IF | A Novel

by Randi Cooley Wilson

  “You have every right,” he replies firmly.

  Something in the fierceness of his look has me on edge.

  “No. I don’t. We should stop dancing.” I try to pull away, but he won’t let me.

  “Why?”

  “Jake will be back soon.”

  “No, why don’t you think you have a right to ask me about Tricia?”

  “Because you’re not mine!” I snap out in a low, quiet voice.

  The silence between us becomes deafening.

  “Yes, I am. That’s the whole fucking point.”

  I snap my mouth shut and clench my jaw.

  “I have always been, and will always be, yours, Em.”

  “Linc—”

  “I’ve missed you,” he whispers. “Say you’ve missed me too.”

  My breath catches at his admission. I do miss him. For the first few months, all I did was grieve the loss of him. Even while trying to start something up with Jake. Every second I spent alone, I was drowning without him. But then, little by little, Jake slowly eased the pain. Before this weekend, I went an entire month without hurting.

  Now, the wounds have opened again.

  They’re too fresh and raw.

  Too real.

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?” He shifts with uncertainty.

  Apprehensive, I look around the room. “I don’t—”

  “It can be somewhere public, if you don’t want to be alone with me. I just—” He pauses.

  “What?”

  “I need to talk before you leave for LA again.”

  “We’re talking here. Now.”

  “I don’t want to talk in a room where I am about to release you into the arms of another man.”

  Every muscle in my body tenses at his words. “Okay.”

  “Okay,” he dips his chin. “I’ll text you tomorrow with a place and time.”

  I nod and the song ends. Slowly he leans in and places a light kiss on my cheek. My skin burns under his lips as I stand motionless. Lincoln smiles and winks at me, backing up.

  “Wait.” I clear my throat. “D-do you need my number?”

  “No, Em. I’ve always had your number.”

  29

  I stare at Jake across the hotel room. Part of me feels like the world’s suckiest girlfriend. I haven’t been listening to a word he’s said all night. Instead, I’ve been playing my conversation with Lincoln from the dance we shared over and over again in my head.

  Seeing him again has stirred something deep within me. Something I can’t explain. It’s like he switched a light back on that I had shut off over a year ago. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t get it to turn back off.

  “So? What do you think?” Jake says.

  “About what?”

  “Moving in with me when we get back to LA?”

  I get a text and I offer Jake an apologetic smile before reading it.

  It’s from Lincoln. There is only an address, tomorrow’s date, and a time on it.

  I don’t reply. I don’t know if I should. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.

  “Work?” Jake asks innocently.

  “An old friend.”

  Jake just watches me for a moment. “Emerson?”

  “Hm?”

  “I asked if you wanted to move in with me,” he reminds me.

  “I know. I just—”

  He shifts on the bed, fixing the pillows behind his back so he can sit in a more comfortable position as he prepares to read before bed—his nightly ritual.

  Once comfortable, Jake sighs. “Look, I know you don’t like it when I push, so I try hard not to. I just thought that maybe coming home for your best friend’s wedding would open you up to the idea of taking another step in our relationship.”

  “Another step?”

  “We’ve been seeing each another for almost a year. I haven’t met your parents. I haven’t actually met anyone in your life that is important to you. You didn’t even let me near Kennison and Josh until a month ago, when they surprised you with a visit and I happened to be there. It took three months for you to share where you worked with me,” he points out. “I’m all about taking this slow, but I’d like to think we’re going . . . somewhere.”

  “Somewhere?” I repeat.

  “Moving in. Marriage. A family someday,” he ticks off.

  As I watch him speak, something dark and heavy grows in the pit of my stomach. I don’t want marriage or children, not with him. I should. He’s perfect. But I don’t.

  His forehead bunches up, watching me freak out in my head.

  “I-I can’t, Jake.” I blurt out.

  Hurt falls across his expression and I wince, knowing I caused it.

  “I’m sorry. I just . . . can’t.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought you wanted all those things?”

  “You want them. I don’t even know what I want for breakfast.”

  “I didn’t mean tomorrow,” he points out.

  “I know. I just . . .” I exhale. “It’s too soon. Too much.”

  Frustration fills his voice. “It’s been a year.”

  “Do you love me?” I whisper.

  “Are you serious?” he questions. “I just asked you to move in with me. Told you I wanted a future with you, a family—to which you said flat out no. What do you think?”

  “It’s a simple question, Jake. Do you love me?”

  He blinks at me, seemingly confused.

  “Or do you just love the idea of me?”

  “Of course I love you.”

  “No.” I stand, walk over to the bed, and sit next to him.

  “No?”

  “Do you love me?” I ask again.

  “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

  I’m asking if this is real. If his love is real. If he’s going to fight for us. Stand by us. Always be there for me and never leave. Because in my life, only one person has—Lincoln.

  “I want to know if it’s hard for you to breathe when I’m not around? If you’d be willing to give up everything in your life, including your future, for just a second with me? No matter how many times I’d pushed you away, would you find a way to come back?”

  Jake’s eyes search mine. “Is this about that Lincoln guy? You know, you’ve been off ever since you saw him. And let’s be honest here, I know something happened between the two of you. I spent the entire reception watching you stare at him and his fiancée.”

  “She isn’t his fiancée,” I counter. “She’s just a friend.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I asked him,” I reply. “When we were dancing.”

  “I see.”

  “Answer my question, Jake. Do you love me in that all-consuming way?”

  “I love you, Emerson. Isn’t that enough?”

  It should be.

  But it’s not.

  30

  I close the door to the Uber and look around the neighborhood; the address Lincoln texted me is located in Boston proper. As soon as I step onto the sidewalk, I see Lincoln leaning on a motorcycle, parked in front of a brownstone. He has on jeans and a white T-shirt, looking as amazing as he always does, and my heart does this fluttery thing.

  “Aren’t you cold?” I ask, curling into my leather coat.

  “Nope. You look pretty. Hot date tonight?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where’s Jake tonight?” he asks, again emphasizing the k.

  “On a plane back to LA.”

  “When do you go back?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Where did you tell him you’d be tonight?” I don’t miss the bite in his tone.

  I step closer to him, shifting my voice into a playful, teasing one. “I told him I’d be having hot sex with an old friend.” I smile at his surprised reaction. “On a motorcycle.”

  “Oh yeah?” He plays along. “And how did he take that?”

  The humor on my face slips. “Fine. We broke up.”

  He stares
at me, all playfulness gone. “I told you he wasn’t the right guy for you.”

  “I really don’t want to talk about Jake tonight,” I exhale.

  Nodding, he pats the seat on the motorcycle. “Want me to take you for a ride?”

  Shaking my head, I can’t help but smile, knowing he means something different.

  He inclines his head to the bike. “Let’s clear our heads and get some fresh air.”

  I walk over to him and he hands me a helmet.

  “Safety first, right?” he says, securing it to my head.

  “I’ve always been safe with you.” I reply, and his fingers still.

  He closes his eyes. He’s so still that for a second, I start to worry that something is really wrong. When his lids reopen, the gray shines so bright, it takes my breath away.

  “Lincoln?” I prompt.

  “We need to get out of here. Before I do something stupid like kiss you,” he mutters.

  He straddles his bike, sliding on first, and I climb on behind him, slipping my arms around him. With one of his hands he repositions mine, folding them across his chest. Once he’s satisfied I’m holding him tightly enough, he pulls back the throttle on the bike, and the engine roars to life before he takes off, racing down the road.

  I rest my cheek against his back, closing my eyes, breathing in his scent mixed in with the cool night air. The city blurs past us, the wind whipping across my face. I stop paying attention to where we’re going and just focus on being present with him in the now.

  Maybe that’s what I should have been doing all along. Focusing on the present and not worrying so much about the future. Right now, the only thing I care about is the feel of his warm body pressed against mine. There is no destination or time limit. We just drive down the streets, long after they become abandoned by everyone but us.

  After a while, he circles back onto the street he asked me to meet him on. An underground garage opens up in front of one of the brownstones, and he pulls into it and parks. Ungracefully, I climb off the bike and wobble a bit, as the vibration from the bike ride has my legs feeling tingly and a bit numb. I shake them out, taking off the helmet and handing it back to Lincoln. He puts it away and watches me rake my fingers through the tangles in my hair. Annoyed with its crazy, I tip it upside down, shake it out, and stand upright again. Snapping my head back, I meet his amused expression and smile.

  “What?”

  “That was . . .”

  “What?”

  “Fucking hot to watch, Em.”

  I roll my eyes at him and look around. “Is this your building?”

  He nods. “Want me to take you back to the hotel?”

  I press my lips together. “No. Show me your place.”

  Lincoln takes a deep breath and nods.

  We head over to an elevator and take it up to the top floor, three stories up. The doors open onto a long hallway. It’s bright and has an old-Bostonian feel to it, with brick walls, parquet floors, and detailed moldings. There are only two apartments on this floor, according to Lincoln. The building is historic and full of East Coast charm, unlike my place in LA, which is Spanish in décor and architecture, and has an open outdoor courtyard in the middle of it with a water fountain and tall palm trees.

  I watch as he pulls out his keys, avoiding his eyes, because even though this is a different building and another time, it feels familiar. Like we’ve done this a hundred times.

  He opens the door and waits for me to enter. “Welcome home.”

  I try not be so emotional about the fact that he called it home, as if I belong here.

  I step into his world and it looks just as empty and flat as all the other places he’s lived in. Void of anything personal or decorative. This time, though, there is a scented candle.

  “You should hire an interior designer,” I tease.

  “You up for the task?” He winks.

  “Maybe.”

  “How’s work?” he asks, like he’s nervous.

  “Good. It’s the same company I worked for in London. The LA office is newer, so that means I’m more hands-on for projects that I normally wouldn’t be, given my experience.”

  “Sounds like a nice setup for you.”

  “How about with you?”

  “I was promoted to trainer, no more assistant. We just finished up the season and we have a few more months before we head down to Florida for spring training. I’m thinking of opening up my own practice to run during the off-season,” he explains shyly.

  “That’s . . . amazing.” I smile at him and blow out a tension-filled breath, making a strand of my hair jump off my face. This is weird. Normal. Not us at all. I hate it.

  “Want something to drink?” He breaks through my thoughts.

  “Water, if you have it.”

  “I do. Capped and bottled, at that.”

  When he steps into the kitchen, I take off my coat and throw it on his couch, taking in his place. After circling the room and appreciating the brick and moldings, I see it.

  On the fireplace mantel, in a plain black frame.

  My lips part as I walk over to the photo and pick it up, staring at it.

  Lincoln walks back into the living room and freezes.

  “I-is,” I stumble. “Is this me?”

  “Yes,” he replies, barely.

  “Y-you have a photo. Of me. In your home?” I meet his gaze.

  All I can do is stare in awe at him, because he once told me that he doesn’t need photos or objects to remind him of people. He looks to the ground with his eyebrows pulled together, then back up at me. My lungs stop working as he watches me nervously.

  “I thought you were against reminders?”

  “I’m against trinkets and dust collectors. That’s why I have my tattoos—they’re my reminders of people or places. My tattoos are my photos and memories, Em. The only pieces of the past that I keep close to remind me of those who are important,” he explains.

  “And this?” I hold up the photo.

  “I needed a visual reminder that you were—are—real.”

  I walk slowly toward him, not sure of what to do. “How long have you had this?”

  “Kennison gave it to me right after you moved to LA.”

  Trying to gather my thoughts, I suddenly can’t look away from him. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t worried about him. Haven’t missed him. Haven’t grieved him. Every minute we spent apart, every second, I spent drowning in loneliness and regret.

  Stepping closer, I touch his cheek. Something feels different about him tonight. His eyes aren’t stormy. They’re peaceful and calm, like the sea after a storm has passed.

  He looks so different than he did yesterday that I can’t reconcile it.

  “You were always so lost in the dark,” I whisper. “And now, you aren’t.”

  “You found the light in me that I couldn’t find in myself.”

  He leans into me, bending and placing the water bottles on the coffee table.

  “I miss you,” I whisper.

  His eyes close. “Say it again, Em.”

  “I miss you. So much. I’ve missed you every single day we weren’t together. Since the moment we met. All I’ve done is miss you,” I say quietly, and his eyes flutter open.

  How much he wants to love me is radiating off him—and my heart squeezes.

  “Why didn’t you call? Or reach out? You knew how to get in touch with me.”

  “I couldn’t. I wanted to, more than anything. I just—couldn’t.”

  “Why the hell not? I mean, when you left, Em, I fucking lost it.”

  Hurt fills me. “I didn’t want you to give up your life—your future—for me.”

  He shakes his head. “My future? What are you talking about?”

  Slowly, I release a breath, knowing I have to tell him. If I don’t, it will shatter the paper-thin composure I am barely holding on to right now, standing in front of him.

  “I left the way I did because my father threatened me with you
r parole.”

  His jaw clenches, but he remains silent, staring at me, hanging on to every word.

  “He said if I kept seeing you, he’d mark that as a violation against you. I didn’t want to be the reason that you didn’t have a future. So I let you go. Made you think—”

  Everything in him tenses and becomes rigid and hard. “He threatened you?”

  I nod. “I tried. Tried to let you go. Tried to forget you. Tried to move on with Jake. But every day . . . I was just going through the motions. I couldn’t breathe without you.”

  Lincoln studies my face for a second while he tries to figure out how much truth is in my statement. “I should have never dragged you into my world, Em.”

  “You didn’t drag me. I stepped willingly into it, because I wanted to.”

  “I’ve spent every fucking night of this past year going over and over the last few hours we spent together. I knew you were lying to me and yourself at the airport.”

  “You knew I was lying?”

  “There’s no way I can be this much in love with you, and not know when you’re lying.”

  “You’re in love with me? Still?”

  “Still. Always.” A small smile plays on his lips. “My record is clean.”

  Those four words have more meaning and weight than anything else he’s ever said to me. I nod, understanding what he’s saying. My father is no longer a threat.

  He can’t prevent us from being together.

  Not ever again.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you,” I say remorsefully. “I’m sorry I lied to you that day and got on a plane with you thinking I didn’t love you. Because I did. I do. With ever fiber that I have in me. I love you. The part of you that’s in me will never die.”

  Tears cascade down my cheeks and he wipes them away. Then, he’s kissing me.

  With each stroke I’m more able to finally breathe again, after holding my breath for a year.

  Lincoln pulls away first, but just barely. “Your parents are assholes.”

  “I know.”

  “I hate that they threatened you. Even more so, I hate that they’ve made you think love is conditional on doing the right thing all the time and being perfect. It’s not.”

  Nodding, my eyes bore into his, telling him I get it—I understand.