The promise Lincoln made to me a few nights ago, while I drank gin and tonic and enacted my confession.
Why am I here tonight? Lincoln flirted over chasing fun, but if that’s all I’m after, I could have spent the night eating barbeque pork bites on Emma’s couch rewatchingHigh Society.
“I was hoping for adventure,” I admit. “Although the art is lovely.” Golems included. “And the house…” I sigh. “It’s like stepping into a fairy tale.”
“It’s Victorian, you know.”
I do. Astrid would probably laugh if she knew I’d gone down the rabbit hole of the owner’s history while lying in bed. “From the eighteenth century. It’s a beautiful restoration.”
“It is.” She looks impressed. I really want to tell her about the rumor of how Deacon Bradbury almost lost the deed in a card game, but I can hear my mother’s voice in my head saying not to bombard new friends with enthusiasm, so I don’t.
“Are you a fan of history?” she asks.
“Not really, to be honest,” I say. “But I’m in a bit of a rut in my real life, so I guess I’ve been ruminating on the past a lot more than usual. Hindsight, you know?”
From the way her gaze sharpens as she nods, it’s obvious she knows hindsight intimately, and I bet there are a million interesting stories hiding behind it. I want to ask her about it. I get the strongest feeling she’d tell me, too, like we’re old friends who have been waiting to see each other again so we can catch each other up on our lives.
Astrid hands off her glass to a passing server, clasping her free hand around her sequin clutch. “It’s funny you should mention that. I’ve been quite nostalgic myself lately. Sometimes it’s easier to reflect on the problems of the past than face the uncertainty of the future, even if it’s painful.”
God, I can’t even imagine what it must be like to look back in your sixties. My issues are probably ridiculous by comparison. As if reading my thoughts, she adds, “There is no measuring stick for regret, except the one you keep for yourself. I find it helps to focus on the things you care for.”
Heat prickles at my eyes. If I’d known I was going to cry tonight, I would have packed tissues. Or worn a better mascara.
Embarrassingly, I’m overcome with the need to hug her. Or to ask her to adopt me. It’s as if she knew exactly what I needed to hear at the exact time I needed to hear it. No guilt, no pressure.
“I’ll try to remember that,” I croak out.
“Will you be leaving your calling card with anyone else tonight?” she asks, once again sparing a glance over my shoulder.
I follow her gaze to find Lincoln’s eyes on me, warm and intense. Always watching. A thrill runs through me.
Maybe that’s why I say what I do.
“No, only him. I mean, when your boyfriend is as wonderful as he is, you want to make sure you can find him again.”
I haven’t turned away from him as I talk, our eyes locked through the gaps in the crowd. Even as Lincoln pushes off the wall and starts to cross the room, his eyes don’t leave mine.
“It doesn’t look like you need to worry about losing him,” Astrid says, and I watch, breathless, as Lincoln cuts through the room, imposing and determined.
I try to douse my racing heart with the last of my drink.
When he’s close enough to touch, he looks to my left, and ice drips down my spine as Lincoln straightens beside me.
“Evening, Mum.”
Astrid leans in to kiss his cheek, and I don’t get time to take a breath before she says, “Lincoln, your girlfriend is delightful.”
They turn in unison to face me.
Oh no.
CHAPTER9
ROLLING WITH THE PUNCHES (EVEN THOUGH THEY HURT)
LINCOLN
My what, now?
