Текст книги "Take Care, Sara"

Автор книги: Lindy Zart

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

9

“He taught me how to ride a bike. How to tie my shoes. How to bait a hook.” Lincoln laughed gruffly. “He taught me a lot of things.”

Sara sipped from the red and blue striped coffee mug, the mint and chocolate mix coating her tongue with pleasure. The mug heated her cold fingers. They sat on opposite sides of the couch, though their bodies were turned toward one another. The room was dim with only one lamp on to offer light. A fire crackled in the fireplace across the room, the yellows and oranges hypnotic as they flickered and danced.

“Like what?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard this all before.” Lincoln set his mug down on an end table and rubbed his face. He looked tired and worn down, his features tight with repressed pain. Lincoln’s shoulders were slouched with the grief he tried to keep inside. It would crack one day; that barrier he kept up, and Sara wanted to be there for him when it did, like he’d been there for her countless times. If he’d let her.

“Tell me again,” she offered softly, knowing Lincoln needed to talk about his brother. He needed to relive their shared history, make him real again so he didn’t completely fade. Seeing him in that bed, it was a punch to the senses. That wasn’t him. It shouldn’t be him. Yet it was.

He glanced at her, sighing loudly. “Cole was quiet growing up. He didn’t have to say a lot to get his point across. Me, I was always the more belligerent, loud-mouthed one. It wasn’t that Cole was shy; he just said what he had to say and then shut up. He didn’t have the time to waste on words. He said so himself.” Lincoln grinned, sadness tingeing it.

“He had better things to do than talk,” Sara agreed.

“Yeah.” He stared at the fire, showing her his profile. “I got in a fight with a kid at school. I was, oh, maybe fifteen. He was making fun of another kid and I intervened. Then he started making fun of me. Of course I got pissed and gave it back to him, even punching him when he wouldn’t back down. I got three days out of school for that.

“Cole reamed me for it. Told me only a dumbass lets another dumbass get to him like that. Only it hadn’t seemed right not to stick up for the kid. When I told him that, he said that wasn’t what he’d meant. I asked him what he had meant then and he told me to figure it out for myself.” Lincoln shook his head and offered her a quick, sad smile.

That was her husband; honorable, gruff, and to the point. It was unbearable how much she missed him. Sara set the mug down on the coffee table, the taste in her mouth going from good to bad.

“This doesn’t seem real.”

Sara stiffened at the quietly spoken words. She looked up and saw Lincoln gazing into the crackling fire, his mind somewhere else.

“None of it. This past year or so, it all seems like a bad dream. Some days I wake up and forget, but then reality always slams me over the head and tells me what a fool I am to try to pretend, even for a second, that my brother is going to show up at the work site and hand me a gas station coffee.”

“I know. I keep thinking he’s going to come home from work or from a fishing trip. I know he’s not, but…” She took a shuddering breath, clasping her chilled hands together in her lap. “It’s not easy to accept. Seeing him like that, wondering…” Sara swallowed, unable to finish the sentence.

Lincoln jumped to his feet, startling her. “I’m going to the hospital. I don’t know what else to do. This…this is…” His voice trailed off and Lincoln’s throat bobbed as he repeatedly tried to swallow. “I feel like bawling my fucking eyes out,” he confessed roughly.

Sara stared up at him, tears filling her eyes. She wordlessly nodded, her grief trickling down her cheeks.

“Will you…” Lincoln paused and tried again. “Will you go with me?”

Her lips trembled as she whispered, “Of course.”

He offered his hand and Sara slowly placed hers in his, the connection of their hands locking them together. On their own, they were weak, but together, they seemed to be able to cope. Lincoln pulled her to her feet and into his arms, and this time, he was the one that needed to be comforted, this time, he was the one whose heart was breaking. Lincoln’s head dipped forward as his arms held her to him and she pressed her cheek to his soft hair, closing her eyes as she felt his body shake. He was so much stronger than she, so much larger, and so much more fragile right now.

“I don’t want this to be real,” he said against her neck, his breath causing her skin to pebble.

She tightened her hold on him, trying to heal his inner pain with her embrace. As if Sara could take it away with her touch; as if she had that power. She knew she was deluding herself, but maybe she eased it a little, like Lincoln was able to do for her.

Lincoln pulled away, grim-faced and red-eyed. Their eyes locked. So much pain in his eyes, she thought. Sara wanted to make it fade away.

His eyes darkened, something shifted in his expression, and Lincoln moved away, running his fingers through his wavy hair. “Let’s go.”

***

The cold prickled her skin as hot tears burned her eyes. She stared down at the place he rested, not seeing her husband. It was hard for Sara to come to this place, to see what he’d become. It was turning into an obligation and that made her nauseous. She tried to tell herself it was because it wasn’t really him, that he was in some other place and what she was staring down at was not her husband. It wasn’t him, but it was him. Sara was holding on to what he used to be, not what he was now.

It had been too long, she knew that, logically. Her heart couldn’t accept it. Over a year she’d been coming to this place, looking at what remained of the man she loved, and it killed her, and she hated it. She hated herself. Sara loathed feeling the way she did. Because, in the deepest part of her mind and heart, the place she tried to ignore and pretended didn’t exist, something was telling her he wasn’t coming back, not ever.

Guilt consumed her, telling her what a horrible person she was. Sara didn’t need guilt to tell her that. She already knew. It was her fault he was here. She wasn’t allowed to feel guilty. Sara would forever be to blame and she had to bear that burden. It was hers alone. With each day that passed and she didn’t come, with each memory she tried to escape because it hurt too much, with each breath she breathed that was hers and his he didn’t breathe, she was to blame.

She sucked in a sharp breath, trailing a hand over his cool forehead. Words never came to her at these visits, not anymore. There was nothing more to say. Sara had said it all. She’d pleaded, wept, begged, and none of it had changed a thing. Sara even hated him a little for not waking up, for not coming back to her, for not fighting to be with her. She hated herself for what she’d done to him. She hated herself for hating him.

Everything about this place made her skin crawl; the smell, the beeping of the monitor, the whooshing sound of oxygen being forced into his lungs, the tubes running to and from him. It wasn’t any way to live. It wasn’t living; it was existing.

“How long?”

They stood on either side of him, Sara wanting to look way from the wrecked being that had once been whole and resilient, and unable to. Her eyes hurt to see him and for once she was grateful for the tears that blurred her vision, made his image altered from what it truly was. She hated feeling like she did; hated the relief she felt when she turned her gaze away from him. What Sara hated the most was wondering if she would feel a tiny sliver of reprieve when it was all finally over as well. It was destroying her; seeing him, not seeing him, wanting him to live, and wanting it done.

“Less than two weeks,” she choked out.

Lincoln’s features tightened and the slump to his broad shoulders deepened. He softly swore, slamming fingers through already mussed hair. He turned so his back faced the bed where his brother laid, every muscle in his body tense, to deal with his grief away from Sara’s eyes.

The room had that chalky medicinal smell that made her stomach roil. The lights were dimmed in the white-walled room. It was cooler than Sara thought comfortable, but of course it didn’t matter to him. In fact, he’d always liked it colder in the house than Sara did. So maybe it wouldn’t matter even if he was awake. He’d liked his snow in the winter and snowmobiling and all things outdoors; no matter what time of year it was. He’d found a way to adapt to it all; found a way to make it desirable.

Sara looked down at his gray, sunken face. He’d always had sculpted cheekbones, but now they stood out as sharp blades of bone. His body was dying, his brain didn’t want to or couldn’t wake up, and he was stealing breaths that weren’t his. There was no way to make this situation acceptable. That’s why you gave us the time limit, isn’t it? She hated him for doing that, giving them a figurative clock on the days he had left. But she was also grateful and she hated herself for that. What kind of wife dreaded and longed for something at the same time? This wasn’t a way to live, Sara knew that. He’d known that. But to not have him live at all…it was unfathomable.

It was too much, seeing him as he was. Did he sleep? Did he hear things? Was his mind completely shut off or did he know she was near? The not knowing was the hardest; that was what was tearing Sara up. Was her husband in there somewhere or was he simply gone? Had he left a long time ago, at the wreck? If Sara only knew, maybe then she could cope.

She didn’t realize she was crying until a broken sob left her. “I never got to say goodbye,” she wept as Lincoln strode across the room and scooped her into his arms. Tears flowed like miniature waterfalls from her eyes and down her face. “I can’t say goodbye. How do I say goodbye, Lincoln?”

“You don’t have to say goodbye.”

Sara stiffened in his arms, slowly lifting her eyes to his. That hadn’t been his voice. “What did you say?” she asked, breathless, her heart pounding.

Lincoln’s eyebrows lowered. “I said you don’t have to say goodbye.”

She moved away, putting a shaking hand to her forehead. “But that wasn’t…you…” Sara couldn’t voice her thoughts. She would sound crazy if she did. Was she crazy? Sara had wondered that a lot since the accident.

“What?”

“Nothing. I…” Her face crumpled as she turned her gaze to the bed. He was unmoving, his chest lifting and lowering with artificial life. It couldn’t have been him. Why had it sounded like his voice and not Lincoln’s?

“You don’t have to say goodbye because I’ll always be with you, Sara,” the gruff voice drawled through the air, soft and full of conviction.

She whipped her head toward Lincoln. “What?”

“I said, he’ll always be with you.” Lincoln frowned, tapping his fingers on the metal railing of the bed. “What’s going on, Sara? Are you okay?”

A laugh that sounded much too close to hysterical burst from her. “No.” Sara shook her head. “I’m not okay.” She staggered back, toward the door, bumping into a metal stand and sending it toppling over. “I’m going…to go…I’m going to go outside. Get some air. I’ll be back…to say…I’ll be back.”

When she bent to right the stand, Lincoln was there, ceasing her movements with his hands on hers. “I’ll get it. I’m going to talk to him a bit and then I’ll be out.” He crouched by her, looking worried. “Will you be okay?”

Sara tugged her hands away and stood. “What else can I be?” Her eyes slid from Lincoln’s to the bed. Pain welled in her heart, expanded, and wiped all other emotions out. Am I losing my mind?

As Sara walked out of the room on weak legs, she wondered if that would really be such a bad thing.

***

“I brought you something.” Mason held out a red notebook and a single #2 pencil. He stood near the door, boots and coat removed, waiting for her to take it.

Sara frowned, hovering near the kitchen counter. “What is that for?”

“I think you’ll need it. Write stuff down. Whatever you’re thinking or feeling, write it down. If you’re not ready to paint, or don’t want to, or simply don’t want me to see what you’re painting, I’m cool with that. But you need a release. Keep a journal. Write. Or sketch even. Do whatever you want. Write down a memory, one page at a time. Only don’t throw this away.” Mason lifted an eyebrow as he approached her, motioning for her to take it.

She did, quickly setting it down on the counter as if it would burn her. “I don’t need it.” Sara stared into the half-full coffee mug between her hands, the dark brown liquid endless and free, nothing to tether it, nothing to keep it from gently lapping against the sides of the mug.

“You know how small towns are.”

“Meaning?” Sara glanced up, noting how the brown of Mason’s sweater made his eyes seem closer to burgundy than amber.

Mason sighed and leaned his hips against the counter, crossing his arms, his gaze locked on her. “I know about the will.”

She flinched, her elbow bumping into the cup. Mason scooped it from the counter and raised it to his lips, sipping it. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“That was mine.”

He shrugged.

“I drank from it.”

Mason lowered the cup, still not speaking, his expression telling her he didn’t care. “How do you feel about that?”

“Not happy. It was the only cup. Now I have to make another pot of coffee.”

“Sara.”

She averted her face, pulling out a chair and sinking into it. “How do I feel?” Like death would be welcome. But he probably already knew that. Sara clasped her hands together and stared at the uneven nail of her left pinky. “Guilty. Betrayed. Angry. Sad. Horrible.”

“Horrible?” Mason pulled out the chair opposite her, placing his arms on the table as he scrutinized her face, drinking her coffee. “Why horrible?”

“Do you really have to ask that?”

“Yes.”

Sara leaned back in her chair and leveled her eyes on Mason. She couldn’t answer that. Not right now. He lifted one eyebrow in response. “Do you hear your brother in your head? Think he’s talking to you?”

Mason set the coffee mug down on the table, his gaze on the cup. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you said something about Derek talking to you and…” Sara’s face burned and she lowered her eyes to the table. “I hear him sometimes.”

“Who?”

“My husband. And sometimes…I think I see stuff.” Sara looked up, pain forming in her chest. Her eyes pleaded with him to tell her she wasn’t crazy, or maybe that she was. She just wanted to know, either way.

“Stuff?”

“I don’t know. It’s…nothing. Nevermind.”

Mason didn’t say anything for a long time, finally breaking the silence to say, “I think that’s normal, Sara. It’s how we cope.”

“So you don’t think I’m losing my mind? Imagining things? Seeing and hearing things that aren’t real?”

“Is it real in your head?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s real and that’s all that matters.”

“And you’re not concerned that maybe I’m losing my mind?”

“If you were, you wouldn’t know it.”

“Thanks.”

Mason chuckled. “Anytime.”

“I used to hear a voice, but sometimes, now, it seems like it’s his voice.” Sara fisted her trembling hands.

“Sara.”

She looked up.

His features were etched in somberness. “You’re not crazy. You’re not losing your mind. You’re grieving. Your mind only gives you what you can accept, what you can deal with, and maybe that’s what you have to see and hear right now to accept what’s going on. You’re fine.”

“Promise?” she joked weakly.

“I do.”

Sara saw how serious he was and gave a slight nod, looking at the table. “I go over all these scenarios in my head,” she began softly. “What if we’d left a minute earlier or later. What if we’d gone another night? What if he’d driven instead of me? Would he still be here? I’m tormented by the ‘what ifs’.”

“It’s normal. I went through it. Everyone goes through it. It does no good, hurting yourself like that. It doesn’t change anything, Sara. That’s the thing about ‘what ifs’; they don’t matter. They don’t change anything. All they do is make it unable for you to heal. You have to find a way to get past them.”

She exhaled loudly, her breath quivering as she released it. “Right.” Sara rubbed her forehead, nodding. “Okay. I’ll write in the notebook.”

“Sara.” Her eyes met his. “Sometimes when you think you have nothing, you realize you have yourself, and that’s something. That’s enough. I know you don’t think you are, but you’re strong. You’re strong enough to get through this. You’re stronger than you realize.” Mason paused. “You wouldn’t have jumped.”

Her eyes burned and Sara blinked them. “How do you know?”

“Because you already would have by then if you were going to.”

***

The three of them sat at her kitchen table, untouched cups of coffee before them. They wouldn’t meet her eyes. Sara looked from his mother to his father, feeling their blame pointed at her like a loaded shotgun, the trigger already pulled, the damage irrevocably done.

Henry and Ramona Walker had changed since she’d seen them last, although she couldn’t remember when that had been. The time since he’d left her was a blur; days, months meshing together until she couldn’t remember one from the other. The first six months she’d existed and that was all. Sara was honest enough with herself to admit she hadn’t progressed very far since then.

Their skin was tanned from the Florida sun, but it somehow had an unhealthy, pale look to it at the same time. Heartache did that to you. It did as much damage on the inside as it did on the outside. They visited their sons from time to time, but never for long, and never her. She knew they held her responsible. Sara didn’t fault them that. She blamed herself as well.

“I didn’t…I don’t know how…to do this. I didn’t want this,” she said softly, knotting her fingers together in her lap, her eyes down.

When Sara looked at his father; an older version of him, she saw his blue, blue eyes gazing back at her with accusation, the same look she imagined she would see in his eyes if he ever opened them again.

She wanted to be angry at Lincoln for calling them, but that would be wrong of her. They had a right to know; even if he hadn’t wanted them to know. Sara wished it was their decision and not hers. They were his parents; she was just the wife. They’d made him; she’d destroyed him.

Lincoln stood with his hips against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. “But Cole did, Sara. This is what he wanted.”

His name stung her heart and she lowered her head.

“I don’t know what to say,” Ramona said quietly, her throat convulsing as she swallowed. She was a smaller, more feminine version of Lincoln.

“Were you going to tell us? Or were you just going to let them pull the plug and let us think he’d died on his own?” Henry demanded; his voice harsh.

Pain swept over her, making it impossible for her to speak.

“Dad, that’s enough.” Lincoln straightened from the counter and moved to stand beside Sara. His nearness made it a little easier for her to breathe and she was grateful. “Sara didn’t have to tell you. In fact, Cole didn’t want her to.”

“Sara didn’t tell us. You did.” Those pale blue eyes drilled into hers, unwilling to let her look away. “You can’t do this, Sara. I refuse to let you do this to my son.”

“Henry,” Ramona said, reaching over to put a hand on his arm.

“It’s what he wanted, Dad.”

“Haven’t you done enough?” Henry snapped.

“Dad,” Lincoln warned.

Her throat closed. Sara had to get away. She jumped to her feet, the chair scraping against the floor. “I…” Dizziness hit her and she grabbed the edge of the table.

“You were driving that car. You weren’t paying attention. You did this,” he continued, his voice vibrating.

The room began to spin.

“That’s enough,” Lincoln shouted, slamming a hand against the tabletop.

Ramona began to cry, covering her face with her hands. Her frail shoulders shook with each sob.

Henry shot to his feet, looking at his youngest son like he was a stranger. “How can you defend her? How can you stand to look at her, knowing she’s responsible? My son is gone because of her.”

Nausea hit her and Sara’s grip fell away from the table. Each word out of his mouth was a knife wound to her soul. Sara couldn’t stand to hear them. They hurt. Her soul was ravaged by them; clawed and mutilated. She stumbled back, her equilibrium off. A ringing began in her ears.

“I’m about two seconds from throwing you out of here, Dad. I mean that.” Lincoln’s voice was low, even.

Father and son stared each other down and Sara just wanted them to stop. She wanted it all to stop. The animosity was stifling, making it hard for her to breathe. Sara didn’t want them fighting, especially over her.

“You know what I say is true.”

“No. I don’t. Sara isn’t responsible. She was driving the car, yes, but she wasn’t the one that crossed the center line. She wasn’t the one drinking. Sara didn’t do this to your son. You know that.”

Lincoln was wrong. It was her fault. He didn’t know. The room was starting to fade, their angry voices becoming background noise. Sara shook her head, but only made herself woozier.

She started to fall.

“What do you want do when we get home?” Sara asked, glancing at him with a smile on her face.

The wind swept in through the open windows of the black Grand Am, playing with his light brown hair and sending his scent she loved over to her. The sun caught his eyes just right and they glowed with blue heat. A lazy smile turned his lips up. Sara laughed.

“I think you know how the birthday celebration is supposed to continue once we get home.”

She nodded; her eyes on the road. “I do, yes.”

“Explain it to me, so I know we’re on the same page.”

“Hmm. Okay. You’re going to get naked…”

“Mmm-hmm. I’m liking this.”

“You’re going to straddle me.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And give me a full body massage.”

“Uh-uh. You had it up till then.” He reached over to play with her hair and Sara’s insides sighed. “Thanks for dinner, babe. It was good.”

“Welcome.”

“You always spoil me.”

“You need to be spoiled now and then.”

“Want to spoil me some more and go fishing with me tomorrow, feed some fishies?”

Sara smiled. “Sure.”

She liked to go fishing for the peacefulness of it, but she abhorred the worm and hook part of it and the actual catching of fish part of it. Sara liked to feed them and let him do all the rest.

“It’s a date.” His fingers moved from her hair to caress her earlobe and then down to massage her shoulder.

“That feels good,” she murmured, briefly closing her eyes.

“Sara.” His hand painfully squeezed.

Her eyes flew open to see a red truck in their lane, heading directly for them. Sara tensed, watching it like it was on a movie screen and not really before her. It swerved back and forth, making it impossible for her to guess its destination. She couldn’t think. What do I do? What do I do? It was getting closer and closer. Sara wrenched the steering wheel, fear and panic overtaking logic.

“Sara, look out! Sara!”

The car spun, its side colliding with the much larger truck once, twice; horrible crunching, shattering sounds drilling through the car, through her ears. He doesn’t have a seatbelt on, she dimly thought. Why doesn’t he have his seatbelt on? His hand was torn away from her on impact, his body slamming against her, then the side of the car the truck hit, only a layer of metal between him and the other vehicle.

Sara’s heart died as she watched his body thrown forward, then backward, and then he didn’t move at all. The airbag went off, crashing his already ruined body. Sara screamed, reaching for him. Blood trickled from his head and he still wasn’t moving, his eyes halfway open, staring, but not seeing anything.

She tried to unbuckle her seatbelt, but her fingers were shaking and slick, and the pain; the pain was everywhere. Not for her, but for him. Dying. She was dying. If he was dying, Sara was dying. She couldn’t get to him. There was this terrible pressure on her chest, so heavy with foreboding, so thick with finality. It was killing her.

Sara screamed in helpless impotence. “Cole! Cole!” she shrieked, her voice high and unnatural. Over and over she called his name, willing him to respond.

He didn’t move. Why didn’t he move? Tears burned her eyes and cheeks, blurring her vision. Sirens blared in the distance, getting louder. Still he didn’t move. Still his eyes remained in that partial place of not really closed and not really opened.

“Don’t you die on me, Cole, don’t you die on me,” she pleaded, straining against her seatbelt to touch the fingers of his hand. Hers grazed his, just barely, choking sobs leaving her lips. A crack in her heart formed, grew, became her, as she stared at her broken husband Sara knew couldn’t be repaired. She died on the inside, dimmed, as she watched him, waiting for the impossible. 

Sara’s eyes slowly opened. His eyes never opened. She’d waited and waited and they’d never opened. Months, a year, over a year she’d waited for him to open his eyes and come back to her. He’d given himself that time limit to come back to her as well and he hadn’t done it. He isn’t coming back.

Tears formed, slowly sliding down her cheeks. She became aware of another presence beneath her, around her, cocooning her as though to protect her from the world, maybe from herself even. For one bittersweet instant Sara thought it was him and that the past year had all been a horrible, unimaginable dream, but then the piercing pain came back and she couldn’t pretend. A heartbeat steadily pounded by her ear, an arm locked her against a warm, hard chest.

She stiffened, but didn’t immediately pull away. “What happened?”

“You passed out.”

“Where are your parents?”

“They left. They’re going to say goodbye to him now and go back to Florida. I don’t know if they’ll be back. They can’t…they can’t accept it, Sara. It’s not your fault and it has nothing to do with you. I hope you realize that. I’m sorry my dad was being such a dick. It’s just…it’s really hard for them. But that’s not an excuse for his behavior. There is none.”

Sara pulled away, sitting up on the couch. Her head was pounding and she went still until the dizziness faded. She angled her body away from him and Lincoln’s hand dropped away as he straightened. “Why were you holding me?”

He sighed and when Sara glanced at him, it was to see his elbows on his knees and his hands holding his head. Lincoln rubbed his hair and dropped his hands, looking at her. He looked beaten, ravaged. “I don’t know. Because you just…you looked like you needed to be held, Sara. That’s all.”

She jumped to her feet, angry and confused and so disgustingly sad. Sara was sick of feeling the way she did. She was sick of having no control over her life, her emotions, anything. Sara was sick of being weak. She was sick of the lies. Her body shook with the need to release all she kept hidden, locked away in a dark place.

Lincoln’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “What is it, Sara?”

She looked at him, sitting on the couch, the one person who was always there for her, whether she wanted him to be or not. Sara didn’t deserve his unflinching support. She didn’t want it. Her lips pressed together, the words forcing their way out. If she said them, it would be over. Sara would be lost. Lincoln would be done. But the relief…it would set her free.

“I closed my eyes.”

He blinked. “What?”

Sara’s body was trembling and her stomach kept swooping, over and over, until she felt sick. She walked to his recliner, staring down at it, wishing he was sitting in it. “That night, the night of the wreck, I closed my eyes while I was driving, just for a second, but it was enough.”

Lincoln didn’t speak. Everything went still as she waited, dreading his reaction. Sara didn’t want to see the expression on his face, but her eyes drifted to it anyway. It was blank. Perfectly, carefully blank. She swallowed, pressing an arm across her midsection.

When he slowly stood and walked the few steps it took to reach her, his body heat and lemony scent gently waving over her like a caress, Sara averted her face. If she saw in Lincoln’s eyes what she’d seen in his father’s and what she imagined she’d see in her husband’s if he was ever to open them again, she’d shatter. It would be the end of her. Isn’t that what you want? a voice mocked.

But then he raised his hand and touched her cheek, his rough fingers gently pushing her face in his direction so Sara couldn’t avoid his eyes. What would she see in them? What did she see in them? Her eyebrows furrowed as she tried to define it. Lincoln’s eyes were stark, full, immersed in a strong emotion; one Sara couldn’t describe. He studied her, seeing her, looking past her barriers and into her pain-filled world. Lincoln saw her.

One word. One softly whispered word left his lips. “Don’t.”

Sara should have been immune to them by now, but watery drops of sorrow fell from her eyes anyway. She moved away from Lincoln, turning to stare out the living room window at the snow-filled scene. The snowflakes fell in wispy feathers of winter, trickling from the sky in slow motion. She clenched her jaw and blinked her eyes to keep a sob within, but it made its way from her in spite of her efforts to keep it in. She wrapped her arms around herself and hung her head, her shoulders shaking from the force of her weeping.

“Stop blaming yourself. You closed your eyes for one second? Big deal, Sara. It’s not your fault. One second of not looking at the road does not put you at fault. The other driver was drunk and crossed into your lane. How the hell is that your fault? Cole wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. Was that your fault too?”

“Stop it!” Sara whirled around, pinning Lincoln in place with the look on her face. She clenched her fists at her sides, her body’s convulsions growing with anger. “Just stop it. Stop being my personal support team. Stop trying to make me feel better. Stop trying to do whatever it is you’re doing. I don’t want you to try to make me feel better. I don’t need you to. What I need, what I want, is for you to leave me alone.”

It was a lie. It was a lie and it tasted like a lie, bitter with injustice, on her tongue. Sara almost took it back. When she saw the look on Lincoln’s face, she yearned to take it back. It closed. His face, the life in it, it shut down. She tried to look away, but something wouldn’t let her. Her conscience, maybe. Look at what you’ve done; see what you’ve done to him, the only person who really understands, who really cares about you. Are you happy?