Embrace, Entice, Emblaze (3 page)

The letter. She’d known she was going to die.

No, I couldn’t think about it. Not now. Dad would be back any

minute. I needed to stay in control, not let this derail me. I wasn’t sure what the letter meant anyway.
A
big
decision?
Maybe college? It could be anything. She probably just left it as a precaution— every mother wants her child to believe anything is possible. As for the bit about her long life, I didn’t understand that. How could anyone think her life had been long? She was only twenty- five when I was born…when she died.

I wiped a hand under my runny nose and placed all of the

items back in the box in the same order. When Dad came back, I’d packed it away into my bag and moved to the couch.

He hesitated. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, good…fine…yep. There was a letter. Do you want to

read it?” I really didn’t want to give it to him. It was nice to have something of my own from her, even if it was strange, but I knew that seventeen years of suspense was enough torment for anyone.

Dad smiled, lines creasing in the corners of his eyes, but his

shoulders dropped. “No, it’s okay,” he said.

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Oh
crap
. I didn’t know how to handle it if Dad actually cried.

But he recovered, clearing his throat and tilting his head to the ceiling. “No, honey. It’s between you and your mom. But…thank

you for offering.”

Apparently, the offer was enough.

“Well, like you said, I think she was just prepared. It was one of those…follow- your- heart letters.” I said it like I got them all the time.

“Don’t be cynical,” he chastised me, though I knew he loved the fact that I was just as cynical as he was.

He sat next to me and put a hand on my knee. I put my hand

on top of his. We were silent for a moment.

“So…” he said finally, as we both moved our hands away. “What

are you doing tonight?”

“Going to Lincoln’s. Got a wall to paint.”

“Finally gave in, did he?”

“Yep.” Victory was definitely sweet.

“Right…sure. So you’ll be going there straight after this, then?” he asked, a lilt in his voice that normally meant he was about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.

“Yes,” I said, dragging out the word.

“Oh, good. You know, actually, I bumped into Lincoln today

when I was out getting a sandwich.” His eyes drifted around the room and he stood up and went to his desk, suddenly very intent on a stack of papers.

“What did you do, Dad?” My heart skipped a few beats and I

had an awful feeling I knew where this was going.

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“Nothing. Nothing. We were just talking about you guys, you

know, your training. Lincoln said you were running in a mara-

thon next month with him. That sounds like fun.” He strained a

smile. “And…um…he asked me about work, which was nice of

him and…you know…”

“No. You know
what
?”

“Well, I said, mentioned really, that you…well, that you’d been through a tough time at your old school and…ah, you know…that

maybe he could bear that in mind…He
is
five years older than you, Vi. I just didn’t want you to feel pressured. I didn’t plan it, I just bumped into him and…Christ,” he said, getting more and more

flustered. “Your mother was on my mind and I thought she’d want me to, you know…
say
something.”

Someone
kill
me
now! From heartfelt moments to
this
!

I stood, moving to the far side of the room. The tension in the air was palpable. Neither one of us liked talking about the attack.

In fact, talking about it was an agreed out- of- bounds. Even this slightest mention brought a familiar darkness into the room.

I stared at my feet, stubbing the toe of my sneakers into the

carpet as if I could shift it if I concentrated enough. Why couldn’t I be one of those kids with parents who actually knew what they were doing?

“You had no right,” I said flatly.

“That’s not entirely true, Violet. I
am
your father.”

You
picked
a
great
time
to
start
taking
the
reins.

“Dad, you’re so far off the mark I can’t even…Lincoln hasn’t

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pressured me at all!” I grabbed my bag and heaved it onto my

back. “WE’RE JUST FRIENDS! He’s not even interested in me

like that, and thanks to
you
”— I shook my head at him in utter disbelief— “he never will be now.”

Dad’s eyes went wide with surprise. Clearly he’d decided Lincoln and I were a couple.

“Oh…” He stumbled over his words, lost for any comeback.

Great, now my own dad thinks I’m pathetic.

“Oh…I just assumed. Sorry, Vi. I just…after everything that

happened…I just worry.”

I didn’t respond.

“I’ll stay out of things from now on,” he added.

“I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I mumbled, knowing that even though we lived under the same roof, we wouldn’t be

crossing paths before then— especially now.

“Yes! Great! I’m really looking forward to your birthday dinner.

Meet at seven?” he asked overenthusiastically.

I was already heading for the door. I threw a hand in the air.

“Whatever.”

One good thing about Dad was that I knew he’d be happy to

pretend this conversation never happened.

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chapter
three

“There is an old illusion. It is called good and evil.”

friedrich nietZsche

I considered calling and making up some excuse to get out of going over to Lincoln’s. But even though I didn’t want to have to talk about the attack, I’d also decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t let it rule my life. I wished Dad had kept his big mouth shut, but now that Lincoln knew, I wasn’t going to run. It was one of the rules: I don’t run and I don’t quit. And since the attack, since the court case and changing schools, I’d stuck to them like a mantra. Th ey were what got me through.

Even though I’d set a meandering pace, I was still early by the time I hit Lincoln’s street, and I spotted him through the window of the corner shop. He had his back to me and was in training

gear— black sweats and a white sleeveless T- shirt, which showed off his golden tan and sun- streaked brown hair. He had a covenant with the sun— unlike me, who it chased even under a cap and

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sunscreen. I took a moment, luxuriating in the rays of warmth that settled over me whenever he was around, and braced myself for

what was ahead now that Dad had opened his trap.

I watched Lincoln loading food into a basket after first studying the nutrition table on the back of every package. All except my favorite cookies— he threw those in without a second glance. I took a breath for gumption and knocked on the glass, feeling a more

nauseating version of the excitement I always felt in anticipation of seeing him. He turned, already smiling, as if he knew without looking that it was me, and despite my preparations, my breath

caught and my stomach fluttered in a specific salute reserved solely for him. You’d think that after looking at his face almost every day for nearly two years, I’d be better at handling it.

Nope
.

I scrutinized his smile, looking for signs of change as he put two fingers in the air to let me know he’d be a couple of minutes. When he turned his back, I stopped nodding like an idiot and wondered, for the millionth time, if he could see how awestruck I was. If he did, he never showed it. His smile hadn’t given anything away either. It had been the same beautiful— platonic— smile as always.

Dusk fell while I loitered next to a couple of discarded milk

crates— the makeshift break lounge for shop staff if the pile

of cigarette butts around them was anything to go by. A cool

evening breeze carried through the warm air and I turned to face it, closing my eyes, drawing it in. As I did, I became aware of the growing orchestra of crickets in the distance. It was that time 20

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of year when, even though there were no gardens in sight, their songs filled the night.

When I opened my eyes, orange streetlights were beginning to

flicker on. The buildings that edged the pavement threw sharp,

jagged shadows over the street, changing the mood instantly to a gloomy display of light overcome by shade. The mood snuck its

way into me and I had to work to stop my mind from running

away, from forcing me to relive things I didn’t want to. But as soon as I pushed one disturbing thought aside, another took its place—

namely my mother’s wooden box. I was grateful I’d had so much

practice compartmentalizing, because right now I didn’t want to think about whether she might have known she was going to die.

Yeah…not going there.

“All done.” Lincoln was beside me and I hadn’t even heard.

Not
good, Vi.

I looked at him quickly, nervous to look for too long. “Hey. Are you cooking?”

“Yeah, I thought I might. Is that okay?”

“Sure. What’s on the menu?” I said, tucking a few stray hairs

behind my ear. We started to walk toward Lincoln’s warehouse and I took one of the bags to lighten his load. Our fingers brushed briefly and it was enough to make my heart jump.

“Pasta, chicken, basil, feta,” he said casually, listing the ingredients of my favorite pasta dish.

I bit my bottom lip. A sympathy meal.

Shit.

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Walking into Lincoln’s warehouse, a wave of contentment

washed over me. It felt more like coming home than anywhere

else. Lincoln had just bought it when we first met. It was small by warehouse standards but huge by one- person- living- alone standards. It was a dump when he got his hands on it, but he’d been gradually fixing it up, and—I had to hand it to him—he had good vision. He loved it. So did I. The most beautiful thing about it was the enormous arched windows at either end. During the day, they dropped waterfalls of light into the big open space, flooding it. It was the perfect place for art. That was one reason I loved it. The other had more to do with its occupant.

We silently unloaded the groceries in the kitchen. With every

opening of the fridge or rustling of the plastic bags, my heart beat faster and I became more anxious, wondering what he was going to say. But he said nothing. Instead, he started piling up ingredients on the bench the way he always did and set about making dinner.

After he pulled out a chopping board and had everything ready

to go, he looked up at me with raised eyebrows. “So…” He cleared his throat. “How was your day?”

I realized I had been standing silent and motionless in the middle of his kitchen like a lost kid. I unstuck my feet from the floor and walked over to the counter, resting my hip against it as casually as I could. “Fine. School was good. I got into the Fenton course.”

Lincoln put down the knife and turned to me, grinning from

ear to ear. My heart melted that he knew me so well, knew how

much the course meant to me.

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“Thank God! I was worried I was giving up my wall to an

amateur,” he teased, pulling me in for a hug. He smelled of baked sunscreen and his body radiated warmth. I relaxed into his arms.

I loved the fact that I was the ideal height so that my head rested snugly into his shoulder. It was like we were two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. We locked together perfectly. Of course, as soon as I relaxed, Lincoln was stepping away. It was just like the other million hugs we’d shared, and though every time I wished it meant more, his

body language assured me it didn’t.

“So,” he said, “are you ready for the transfer of official ownership rights?”

“Yeah, definitely,” I said, regrouping. “I was going to lay down a coat of primer first, if that’s okay?”

“It’s your wall— do with it as you please.”

He smiled, turning back to his cutting board. I had been bugging him for over a year to let me paint a mural on one of his walls and had finally worn him down.