Текст книги "Take Care, Sara"

Автор книги: Lindy Zart

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

He snagged the two-piece around one long finger and twirled it in front of her face. “Looks like you got some modeling of your own to perform, now, doesn’t it?”

She made a grab for the garment, but he was quicker, moving his arm out of her reach. “Uh uh uh. You get this back on one condition. You know what it is.”

Sara spun around, her chest heaving with the force of her breaths as her eyes swept up and down his body that was perfection to her. She wanted him. She always wanted him.

His eyes darkened in response, narrowing into slits. His nostrils flared as he said in a low voice that made a shiver go down her back, “Come on, Sara; help a guy out.”

The innuendo was blatant, especially when her eyes drifted down. She had no choice in the matter, not really. None. It had never been just sex between them. It had been more. Always. Sometimes it was frenzied and rough; others slow and sensual, but every time it was potent, consuming. The way their bodies came together; his hardness against her softness, the feelings inside her; the way they moved together in perfect sync. It was so much more than sex.

It was…completeness.

***

The canvas was blank. It stared at Sara in judgment, berating her for her neglect of it. The scent of paint lingered in the cool room, though none had been used in it in over a year. Maybe it was all in her head. Memories had a funny way of inducing scents and sometimes even sounds. The past never seemed to fully leave a room; just as memories kept one’s history alive as well. That’s where he lived; in her memories. Good and bad, Sara couldn’t escape them. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to.

The room was on the small side, but the wall of windows that allowed sunshine in made up for that. The white trim and wood floor made the sunny yellow walls pop out. The sun shone today and that was a small gift. It beat down on her arm and half her face, warming her skin. Sara sat before the empty project, willing inspiration to hit. Instead she saw him. She supposed that made sense, as he’d been her inspiration more than anything else.

She glanced at the empty chair in the corner to the left of her; thinking if she looked hard enough, he’d materialize, offer a sweet smile and a wink. Only no matter how long or hard she stared, he didn’t. Sara had hope he would come back to her, somehow, someway, even if it was ludicrous and close to insane. She thought it was a little insane.

Shaking her head, Sara grabbed a paintbrush and mashed the bristles against her fingers, the softness of it gently prickling her skin. She randomly picked a color without looking, popped the goopy lid, and slammed the brush into it, blobs of paint splattering her face and hands. Only when the brush hit the canvas did the color become known. Blue. Her chest tightened. Of course it would be blue, like his eyes.

The strokes were angry, hard, and it showed on the splotches and streaks left on the painting. The acrylic scent assaulted her nostrils in a biting yet soothingly familiar way. The image turned into a deep blue circle, uneven and bold. The longer she mindlessly worked at it, the surer her hand became, the calmer the brushstrokes, and when her hand finally fell to her lap, she stared at the door she’d created. Sara tilted her head as she examined it, wondering why, out of everything she could have made, that was what her mind had told her hand to produce.

The phone rang, startling her, and the wet paintbrush fell from her hand, making a picture of its own on the wood floor. She let out a curse, hurrying to get up without knocking anything else over, and moved for the kitchen. The shrill sound of the phone ringing caused Sara to wince as she reached for the phone. “Hello?”

“Sara? Hey. It’s Spencer. How ya been?” The nervous undertone in his voice was not lost on her.

“I’m painting.”

“Really? That’s great. I’m really glad. Mason must be helping—“

“I’m painting because he ordered me to,” she interrupted, swiping hair out of her eyes with her forearm.

“Oh.” Something like a snicker came over the line. “Sorry. At least you’re painting. You could have always said no.”

“I did. It didn’t work.”

“Mason can be intimidating, but everything he does he does with good intentions. Honestly. I wouldn’t have sent him your way if I didn’t believe that.”

Sara leaned against the fridge, rubbing her paint-covered fingers together. “Yeah.”

“Is it helping?” he asked after a pause.

“Maybe.” She didn’t know. Surprisingly, painting had ended up being therapeutic for her, though the start had been rocky.

“I hope it is.” When Sara didn’t respond, he continued, “So, uh, I was wondering…Gracie and I, we’re seeing each other again and we’re kind of having a party and I thought maybe you would want to come? I mean, Mason will be there…Lincoln, some other people. Not really a party. Well, kind of. It’s more of a get-together. For my birthday. Anyway, I thought you might want to come.”

Sara felt awful that the first thing she felt was envy and bitterness toward Spencer and Gracie for being able to rekindle their relationship. It wasn’t their fault she couldn’t be with the only person she wanted to be with; it was hers. Her throat closed and she couldn’t utter a word.

“I mean, if it’s too soon…I just thought maybe you’d like to get out, socialize, try to have some fun.”

“Having fun isn’t exactly on my to-do list,” Sara said softly, the phone pressed hard against her ear.

“Sara…come on,” he gently coaxed. “Please? If you can’t deal, then someone will take you home. Just try. Please.”

“Okay,” she whispered. As soon as the word left her, her stomach rebelled.

“Awesome. I’ll tell Lincoln to pick you up on his way over. It’s this Friday at seven. See you soon.”

The hand that held the phone went limp at her side. Sara’s brow furrowed at the thought of Lincoln picking her up. She knew it meant nothing. She knew it wasn’t a date in any way. It wasn’t cheating. It wasn’t being unfaithful. It wasn’t a betrayal. No one could replace him, not even his brother. No one ever would. She knew all of that. So why did she feel so weird, so awkward, about it?

She remembered the spilt paint and grabbed a dishcloth off the side of the sink, wetting it with warm water. The rag fell from her hand with a heavy splat when she entered the art room and looked down. It was ragged and bent, but the blue paint was unmistakably in the form of a ‘C’. She stumbled back, feeling behind her blindly for something to brace herself against before she fell.

Sara landed against the wall, shaking and nauseous. She blinked at it, but it didn’t disappear and it didn’t transform into a normal splotch of paint. A whimper left her as she dropped to her knees beside it, tracing it with a trembling finger. She hung her head, tears burning her eyes, and quickly cleaned it up, feeling as though she was wiping a part of him away from her soul, hating every swipe of the wet cloth against the paint.

7

She was nervous. She had no reason to be nervous. Sara chewed on her thumbnail as she paced the living room floor. There was no one to impress, no one she had to look good for, and even if there had been, he’d been the only one she’d ever wanted to impress and he’d liked the way she’d looked no matter what she’d worn or how she’d looked.

It was the thought of trying to pretend to be normal. They would expect things out of her. Like conversation. And smiles. They would expect her to laugh and joke and be the old Sara. Only she couldn’t be the old Sara because that person was gone. That Sara wasn’t ever coming back. She knew that as surely as she’d known she was going to be a painter the first time she’d picked up a paintbrush at the age of four.

She’d unseeingly grabbed a pair of jeans and a top out of the dresser and now wore a hot pink buttoned-down shirt with a black buttoned vest over it and a pair of dark blue jeans. Sara had a pair of knee-high black boots on. She’d applied perfume and just as quickly wiped it off. Sara had tried to hide the paleness of her face and the darkness from under her eyes with makeup, but it had been a useless attempt. Her hair needed a decent cut and not knowing what to do with it, she’d twisted it into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck.

The flash of headlights in the window alerted her to Lincoln’s arrival. Sara grabbed her purse, made sure all the lights were off, and locked the door behind her. The temperature hovered somewhere between the forties and fifties and the scent of rain was in the air. Most of the snow had melted from less than a week ago. Wisconsin could never make up its mind which way it wanted to go as far as the weather went.

Sick feeling and jittery, Sara walked down the sidewalk with the click click of her boots in tempo with her heartbeat. Every step taken toward Lincoln was a step Sara fought an intense urge to turn around, race back into the house, and stay there. Indefinitely. Be normal, Sara. For once, for tonight, just try to be normal.

She paused near the curb, gathering her strength. The sound of a door opening and closing made her flinch, and there Lincoln was, striding toward her, a tall shadow with no features under the glow of a streetlamp. He didn’t say anything, stopping before her, watching her in the dark.

“Hi,” she squeaked, clearing her throat.

He nodded, silently opening the door for her. Sara frowned, wondering at his quietness. She moved past him to get into the truck, his scent going with her. It had a hint of citrus to it. Sara sat down and looked ahead as the door shut.

As soon as he entered his side of the truck, she went at him. “What’s your problem?”

Lincoln flipped a light on in the truck. Sara blinked, but it wasn’t from the sudden light; it was from Lincoln’s appearance. His hair was shorter, making his flinty eyes sharper and more noticeable. He wore a gray sweater the same shade as his eyes and faded black jeans. His cologne or body wash wafted through the small enclosed space. Sara quickly averted her face, her pulse too fast. What was wrong with her?

“I wanted to tell you how nice you look,” he said slowly.

Sara’s head jerked up as her eyes went to his face, her brows lowering.

“Only I didn’t want to upset you. Seems like everything I do or say comes out wrong lately, so I decided to keep quiet. But you do, Sara. You look really nice.” He faced forward, turning off the light, blanketing them in black, and putting the truck in drive.

The silence was tense between them and it took a few attempts to say it, but she eventually got out a soft, “Thank you.”

He gave an almost unnoticeable nod of his head, messing with the radio as he drove. Lincoln found a hard rock station and drums and guitar took over the quiet. It took less than five minutes to get to Spencer’s house located at the edge of town. Sara sat there, staring at the red two-story house, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

It would be all wrong in there. Everyone would be the same except for him; he would be the missing link that should be there and wasn’t. Would their eyes be full of judgment, full of contempt? Would they shun her? Or would it be even worse than that; would she see pity in each pair of eyes that met hers?

“Breathe, Sara,” Lincoln murmured.

Sara glanced at him under the cover of night, knowing his gaze was trained on her. She couldn’t see it, but she felt it like a warm caress of understanding. Sara jerked her head up and down and reached for the doorknob.

They met at the front of the truck and when he wordlessly reached his hand out to her, Sara looked down at it for one heartfelt moment, feeling as though she was making an unknown decision of some kind. She clasped it and his fingers wrapped around her smaller ones. Just his hand around hers gave her strength to make her legs move, gave her courage to walk through the front door and into a scene from her past minus one. The most important one. Sara’s throat thickened and she blinked under the bright lights of the entryway.

Music played from a stereo system in the living room. It smelled like a variety of appetizers dunked in fragrant sauces. Conversations were loud and laughter rang out through different rooms of the downstairs of the house. A card game was going on at a table to the right and people were strewn about the furniture to the left of her in the living room. The interior of Spencer’s house was simple and uncluttered. Every room had the same theme. The walls were beige, the floors wood, and the furniture a forest green.

Sara became flushed as her eyes glanced over person after person. There were so many people. She felt dizzy, like she was suffocating. Lincoln squeezed her hand, his fingers interlaced with hers, and moved toward the kitchen, never once loosening his grip from her hand. Sara stared at his broad-shouldered back as she followed him, focusing on that.

“Lincoln!” Spencer jerked Sara’s anchor from her, causing his fingers to slide through hers and away. He slapped a hand on Lincoln’s back. “You made it. Where’s Sara?”

“Probably hiding behind me.”

Spencer’s head popped around Lincoln’s arm. His eyes were unfocused and bright, his face red. “Sara!” Sara was enveloped in a tight hug and panic threatened to kick in. The only other man to hold her other than her husband that didn’t completely drive her crazy had been Lincoln. Spencer was drunk. It didn’t matter. He knew she didn’t like to be touched. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Her eyes found Lincoln’s and he immediately pulled Spencer from her. “Sara’s glad you’re here too, aren’t you, Sara?” Lincoln grinned at her and she could breathe again. “I thought this was going to be a small get-together?” he asked Spencer.

“Well…” was all Spencer came up with, shrugging.

“I’m glad things are working out for you and Gracie,” Sara said. It wasn’t a lie; she was glad. But she wanted that second chance with her husband too and she’d never get it.

Spencer blinked. “Oh. Yeah. Me too. Where is she anyway?” He turned and swayed to the left, catching himself with a hand against the kitchen counter. “I’ll be back. I’m going to find her. I know she wanted to see you, Sara.”

Sara looked at Lincoln.

He shrugged. “Want a drink?”

She opened her mouth to say no, but then something grabbed ahold of her, something rebellious; something that wanted to tell the pain and self-loathing to suck it. Maybe, for one night, she could forget it all. At any rate, she could try. The thought oozed into her brain, taking over all the rational reasons why she shouldn’t drink, and guided her into saying, “Sure. Why not?”

Lincoln hesitated, obviously seeing something in her expression. “Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

“For tonight, Lincoln, I’m going to pretend.”

“Pretend what?”

Sara watched the people around her having a good time and looked at him. “I’m going to pretend everything is okay.”

Lincoln moved closer, leaning down so they were at eyelevel. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to pretend. There’s no shame in being sad, Sara. We can go. Right now. I’ll take you home. We can hang out, watch a movie. We can stare at a wall. Hell, I don’t know. Don’t feel pressured to do anything, Sara. This is me. Not giving you any pressure.” He lifted his hands, palms out, and nodded at his hands. “See? Pressure free.”

Warmth trickled over her scalp and down her back as she gazed at Lincoln, feeling a little lost at the wonder of him. Sara had never noticed him before, not like this. Had he always been like this? Maybe he had. Or maybe circumstances had matured him, changed him. She broke their stare, her face heating up.

“If I need to go, Lincoln, I’ll tell you,” she said in a soft voice, playing with a button on the bottom of her vest.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He slowly nodded. “All right. I’ll be right back.”

Sara watched people interact as she waited, her eyes landing on, and going back to, Mason Wells. Even though Spencer had mentioned him being there, she was still surprised to see him. He stood with his profile to her, talking to a pretty blond leaning against the wall near the bathroom. In his hand he held a glass containing clear liquid, sipping from it as he talked.

As though feeling her gaze on him, he looked up, catching her eye, and saluted her with his glass before continuing his conversation with the woman he was with. The lady laughed and Mason leaned down to kiss her. Sara swallowed, feeling…something. It wasn’t jealousy. Maybe envy? He’d moved on enough to be normal, something there was no logical way for her to accomplish. Well—Sara cocked her head as she watched him brush hair out of the woman’s eye—she wasn’t sure how normal he was; given the fact he talked to his deceased brother on a regular basis, but at least he’d managed to move on.

She turned away, feeling intrusive, feeling like she had no room to talk. The things Sara thought she heard and saw clearly made her no one to judge someone’s lucidity. The pull of the woman’s tinkling laughter was too much to ignore and she found herself staring at them once more. Was she it? The reason Mason had had to get past the guilt and pain and drugs. Would Sara’s redemption not be something, but someone, as well?

“What’s got you frowning so intently?”

Sara glanced at Lincoln. “That’s Mason. Over there.” She nodded toward the pair.

“The cross-dressing grief counselor?” Lincoln handed her an uncapped Leinenkugel Berry Weiss. The bottle was cold and had a layer of perspiration on it, chilling her hands.

She turned away from Mason, not wanting to think about her reality. The temptation to lose her truth in a haze of falsehood, if only briefly, was strong. Maybe one night of reprieve wasn’t too much to hope for.

“Yep. I don’t want to talk about him. Or any of it.”

“Then we won’t.”

Sara raised the bottle to her lips. The cold beer with a hint of fruit washed over her taste buds, and she was surprised by how good it tasted.

Lincoln watched her, saying after a while, “You aren’t going to get drunk and pass out from one beer and make me carry you out of here, are you? ‘Cause, I don’t know, you look pretty heavy.”

“Or, I don’t know, you’re weak,” she retorted, gulping down the beer. “It tastes good.” Sara shrugged.

“Touché. What do you want to do?”

Sara watched the card games and people interacting around them as she finished her beer. They stood in the middle of it all and yet were somehow on the outside of it. A horrible sound came from the direction of the living room and Sara realized someone had turned on the karaoke machine and was doing their version of singing.

Her eyes collided with his.

Lincoln’s face lit up and he laughed, nodding. “Yeah. That’s what we need to do. You wanna?”

Sara swallowed, taking in the way his gray eyes crinkled at the corners, the flash of straight, even teeth, the deep timbre of his laughter slamming into her like a bolt of life. Lincoln was becoming alive to her when no one else had since that night. Why? Why him? She frowned, averting her eyes from where they continually seemed to want to go.

He paused and Sara glanced up to catch the smile falling from his lips. “Sara? You okay?”

With a jerk of her head, she said, “Yes. No. Uh…can I get another beer?”

Lincoln took the empty bottle from her hand. “I’m only going to ask this one more time and then I’ll shut up about it, I promise.” He touched her cheek, bringing Sara’s eyes to his. “Are you sure?”

Animation shot through her, or maybe it was the beer hitting her already, but Sara’s body hummed with anticipation and her skin heated. She nodded. Sara was sure. Maybe she would regret it tomorrow, or even in an hour, but right now, she couldn’t regret wanting a piece of normalcy back in her upturned world.

They sang ‘(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life’. Sara stumbled a little at first, but then Lincoln grabbed her shoulder and turned her to face him, and when he sang each and every word in his clear deep voice with his eyes locked on hers, she relaxed and had fun. She even laughed and didn’t feel bad about it. Why Lincoln? was in the back of her mind, hovering, trying to ruin it for her, but she continually shoved it away until it was gone.

The applause and catcalls at the finish of it burned her cheeks with exhilaration and joy. She hadn’t felt so alive in so long. Sara set the microphone down on the coffee table and looked at Lincoln. He had this grin on his face that gave him a boyish, endearing look and made his eyes sparkle. Lincoln spontaneously grabbed her and spun her around. Sara tossed her head back and closed her eyes, laughing. She was dizzy, and maybe a little sick feeling, but she was feeling.

When he stopped, they swayed as they caught their balance. Sara looked up, smiling. Lincoln intently studied her face, causing Sara to stiffen. Why did he have to do that; ruin it by looking at her that way? He lowered his forehead to hers, his heartbeat thundering under her palm. She quickly pulled away and tucked hair that had fallen from her ponytail behind her ear, averting her face from his gaze. Her throat was dry and her pulse chaotic.

“I, uh…” she began; needing to get away, to regroup from the things she couldn’t understand or accept, the things she didn’t want to or couldn’t see.

“Sara! Yoo-hoo!” Spencer waved from the couch, his arm slung around a pretty redhead’s shoulders. “Come here. Gracie wants to say hi.”

Gracie gave a small smile, looking exasperated with her intoxicated boyfriend. She had pale skin, freckles, and large green eyes. Gracie had always been nice to Sara, but as Sara approached the couple, she wondered if she still would be. Spencer stood and tugged his girlfriend to her feet, almost knocking them both over.

She rolled her eyes at Sara as she righted them. “Hello, Sara. It’s been a long time.”

Since the accident. Sara hadn’t seen her since the night of the accident.

She had trouble speaking. “Yes. Hi,” Sara choked out.

“How’ve you been?”

There was that look. That sympathetic, pitying look Sara hated. Without meaning to, she took a step away, as though that would somehow block her from Gracie’s expression. She bumped into the coffee table and when she would have fallen, Lincoln caught her. He raised his eyebrows at her in a silent question.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, whatever semblance of fun she’d been having completely evaporated. This had been a bad idea. She’d known better.

“Sara needs to get out more,” Spencer slurred. “Have fun. Forget about stuff.”

Sara stared at him, stunned at what she was hearing, her hands fisting at her sides. She wanted to shout at him to keep his stupid opinions and useless words to himself. He didn’t understand anything. He didn’t know what it was like.

“Forget, Spencer?” Lincoln asked in a low voice, his entire body taut beside her. “We should just forget about it all and move on? Pretend it never happened? Pretend he never existed? Is that right?”

Spencer blinked his eyes, swaying a little. “No, man, that’s not what I meant. You know that. He was my best friend.”

Lincoln slowly nodded, his jaw clenched. “Was. Not is. Right. I get it.”

“Lincoln,” Sara murmured, placing a hand on his forearm. The muscles tensed beneath her fingers, holding fury, just barely, at bay. “He’s drunk. Let’s go, okay?”

“I didn’t mean anything, Lincoln!” Spencer called after them, sounding miserable, as Lincoln stormed toward the door, Sara following. She glanced back as Gracie put her hands to Spencer’s face, drawing his gaze to hers as she spoke to him. Sara’s heart squeezed and she turned away.

Mason stood up from the card table as she passed, wedging himself between her and the exit. “Everything okay, Sara? What’s going on?”

The door banged shut after Lincoln. Sara glanced at Mason, the urge to race after Lincoln impossible to ignore. “Spencer’s drunk and said something that pissed Lincoln off.”

His eyes narrowed as he looked through the window of the front door. “Are you sure it’s safe to ride with him?”

Instant heat shot through her and she gritted her teeth. “That’s my husband’s brother. Of course I’m safe.”

“I meant since he’s been drinking.”

“He had one beer.” The silence grew and Sara gestured impatiently. “I need to go.”

“Right. See you Sunday.” Mason turned away, back to his card game. She bit back a retort in the negative to his comment, its importance absolutely nothing compared to getting to Lincoln. Sara was out the door before he’d completely sat down.

It was raining. Cold, large drops of wetness soaked through her clothes even before she was to the darkened truck. The air was crisp with the scent of it. Where was he? Sara swiped a hand across her face and blinked her eyes through the sky’s shower. She peered into the truck. It was empty. Panic grabbed her chest and clenched. Sara whirled around, searching the surroundings for Lincoln, shivering.

The house glowed with lights, music and conversation floating out to her. Scraggly trees loomed in the yard, cloaking the scene with a layer of foreboding. It was silly to be worried about him, really. Obviously he hadn’t driven off in a rage. Lincoln would never abandon her. You thought the same about him. Sara flinched, refusing to dwell on that too much. He hadn’t meant to leave her; he’d had no choice. That’s what she told herself.

Sara turned in a slow circle, wondering where he could have gone to. Then she saw him. He stood on the other side of the truck, near the tailgate, facing away from her. Lincoln was hunched over, his back rigid. She slowly walked to him, her boots sinking into the soft ground, each step filling her with something. Relief. And something more, something Sara couldn’t put a name to, not yet. Her hand trembled as it reached up, just barely grazing his hard shoulder.

Lincoln whirled around, his face cast in shadow, but not enough to hide the way his eyes zeroed in on her face and locked there, as if she had the power to ground him, as if she could heal what wounded him. His eyes were tortured and Sara’s heart hurt seeing that look in them. He hid it better than she, but he was hurting just as much as she was.

A tick in his jaw pulled her gaze to it. Sara focused on that, her breaths short and hurried. They were changing; she and Lincoln. She felt it, and it scared her. It terrified her. She didn’t know how or why it was happening, and that scared her more.

“I miss him.”

Her eyes jerked to Lincoln’s.

“I want my brother back,” he said in a ragged voice.

She nodded. “I know.”

“But he’s not coming back.”

Sara wanted to deny his words, but logically, how could she? She looked down at her rain-covered boots, saying nothing.

Lincoln sighed loudly. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

The drive was silent and awkward. When the truck pulled up to the house, Sara stared at the dark structure, thinking even in the daytime it was still dark. His light was gone from it, tossed away from one mistake it had taken a second to act out, and a lifetime to relive. She grabbed the door handle and pushed.

Lincoln’s hand grabbed her arm; his touch like fire on her skin, stopping her. She looked back, his features obscured in the dark. His hand fell away. “Good night, Sara.”

Her held breath left her in an exhalation. “Good night, Lincoln.”