by Mariah Dietz
I follow him outside where the cold air takes my breath away, a sharp wind cutting across my face and what’s exposed of my neck. I shudder, passing the grass that’s fading from green to tawny as the sun continues to sink into the Pacific a little earlier each day. Dad calls this false winter, a period of cold weather before it warms up again and then turns to fall. Being that our weather changes faster than Paxton’s girlfriend’s mood, he’s right, but only because the weather is unpredictable at best.
Lincoln doesn’t open my door. I should be relieved, but I’m not. It leaves a bitter taste where chivalry had been. If it weren’t for the whole bit of not having rights, I think I’d prefer crawling back in time to 1810, back to the Early Romantic Period, when romance was popular and wide spread. When men aspired to sweep women off their feet with grand gestures and whispered nothings that meant everything.
Instead, I’m stuck between a brooding football player who wants to conditionally stick his tongue down my throat, and a football player who maybe wants to stick his tongue down my throat solely because my brother hates him.
Critics are right: romance is dead.
Lincoln starts the truck and turns the heat to auto, turning the temperature up to seventy-five before backing out of the driveway. I glance across at him, allowing the darkness to grant me some anonymity.
He doesn’t turn to look at me.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask as we near campus.
His eyes cut to mine, shining off a set of headlights going the opposite direction. “I’m not mad at you. I’m pissed at the situation.”
“What is the situation?”
He slows at a stop sign, his gaze finding mine again. “I don’t fucking know.”
That makes two of us.
“Did you kiss me today because I was with Derek?”
We’ve been paused for several seconds, and no cars are in sight, but Lincoln continues idling. “You’re too young,” he says. “You’re not even nineteen.”
“You’re only twenty-one.”
His jaw crooks open, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Now who’s censoring their words?”
“You’re a young eighteen.”
“Are you seriously calling me immature right now?” I fold my arms over my chest, anger pooling in my veins, making me feel too warm.
“No. You have more of your life figured out than most thirty-year-old’s. But, how many guys have you dated? How many guys have you had sex with?”
“Why is that relevant?”
“Because I don’t want to be the guy who breaks your heart.”
This creates rule ten: never date someone who already sees the end. And, Lincoln Beckett already assumes we’ll fail.
“Are you really that full of yourself? You’re making massive assumptions right now. I told you, I want to date around this year. No commitments.”
“Yet, you’re here with me. Again.”
“Because you made a scene and practically forced Derek to take your date home.”
“It wasn’t a date,” he says.
“It looked like a date.”
“You could have said no.” He calls me out, avoiding the proverbial finger I’ve pointed squarely at him, knowing just as I had assumed that if I really hadn’t wanted to go with him, I could have said as much.
“You weren’t exactly making it easy.” It’s a weak excuse, but there’s some truth behind it because I’ve seen Lincoln’s stubbornness at work. Witnessed his dedication when the doctors told him his shoulder would take twelve weeks to heal, and he shaved it down to nine. Proof sits on our fridge under a penguin magnet I brought home from the aquarium that has his name on the Dean’s List. Mom was so proud, she made him his favorite dinner and gave him three boxes of Cocoa Pebbles—his favorite cereal—and knitted him a blanket. It was a big deal because Mom doesn’t knit. She learned how to when Paxton was little, saying she wanted to make him and Maggie blankets like her mom had done when she was little. Turned out, my mom doesn’t have the patience to knit, which is why the blanket she eventually made me when I was ten was the size of a baby blanket. It was her way of adding him to the family.
He drops his chin back and releases a low, rumbling growl of frustration.
“What?” Attitude makes my question flippant. He knows damn well he didn’t make things easy, regardless of how I could have drug on the scene and flipped him the bird and left with Derek.
Lincoln looks at me, his eyes looking black in the darkness of the cab. “All I can think about is kissing you again. I want to taste you and battle your fucking independence until you realize you want to kiss me, too. I want to drag my tongue across you until you can’t remember your own name, let alone his.” He stares at me, his lips parted as his breaths grow heavier. “I want to consume you.”
24
My breath hitches as my heart goes three times faster than comfortable. Beating to a new rhythm, one he just promised.
Consume me.
Consume me.
Consume me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he warns.
“Like what?” My words are hushed, my lungs forgetting how to breathe, while my heart hammers, pumping something foreign through my bloodstream that makes each of my limbs feel lighter and my head to swim with heat, desire, and a three-year longing to color in the remainder of the picture and find out where this may lead.
“Like you want me.”
I grasp for reason, for sense, for anything that might make stopping myself seem reasonable or right.
“Raegan.” My name’s a whisper on his lips, one that seemingly grows wings and flies right into my heart where it flutters chaotically, breaking inhibitions and fears until I’m releasing my seat belt and leaning across the middle console, watching his seat belt retract as he reaches for me. His fingers are warm and rough as they slide across my cheek, tangling in my hair. His lips capture mine, his teeth grazing my bottom lip before his tongue swipes the same path. The knowledge that he wants me makes me feel brave, brazen as I clumsily shift to move closer to him, wanting to feel him against me, desperate to feel him everywhere.
Lincoln palms my ass with one hand, pulling me toward him, encouraging me. I straddle his waist, releasing a soft moan as the feeling of him settles against me, the hard planes of muscle and bone nearly indecipherable. He swallows the sound, his fingers flexing painfully into my flesh, demanding me to get closer until I feel him against each part of me—places I don’t consider needing it like my thighs and calves, my shoulders, even the sides of my knees are rejoicing as his warmth soaks into me. He tips his head back, grinding his hips against my denim covered entrance, our lips parting a short space before his flutter back over mine, the pressure light and gentle—a contrast to his hard length. His fingers release my backside, clasping the other side of my face, pulling me closer to him as he devours my mouth. I part my lips and greedily run my tongue along his. We’re both too high on each other to be gentle and slow, each kiss and swipe of our tongues a scorching translation of our desires. I shift my hips lower and tilt my head in an attempt to kiss every last crevice of his mouth. He groans, fisting my hair and tugging just enough to enunciate the sliver separating pain and pleasure. I’m drifting—lost in ecstasy and denial—and his teeth graze my bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth and making my body vibrate in ways I didn’t know were possible. Every bit of me feels alive and hyperaware as I focus on the connection points between Lincoln and me: his palm pressed against my jaw, the other back firmly on my ass. The fast beat of his heart I feel through the hard planes of his chest, the width of his strong thighs beneath me. I feel him everywhere, and yet I yearn to feel more of him. To shed the layers between us and lose myself in him.
A fist rakes the driver’s side window, making me jump. Lincoln pulls his face back, his hands gripping me tighter. The cab is highlighted—a fact it seems we both should have realized. We both turn to find an older man with graying hair and a blue and green Seattle Seahawks
baseball cap, a red coat wrapped around his shoulders. “Everything okay?” he asks through the closed window. His smirk confirms that he knows what he just interrupted. “You kids should probably get out of the middle of the road.” He makes a wide gesture to the four-way stop. “I watched three cars already pass you.” He nods at us. “She’s too pretty to be roadkill.” He walks away without another word, the slam of his car door echoes softly through the silence of Lincoln’s cab where suddenly everything seems more pronounced—every breath, every fall of our chests, every second that passes. Maybe it’s because we both know we should be asking questions and clarifying intentions. Perhaps it’s because the ugly and bitter side of my heart that always fears rejection is whispering all the reasons this won’t ever last.
I pull back, and he doesn’t stop me. Beneath his thin Henley, the stacks of muscles in his shoulders fall as he licks his lips that are still red and swollen from kissing me and making promises I wish I could forget.
I wonder if he can taste me like I still taste him? The lingering taste of thyme and rosemary and the sweetness of honey that he’d poured on his dinner roll. His fingers slip from my thigh. A minute ago, I could feel him everywhere, yet I didn’t even realize his hand was still on me.
“This complicates things,” I tell him, swinging a leg back over to the passenger side and trying with every last bit of my remaining dignity to not face-plant on him or the truck.
“Why?” His eyebrows quirk upward, like he’s finding humor in the situation.
Why?
Why?
Why!
If I could stomp my foot right now, I would. Everything has just become more complicated from my date with Derek to the fact that Lincoln is my brother’s best friend. My entire life, people have told me I’m expressive. I don’t have resting bitch face because my expressions never turn off. Therefore, I have I’ll-cut-you face, don’t-talk-to-me face, tell-me-your-entire-life-story-because-I’m-smiling face, and a slew of others that even strangers are easily able to read. Apparently, Lincoln can read my I’m-ready-to-slap-you face because he sighs deeply, my heart plummeting before I can set up the emergency barricades. I steel my emotions, working to pick up the fallen pieces of my heart, myself, and my pride like discarded articles of clothing strewn across the cab. This wasn’t sex. His fingers barely grazed my flesh.
“My entire life is a plan,” he says, shocking me. I was expecting him to list one of a million excuses, but this was not one of them. “Can we just wait and see?”
“Wait and see?” The words sound bulky and awkward on my tongue and even more so to my heart.
Wait for what?
See what?
If you’re still interested in me tomorrow?
If a more attractive girl hits on you this weekend?
“One day,” he says. “I’m going to hear all your thoughts. Even the words you don’t want to share with yourself.” He puts the truck in gear, and before I can rebuff him and pretend I’m unfazed, that I can accept casual just as easily as he can, he’s driving, leaving me with an unfamiliar and unwelcomed tune of, “Stop overthinking it.”
There are literally a thousand “ifs” in my mind currently, and it’s impossible to not overthink any one of them.
25
The Pacific Northwest is chalk full of legends. Stories that tell the creation of both the continent and the entire world. One of them claims that Paul Bunyan, a lumberjack who was said to be seven feet tall, dug a giant hole along the Washington coast, creating the Puget Sound and with the rubble, Mount Rainier. With the Sound’s unique shape between bodies of land, it’s understandable why stories were created and shared. People like to have reasons and a clear understanding of how and why things work, and if they don’t, it’s easiest to simply ignore the unknown. Push it back out of one’s mind and cares. Replace the thought with something more forgiving and straight forward.
Maybe that’s why I’m reading through my chronicle of texts with Derek, dating back to the first invite he sent me to go to the fated party where a small intersection was built. I search for understanding, reading the growth of our relationship between lines that convey jokes and clear directness.
“Ready?” Maggie asks, stepping into the kitchen where I’m waiting with an untouched cup of coffee. Her blonde hair is still damp, sporting a pair of jeans that are now a size too big and one of the coats from her closet.
“You want to run by Beam Me Up and grab some breakfast?” I ask.
“Hells yes. I need sugar. All the sugar.”
I grab my large sage green coat from the closet, the one that makes me look like a marshmallow because it’s fluffy and wide, but it’s waterproof and is the warmest coat I own, allowing me to focus on something aside from how cold it is while we’re out on the water.
“Do you guys still have those strawberry muffins?” Maggie asks, following to the passenger side of my Civic.
“Yeah. There’s a citrus one, too, I think you’ll like.”
“That sounds so good.” She closes her eyes and tips her face skyward toward the gray skies, the dense fog still clinging to the ground, like it’s trying to hide my indiscretions from last night.
I slide into the driver’s seat, watching as Maggie reaches for something tucked into my windshield.
“What’s this?” she asks as she gets buckled beside me.
I stare at the wilted paper crane, working to recall if it had been there last night when I’d picked up my car after silence chased Lincoln and me to the coffee and wine bar where I withdrew from the car and the uncomfortable situation. I don’t remember seeing it, but even though Lincoln hadn’t consumed my body, he certainly had my thoughts, and so I have no idea if it might have been there since school yesterday. “I don’t know,” I tell her.
“There’s writing on it,” she says, staring at the marks that the dampness reveals like a spell. She tries to pull it, but the wing rips instantly, the paper too soggy to withstand the pressure. “Is this another one?” She reaches toward the floorboard, a bent and squished crane in her hand. It has to be the one from the party. The one Poppy had found and likely forgot about as we headed into the lion’s den.
“You know what the crane represents?” Maggie asks.
“Precision?” I joke.
She shakes her head. “Good fortune, I think.” With nimble fingers, she untucks and unfolds several creases and folds until the crane is a mere sheet of paper, its beauty stripped, revealing messy letters set together in sequences of words all tilting toward the bottom right corner. I lean closer to her as Maggie reads it aloud: “You’re so selfish. Why can’t you just stop meddling—stop asking for so much. You are what’s wrong in this world.” Maggie jerks her head toward me, her eyebrows furrowed and her lips still parted. “What in the actual fuck? Who wrote this? Is it a joke?”
Chills have claimed real estate up my arms and down my neck, chilling me as I consider how many other cranes I’ve received and never read. “I don’t know,” I give the same lame excuse. “I had no idea they were letters.”
“Rae, this is freaky.”
I shake my head, running through everyone I know and have interacted with over the past several weeks. “Maybe it’s a joke?” My voice wavers, waiting for my older sister to provide assurance and validity.
Maggie scans over the letter again. “I don’t know. Can you think of anyone who would joke like this?”
“Pax?”
She shakes her head, disputing the idea I knew was wrong before I even voiced it. There’s no way Paxton would leave fake letters for me.
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” I tuck my hair behind my ears, glancing around the neighborhood, taking in the manicured lawns, bare sidewalks, and the large houses that shadow both sides of the street. There’s nothing but familiarity and comfort, making the idea of there being a threat associated with these letters seem like a nightmare you wake up from with a racing heart and cold sweat chilling you, only to realize it was all a figment of your
imagination. A fear orchestrated by your thoughts, testing your ability to handle the impossible.
I grip the steering wheel, the chill of the leather biting into my palms, helping my thoughts settle further as I take a breath and put the car into drive.
“You should ask your friends. Maybe it’s a joke, but if not, you need to let others know,” Maggie says.
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” Conviction has returned to my voice, confidence radiating through each syllable as we pull into the drive thru of the coffee shop I work at. Shannon’s at the window, her blonde hair tied into two pigtails, and her eyelids painted a shimmery purple.
“Hey!” Shannon calls, her voice chipper as she peers into my car. “Did you miss us so much you needed to see us today?”
I give a courtesy laugh. “Hey, Shannon. This is my older sister, Maggie. We’re actually stopping for some breakfast and caffeine.”
Shannon leans closer. “Nice to meet you!” She waves at Maggie. “What are you guys up to today?”
“We’re going out onto the Sound. Go see if we can find any whales,” Maggie answers.
“That’s so cool.” Shannon looks at me. “I saw you on the news! I had no idea you had a brother.”
She barely knows me. Yet her inflection and long gaze make it clear she’s looking for an invitation to know more about Paxton. “Really? He comes by at least a few times a week. I’ll be sure to introduce you next time. We’re actually about to meet up with him.”
Her smile notches up into something salacious, her intentions clear. “What can I get you ladies?”
