, gave a tug at the long locks falling down over his face. He could cut it all off, trim his hair, become the man he once was—in appearance at least.
But did he want to? He couldn't go like this; that was for sure. His mother would break down. But a trim, some shaping of the beard—enough to look like he made an effort, not enough to let old acquaintances recognize him on the street—that he could do.
That afternoon, Lincoln returned home with a respectable outfit. Not something he would have worn to a business meeting, not even to a night out with the guys, but respectable. Jeans. A button up flannel shirt. Something a traveller would wear.
His beard was two inches shorter, his hair trimmed and even. He held a wrapped present. A bracelet his mother may not love but couldn't hate. Pretty. Simple.
He waited for Kali. She hadn't mentioned the party again. He hadn't mentioned her apartment search. She'd asked him if he thought he'd get another dog when they left. He hadn't known what to say.
He wanted her to know he was going to the party. Wanted to know, no matter what happened tonight, that she would be here, hoping it'd go all right, rooting for him. Lincoln swung his arms. He picked up a book. He glanced in the mirror, adjusted his new style, not able to wait any longer, and left.
The party started at five. He'd decided he'd get there at seven-thirty. Late enough that people who came for the food would have left. That his father, who had to be back in the home by seven, would be gone.
He hadn't RSVP’d, so it didn't matter when he arrived.
Cars lined the street of the home he'd grown up in. Too many. Uncle Albert and Aunt Gertie walked past his truck, arm in arm, laughing. Two vehicles left and another one came. One of his mother's curling friends? An hour passed. Two. And Lincoln stayed seated. Stupid. Stupid. Weak.
He hadn't even been the one to do something wrong. Why was he the one who felt paralyzed at the thought of seeing his family?
But he had done something. He'd yelled at his mother. Cursed her for not disowning Joseph, for saying Lucy made a mistake, it'd been wrong, but that didn't mean he could talk to her like that. For telling Lincoln that Lucy was in pain, a pain Lincoln could never understand—as if Lincoln didn't hurt just as much, as if betrayal hurt less than loss. Not that he hadn't lost ... He had lost everything.
But it was more than that, more than his mother, hardly his mother. He'd failed, and everyone knew it. He'd been ... cuckolded, and everyone knew it. Made a joke by the two people he'd loved most.
Lincoln stepped out of the truck. The house was three lots away. Music trailed along the evening breeze. Laughter. A couple left through the front door and strolled down the driveway. “Lincoln? Lincoln Fraser, is that you?”
He held up a hand and gave a tight-lipped smile without stopping. The woman whispered as he passed.
The majority of the guests would be in two places—the kitchen and the back porch. A few would be in the living room—the older ones, or the ones who'd had too much to drink and weren't the best at holding their liquor.
His mother could be anywhere, doing anything. She wasn't one to sit around.
The ones in the living room hardly noticed him, though Great Uncle Richard raised an arm. “Looks good on you, son. Not so prissy like the boys today.”
Lincoln nodded.
Aunt Mev appeared in front of him. “Lincoln, baby, is that you? I thought you were in Malaysia or Venezuela or some such place.” She laughed. A liquid laugh.
He shrugged and accepted her embrace. “I'm back.”
He kept walking. Find Mom. Say hello. Give her the present. Give her a hug. Leave.
“Lincoln, that you under all that hair? You look just like your daddy when he spent that summer in the woods.”
Lincoln turned. “What?”
“The summer before he met your mom. Spent it cutting lumber and came out looking like you.”
“Oh.”
“You back for good?”
“Not sure.” He kept walking.
His mother sat in the backyard, Linda's youngest on her knee. Laughing. He stepped over the threshold and onto the porch.
“Lincoln?”
He dropped his gaze to the manicured hand on his forearm. He didn't need to look up to know who it was.