Tonight is scallop ceviche followed by poached seabass. It’s delicious, but I’m sure it would taste even better if the soundtrack for tonight wasn’t the dull scrape of knives and forks under a hum of barely contained distaste from our host. Richard once again manages to dominate the conversation (I use that term extremely loosely).
The best part of the meal is that Kyle is holed up, nursing his injury in his room.
When we finally get to escape after dinner, Lincoln surprises me by pulling me to the right, in the direction of the gardens rather than the left of our bedroom. “Come, it’s a beautiful night.”
He should know by now that I’ll follow him anywhere.
Palatial is the only word that comes to mind as we cross through a thick wall of hedges into the gardens. They are a panorama of green, even in the moonlight. Lush on the outside but overgrown the farther in we walk. Like all things Bradbury, it’s about looking like you care, but not actually doing it.
I’m half expecting to be announced as we enter the inner grounds where the fountain lies, as though there are people hiding in the bushes waiting to say, “Mr. Lincoln Reeves and guest,” or perhaps one day— my poor, romantic heart supplies— “Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln Reeves.”
I’ve never been decided on marriage.
That’s what I tell people.
The reality is I did picture it once, a long, long time ago. Ciara and I loved to play dress-up, and when I discovered Mom’s veil packed away in the attic, I did what most kids do. I slipped it on and stared at my reflection and told myself that one day, a prince would come whisk me away.
I was six.
Twenty years later, and I guess I’m still that little girl, only now my prince is a six-foot-four tattooed millionaire who fills my room with roses and has an accent that makes my knees weak.
Hidden behind the tall hedge that separates us from the house, we walk toward the fountain at the center of the gardens, where cold, uncomfortable stone benches stand watch. The steady trickle of water is hypnotic. Everything else is a world away. We are completely alone.
The sun disappeared beyond the horizon a few hours ago, and any lingering warmth has abruptly retreated now, the night air whipping through my body like a cold front.
“Here,” Lincoln says. “I’ll keep you warm.”
I slip easily into his arms, where heat is rolling off him in waves. Clasping my hand, Lincoln begins to sway us in a silent dance.
It’s so beautiful, so perfect, and all I want to do is cry.
He can’t know it, but he’s given me a gift. A lifetime of memories to treasure, moments to live and relive, over and over again.
I sigh and press myself closer still, though I’ll never be close enough.
“I’ve always hated coming here,” he says. “Misery everywhere, breeding resentment.” We continue to sway. “I thought it was impossible to make good memories here, but you’ve proved me wrong,” he says softly, and the gentle stroke of his fingers along my spine is so deeply good that tears begin to prickle at my eyes. I bury my face in his shirt and nod, not trusting my voice. “Never thought I’d get this, either.”
Lincoln’s grip tightens around my hand, mirroring my heart, which clenches tight enough I can almost hear it cracking. How could I ever explain to him how long I’ve wanted to hear those words? It would be so easy to dive in, to go all-in and forget how much of this has been for show.
“It’s not like you to be so quiet,” he says. “What are you thinking about?”
“You,” I admit. “Us.”
Even in the darkness, his smile is devastating to my senses. “You have good instincts, darling. You should trust them.”
Trust… how perfect that we’ve come full circle.
He asked me once if I trusted him, and I do. In some ways, more than myself. But do I trust real life not to tear us apart? Do I trust we can make it work when he hasn't been in a long-term relationship? When I haven’t?
What if he’s only fulfilling my needs? Or am I just a prototype for his fantasies? A dress rehearsal before the real thing?
The questions pile up like dirty dishes in my mind, and I know I can’t put off the answers any longer.
“Unless you regret tying yourself to me?” he asks with enough concern that I know I can’t do this anymore.
“No,” I insist in a rush. “Not at all. That’s not…” I shake my head.
Words, words, words. Constantly getting me in trouble. Always getting in my way when they’ll cause the most damage.
