Embrace, Entice, Emblaze (4 page)

“How about we eat first?” he suggested. “I’m starving.”

“Sure.”

Could
he
truly
be
planning
not
to
talk
about
it?

People always wanted to know the details. First it was the authorities. Then my supposed friends who wouldn’t let me forget. Then it occurred to me— maybe he didn’t care, didn’t want to know.

Before I let myself go down that slippery slope, I forced myself to decide. I either had to wait patiently to see if he said anything or just say it myself.

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“I was fourteen,” I blurted out.

Lincoln’s eyes flashed up at me and his body paused for a moment, then he simply went back to chopping up the chicken. “Okay.”

“I know Dad said something to you,” I said more defensively

than I had intended.

He looked up again, briefly. “We bumped into each other earlier, yes.” Chop, chop, chop.

“Well?” I asked, increasingly confused. “Aren’t you going to ask?”

“Do you
want
me to ask?” He threw the chicken into the frying pan and it sizzled and smoked.

“What does that mean?” I asked, tucking my hair behind my ears.

“It means there’s a good reason you haven’t told me about it

before. If that reason still stands, then I don’t want you to feel forced to tell me just because your dad said something in passing. We all have secrets, Violet. Trust me. We all have things we can’t talk about.” He went back to his cooking, but then looked up again. “Anyway, you only do that thing with your hair”— he motioned to his own

ear— “when you’re worried. Nervous.”

Wow. I hadn’t seen that coming. Suddenly I had no idea what to

say. I mean, I hadn’t wanted him to know. I didn’t want anyone to know. But now that he did, it felt weird not explaining as much as I could. And…if I ever wanted someone to know, it would be him. So now I was screwed because I didn’t want to say anything…but I did.

Lincoln pulled the fresh pasta out of the boiling water and

started tossing it through the cooked chicken, adding lemon, feta, and lots of basil. The aroma filled the air and I smiled, remembering 24

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Embrace

the time he’d tried to grow his own basil in pots and failed dismally, killing all three plants within weeks and sending me into hysterical laughter. He got cranky any time it came up, and every time it

made me laugh.

He sat me at the table and gave me a fork. I watched him eat. He watched me pick. I felt bad that I couldn’t stomach much. He didn’t complain though, just took the plates away and returned with a

mug of coffee, which my hands went to like a magnet. Something

about the bittersweet smell of roasted coffee beans always reminded me of when I was a little girl, when Dad actually made it home

before I’d fallen asleep. He always smelled of coffee and day- old aftershave, and to me it was bliss. As soon as I could figure out how to use a coffeemaker, I started drinking coffee.

Finally, I looked up from my cup. “I want you to know.”

His eyes watched me, my fingers gripping the mug tightly, my

knee bouncing under the table.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded and willed myself to calm down, to go to that place,

the one that would remove me just enough. It always starts the

same way: choosing a spot to focus on— in this case, my coffee cup.

Then I take a deep breath and steady myself so that when I start speaking, I’ll be able to hold my tone, not crack and whimper.

“Who was he?” he said softly.

“A teacher from my old school.”

“What happened?” he asked, treading carefully.

“He called me back after class to discuss an essay I hadn’t done 25

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well on.” And just allowing my mind to go there, allowing it the freedom I so rarely did, I was suddenly fourteen again, trapped in his classroom, trying pathetically to fight him off. I could feel his fingers digging into my arms, holding me down. Could see the

look of relentless intent in his eyes; smell the cheap, spicy aftershave mixed into his slick, sweaty skin.

“Anyway,” I said quickly, trying to jolt myself away from the

images. “Another teacher walked in. It was weird, actually. She worked on the other side of the school and could never remember why she came all the way over. She said she just knew something was wrong and felt compelled to check that classroom.”

“Wait. She said she felt
compelled
?” Lincoln asked, eyes wide.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Someone interfered,” he said, almost to himself, shaking his

head as if he couldn’t understand. When he saw the question on my face, he snapped out of it. “What happened— I mean…to him?”

“He lost his job, can never work with kids again.”

“That’s why you’d just changed schools when we first met.”

“Yeah.” Becoming friends with Steph and starting kickboxing

sessions with Lincoln had been my reasons to hope again. It was too embarrassing to admit to him that before I had them in my life, a cloud of nothingness surrounded me that I wasn’t sure I would ever escape from.

He was quiet for a while, but I could hear his breathing deepen the way it does when he’s upset. Then he asked what I knew he

would. At least he tried to.

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“Vi…did…did he?”

It’s not easy asking someone outright if they’ve been raped. You would think it’s just a question, but actually saying the words is different. It was a question I’d had the awful experience of watching a lot of people try to dredge up the courage to ask. Even people you’d think would remain completely matter- of- fact, don’t.

“No. I mean, they stopped him in time but…” I stood. “I’ll get

more coffee.”

While I hid in the kitchen, willing my hands to stop shaking,

I heard Lincoln move to the living area. He was giving me some

privacy. It helped.

When I finally joined him on the couch, without a word, he

reached over and put an arm around me, pulling me in close for a moment. I relaxed and let my head rest against his chest, accepting what he was telling me in his own way— I was safe.

He pushed a strand of hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear, and spoke quietly, his warm breath hovering over my neck.

It smelled like sugared coffee. “I swear to you, he’ll never hurt you again. You’re…I’ll never let him near you,” he whispered. I believed him. Even if what we had was just friendship, I knew it was true.

He knew me, got me. The way no one else had ever bothered to. He had always understood that I needed to be strong, that I couldn’t run from things— even if, until now, he hadn’t completely understood why. He never questioned it or made me feel stupid. Instead, he helped me, made me stronger.

“Linc?”

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“Yeah.”

“About the other thing my dad said to you.” I cringed.

“What else is he supposed to think?” he asked, a smile in his

tone. “You’re over here all the time. If not training, we’re hanging out. I’m surprised he hasn’t warned me off sooner. It’s good to see he’s paying attention.”

And like that, he finished it, simply and cleanly. But it only

made me want him all the more and ask the question:
What
else
am
I
supposed
to
think?

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chapter
four

“There are as many nights as days, and the one is just as long
as the other in the year’s course. Even a happy life cannot be
without a measure of darkness, and the word ‘happy’ would lose
its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.”

carL JUng

I loaded a paint tray with primer and set about starting on my wall.

As much as I’d wanted to linger on the couch, the control freak in me won out. It was the best place for me to be right now— face to a wall, back to the world. It’s one of the reasons I love painting so much.

I got into a good rhythm. But even a steady tempo couldn’t push aside the memories. Tears streamed silently down my face. I hated that it could do that to me. Still.

Struggling to reach the higher parts of the wall, I started to lose patience. I could feel it all bubbling up and then a hand was on my arm and my whole body jolted in fear. It was a reaction I could not stop, and one that I hated myself for having— the reaction of a victim.

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Lincoln’s hand didn’t release me. Instead, it moved softly down my arm and pried the paintbrush gently from my rigid hand.

“I’ll do it.”

“It’s okay. I can— ”

But he cut me off, moving around to face me. I couldn’t look

at him. “Let me look after you.” He stroked my hair and I exhaled shakily, scared to let go. “Please. Just tonight. Before…” he said in barely more than a whisper. I glanced up and was caught by

the intensity in his luminous green eyes. I felt my body melt in response. The last of the memories faded away.

“Before what?” I murmured.

He blinked and stepped away. “Nothing. Have you decided

what you’re going to paint yet?” He climbed onto the stool.

I sat on the floor and watched as he finished priming the wall, the muscles in his bronzed forearms flexing with each stroke. Just being around him made things better. It always did. I hadn’t fully decided what I was going to paint, but I wanted it to resemble the way Lincoln’s place always felt to me, and I guess I wanted him to know how he made me feel.

“Kind of. It’s going to be like an…aura, I guess.”

He looked down at me and raised an eyebrow. “Explain?”

“Like even though there are outside forces pushing through the

walls, in here it’s like a bubble of goodness. Like coming home.” I could feel him smiling and it encouraged me to elaborate. “When I think of how others would see it, I imagine them seeing a force of goodness overshadowing a force of evil, protecting us.”

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Lincoln almost fell off the stool. He jumped to the floor with a look of shock.

I tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry! It’ll be subtle and soft, but not girly either. You’ll really like it.” Worried I was about to lose my wall before I even got started, I quickly added, “If you don’t like it, I’ll paint it back white for you.
Promise!
”

“No…No, it sounds great— perfect in fact. I was just surprised.

To hear you explain it like that— the good and evil part. Do

you…consider it much? Good and…evil?”

I blew out a breath of relief. I still had my wall.

“Umm…I don’t know. Not really. I don’t really know how I feel

about the whole God issue.” Although in truth I did. “You know

I’m not religious.”

How
could
I believe in God? What kind of bastard would leave me motherless the moment I was born? Would leave me alone in a room with a sicko who would mess with my mind forever? And that’s just
me
; don’t even get me started on the rest of the world. God? He’s just for the very lost to question and the very found to praise.

He nodded as if he’d actually heard all the things I hadn’t said.

“Nor am I. But I believe there are forces of good and evil at work in our world and…beyond. I believe that between us and the

‘God issue’”— he wiggled his fingers to indicate quote marks— “is another layer, so to speak.”

“Another layer?” I asked.

“Like…” He jiggled his hands by his side, as if he was consid-

ering whether to go on. “Other realms, other…beings.”

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“
Really?
” I said, a little annoyed. “What is it with everyone and otherworldly stuff?”

“Huh? Has someone else been talking to you?” he asked, taking

a sudden step toward me.

“No…well, kind of. My mom believed in spirits too, or some-

thing like that.”

“Oh,” he said, exhaling and moving back a little.

“So?” I prompted, keen to steer him away from the subject of my mother. “Do you believe these other
beings
or whatever are good?”

“Maybe. But with all things there has to be balance. You know,

light and dark, sun and moon, yin and yang…So where there are