Originally Chapter 15

Lincoln

Practices the day after a game are usually the best kind. Coaches don’t push very hard, confidence has us running flawless plays, and the camaraderie feels like a brotherhood—like we just crawled out of the trenches of hell together and have overcome Lucifer himself. Today, however, this is not where I want to be.

Last night after Rae and I kissed, we went inside where she asked Poppy if she was ready to go and quickly dished out goodbyes. She didn’t even bother trying to make an excuse, just said she was ready to go. Poppy seemed as surprised as I was, but the two left, their shakes in hand, and I have no doubt they spent the drive home dissecting our brief kiss that Pax interrupted.

“Okay,” Arlo says, stopping in front of where I’m shoving my duffel bag into my locker. “I’m gonna tell you something, but you have to promise to keep your cool.” It’s a warning usually directed at me, yet his attention is on Paxton.

“If you tell me you borrowed something out of my locker, I don’t even want to know. Just replace it.”

Arlo shakes his head. “I heard Derek’s going to ask Rae out.”

My attention swings to Paxton, waiting for him to lead the charge. For anger and yelling to begin so that I can follow suit.

Pax shrugs then blows out a long breath. “I don’t like it, but it’s her choice. She’s smart. She won’t take shit from him.”

Arlo nods. “I came here ready to tell you the same thing. Plus, he seems to truly like her. At the party last night, he ignored all the other girls who came up to him. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still think he’s a selfish asshole, but maybe off the field, he’s not so bad?”

Pax nods. “Let’s hope so because if he isn’t, he’s going to have hell to pay.”

“Exactly,” Arlo says. “Are you guys ready?” He claps, slapping me on the back a couple of times. “You awake there, President? You look half-asleep.”

“Let’s go.”

The week goes by at a crawl. Practices are grueling, classes are long, and I can’t sleep for shit. To make matters worse, my soon-to-be stepmom, Carol, called and asked me to come over for dinner because they’re hosting the law partners for a dinner party.

I tried to tell her no, but due to my lack of sleep and focus, she railroaded me, and now I’m in my truck, a button-up shirt biting at my neck and the collar of my suit jacket too stiff.

“You’re late.” Gloria meets me at the door, opening it before I can knock.

“It’s my house. How can I be late?”

She tilts her chin, not accepting one iota of my bullshit. She never has. “Lucky for you, I suggested she tell you to arrive an hour before you actually needed to be here.” She smiles smugly.

“I thought we were friends?”

Her laughter is deep and loud, lasting for a solid minute because whenever Gloria laughs, it’s always an extended sound, stretching the humor. “You and me, kid, we’re more than friends and more than blood—we’re family who chose each other, and don’t you forget it.” She clamps one hand on my cheek, and though I have to look down at her now, this pose makes me think of the many years I had to look up. Gloria started with my family shortly after my parents were married. I think Dad had hired her to help keep Mom company, so she wasn’t bored, but I’m sure it also had to do with the fact my mom had grown up in a lower-class home with both parents working and didn’t know what was considered as “proper etiquette” in the world he brought her into, and Gloria could help teach her.

When I was five, my parents divorced, and Gloria remained working for my dad, becoming a second mother essentially to me during my stays with him, even through his miscellaneous and often short-lived marriages. As I got older, Gloria ran out of tasks. She started looking for another job, so Dad hired a team of people to plant a massive garden complete with herbs, fruits, vegetables, and plants that needed time and attention—a dream Gloria had talked about for as long as I could remember. She had always wanted an extensive garden to tend and cook from, and Dad gave that and a hefty raise to ensure she’d stay. I’m sure the secrets Gloria keeps for our family are worth more than her salary.

“Lincoln?” Carol’s voice calls through the entryway. “Is that you?”

I look at Gloria glumly and whisper, “Who else would it be?”

She smiles. “Button your shirt, and go say hello.”

“Lincoln?”

“Yeah. It’s me.” I lean my neck back and comply with fastening another button.

“I’m in the living room!” she calls.

“Are we having seafood or steak?” I ask Gloria.

“Scallops in a cream sauce with truffle risotto and asparagus.”

I nod “Your asparagus?”

She nods proudly. “Of course.”

I grin and then head into the depths of the white museum we call home.

“There you are,” Carol says, standing as I approach her. “You look nice.” She straightens my collar, though it doesn’t need it, then proceeds to wipe invisible lint from my jacket. Then she scrunches her nose with distaste, her cold fingers trailing along my jaw, tracing the bruise I got last week. “Your Dad’s right. You really should stop playing football. I’m tired of seeing you bruised and broken.”

I pull away so fast, her hand remains suspended in mid-air for several seconds. Anger and resentment make my jacket feel too warm and too tight. “Where’s my Dad?”

“He’s watching something in his office.” She slowly lowers her hand, her eyes still too inquisitive as she stares at me. “Some news show or something.” Disappointment is visible in her eyes but not on her face. Injections prevent her from showing emotions, and that’s only compounded by the pills she takes as a starter and the alcohol that is her chaser. These aren’t details that make me dislike her or resent her for being Dad’s ninth wife. On the contrary, I’m completely ambivalent to her because I know she’s a temporary placement in my father’s life like the seven women before her.

She purses her lips, which is how she now smiles. “How’s school?”

“Same old, same old.”

“Yeah? Your dad was hoping you’d bring a plus one tonight.” The lilt in her voice trails off.

“If I were dating someone, I would not be bringing them to a hellish event like this. Let’s be honest here.”

She smirks—or at least attempts to—her face is particularly passive tonight, revealing she’s had a recent set of injections. “My friend Madeline has a niece your age. She’s really pretty….”

“I’m sure she is, but between practice and school, I don’t have time to sleep, let alone have a girlfriend.”

She cocks her head to the side. “I know you’re busy, that’s why I think you should have a girlfriend. You need someone to take care of you and help out.”

I know she doesn’t mean to sound so sexist. She’s simply repeating the same bullshit she hears when crowded around expensive events that they shelled out a few thousand dollars a head for, yet even I wince at her words and the meaning behind them. Then my thoughts wander to Rae. I imagine her hearing this expectation and leaving, going home to tell Maggie about it, and the two of them crafting a plan to take down the events that breed ridiculous and archaic ideas like this.

Then I imagine Rae smiling, laughing at how contrived and ridiculous this part of my life is.

“What are you smiling about?” Carol asks. “Is there someone you’re not telling me about?”

I swiftly shake my head.

“Let me set you up.”

“It’s not about a lack of options. It’s a lack of time.” I stress the word.

She sighs loudly. “You’re just like your father.”

I can’t tell if she means it to be a compliment or an insult. Knowing her love for him and the lifestyle he provides, I’m sure it’s the initial, but the sentiment brings forth twenty-one years of him missing practices and games, parent-teacher conferences, holidays, birthday parties, movie nights. We never talk about friends or girls. We don’t even talk about sports.

“Lincoln,” Dad says, entering the room in a full suit. “How have you been?” His shoes tap against the wood floors as he comes near, pulling me into a hug. “Good to see you.”

“You too.”

“I just saw your mug on about five stories over the past week. It’s great news and PR, but I wish they’d mention you’ve got a lot of things going on up here.” He raps his knuckles against the top of my head, then laughs.

“They can’t. They don’t have enough time in their shows to talk about how perfect I am, or they’d run out of air-time.”

“Oh, and subtle too.” He shakes his head, a playful smirk flashing. “But, Lincoln, listen—my partners are really proud of all you’re accomplishing. However, I’m worried football is taking too much time and will ruin your reputation. You don’t want to be known as a football has been, you know what I’m saying?”

And here we go.

Dinner with Dad.

My chest feels like the remains of a storm. Being around business people and pretending to care about things I don’t has always left me feeling like this—like I’ve left a piece of who I am and what I want behind in an attempt to be who I’m expected to be. Moments like these, I wish I lived in my own apartment so I could go home and not worry about having to face anyone.

I cut through traffic, planning a quick excuse to shut myself in my room for the night. When I arrive home though, a black Civic is parked on the street behind the mailboxes and Rae is sitting on the cement slab in front of the house. She looks up as I pull in, cutting the engine.

“Hey,” I call, shutting my truck’s door.

“Hey.”

“Everything okay?”

She glances around, peering at the driveway, the yard, the house across the street—everything but me. “Yeah. I’m just waiting on Pax. He asked me to come by to help with his computer, but he’s late.”

“I think he went to meet Candace.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that but said he’d be here by eight.”

“You’ve been here for an hour?”

Finally, her gaze meets mine. She remains silent, and I see her weighing her possible responses like I might consider her waiting to be ludicrous. “I wasn’t really paying attention to the time,” she admits.

“Don’t you have a key?” I ask, moving past her, unlocking and opening the door.

She turns around to face me, more weighted thoughts and questions visible. “I never know when someone’s here. If it was just Paxton’s place or Caleb’s, it wouldn’t be weird.”

“But Arlo and I make it strange?”

She nods. “A little.”

I jerk my chin toward the living room, holding the door open for her. “You’ve got to get out of your head, Lawson. No one cares.”

She slowly stands, grabbing her book bag at her feet. An objection or possibly a doubt has her working to hide a smirk, but she doesn’t say anything, going inside where she flips on the lights.

“Do you want something to drink?”

“That’s okay. I think I’m just going to text Paxton and let him know I’m going home.”

“Don’t leave on my account.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not.”

“Is this going to be awkward because of the other night?”

She shakes her head again. “No. Zero weirdness. It was nothing.” Her body language contradicts her words as she sags back, looking uncomfortable and out of place, then I notice her staring at my chest. I glance down at my tie and jacket.

“I had dinner with my dad and stepmom tonight.” I know I don’t owe her an explanation, especially since she hasn’t asked, but I want her to know for some reason.

“Oh….” She tries to hide her surprise but does a shitty job. I pray that isn’t hope shining in her eyes. It likely is, though, because Paxton is the example she knows best, and unlike the rest of us, he wants to believe that people care about more than fame and money. He doesn’t have a Carol in his life.

“I don’t want to intrude. I know you have a game coming up and need sleep and probably to study tape, so….” She takes a step back, eyeing the door.

Maybe it wasn’t hope?

“Why do you work so hard to live up to all the expectations?”

She blinks, her brow furrowing. “What?”

“You mentioned no one realizes the expectations set forth for you. Why do you keep working toward them?”

She pulls her lips between her teeth for a moment. “Because I want to do well. I want to succeed at things, especially when others think I can’t.”

“But everyone thinks you can.”

She scoffs. “Hardly.”

“What does that mean?”

Her gaze darts to mine. Again I see silent thoughts passing a million miles a second.

“How fast does your mind go? And why do you constantly censor yourself?” I ask.

She blinks several times, tilting her head a few degrees. “It’s not so much censoring as it is a consideration of possible outcomes.”

“Meaning?”

She pulls in a deep breath through her lips and holds it, her thoughts passing like a freeway again, then she quickly and silently releases it. “If I tell you that just being a female has a large majority believing I’ll fail, people are likely to assume I’m a crazy feminist and have an idealistic agenda. If I say my mom wants me to consider taking some courses as a backup option and tries to disguise the suggestion with comments like I might enjoy it or it might be fun, people think I’m crazy for assuming that’s doubt. If I say my dad didn’t allow me to do anything or watch anything until I memorized the periodic table when I turned thirteen, and randomly quizzes me in an attempt to stump me, people assume he’s trying to motivate me.” She presses her lips into another thin line. “Even to my own ears, it sounds so ridiculous and petty when I’ve been given opportunities many could only dream of. I mean, Maggie’s getting ready to go to a country where girls aren’t even able to get an education, and I’m complaining about….” She shakes her head slowly, then shrugs. “…things that really don’t matter.”

“So, you think because others have it harder than you, you can’t feel bad about the way others treat you?”

“That’s the thing. No one’s treating me badly.”

I stare at her, noting the roundness of her eyes, the conviction in her tone, the defeat in her shoulders—and it’s like staring into my reflection. I know these feelings so well she might as well be describing my life.

“Did he ask you out?”

She blinks several times, her gaze shifting to the side. “Who?”

“Who do you think? Derek.”

When she glances at me again, the tepidness returns. “Kind of.”

“What did you guys do?”

“We didn’t.”

I pull my chin back. “You told him no?”

“I….” She clears her throat. “I had a hectic week. I’m trying to spend most of my time with Maggie since she’s getting ready to leave.”

“So, you postponed your answer?”

“I told him I was busy.”

“And when he asks again?”

“Are you jealous or just worried I’m saying no because of you?”

I shrug. “Maybe both.”

“You can’t be both.”

“Why not?”

I stare at her, noting the roundness of her eyes, the conviction in her tone, the defeat in her shoulders—and it’s like staring into my reflection. I know these feelings so well she might as well be describing my life.