Guilt drags the contents of my breakfast down into the center of the earth. Great, now his family thinks the only reason he came back is me, when I had nothing to do with it. “It really wasn’t me that he moved for. Family means a lot to him.”
I don’t need to know him to see that.
“That’s sweet, but you don’t have to save my feelings. I know how Lincoln feels about us.” Astrid sounds so defeated my heart cracks like thin ice under the weight of it.
Now would be the time to own up to the lie. If I wasn’t so afraid to make things worse. “What was he like as a kid?” I ask instead.
She smiles, soft and fond. “Much the same, only smaller.”
I can barely imagine it. I just assumed he’d exited the womb as a mini-Viking.
“He’s always been more willing to throw himself into the unknown,” she adds, putting the sunglasses down and moving down the aisle. The owner, Benson (no relation to the titular Octavia, apparently), smiles as we pass him. “It’s admirable, and a lesson I’ve tried hard to learn myself in the last few years. Risks haven’t always come easy for me, but Lincoln reminds me they’re worth it.”
“He’s a good man.” I know in my gut I’m right, which only makes me feel worse about the situation I’ve put him in.
My heart burns in my chest. I’m the reason he’s lying to her.
There’s a long pause. “He is. Though I’m not sure he sees it. I’ve missed him dearly, but I understand why he chose to stay. He and his father have always been very close.”
I hear what she isn’t saying. “When I was a kid, I couldn’t relate to people who were best friends with their parents. It seemed so strange. Then Ciara started middle school, and every day, she’d make me walk her to the bus stop so we could meet Mom after work. The whole way home, they’d talk. About their days, Ciara’s classes, Mom’s coworkers, all kinds of stuff.”
“It’s difficult to be the odd one out.”
I shrug. “They have more in common, so it’s okay.”
Astrid smiles knowingly. “Have you ever talked to them about it?”
“Have you?”
“Touché,” she says. “Simon and I worked very hard to ensure that the kids stayed close. My siblings and I don’t see eye to eye, you see, and things really took a turn when my father passed. It hurts me to see the boys as distant as they are.”
I pause at a display of beaded bracelets in a combination of colors that each represent a queer flag, all beautifully handmade. “They were different when they were younger, I’m guessing?”
“Very.” She holds up a pair of earrings, admires them with a tilt of her head. “You’ll see in June. They have a way of bringing it out of each other.”
June? I can’t imagine Lincoln will still want to keep up this charade in two months’ time, but I just have to know. “What’s in June?”
Astrid blinks. “The big birthday reunion,” she states like a known fact. Because of course Lincoln’s real girlfriend would know that. “You’ll come, of course.”
Shit.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say, forcing a smile, because what the hell else am I supposed to say?Sorry, two months is a long time to lie to my fake boyfriend’s family, and he’ll definitely have a new girlfriend by then?
Lincoln can cross that bridge himself. That is, if he hasn’t thrown me out of the plane on the way back.
Astrid moves to the back of the store where there’s a small shoe rack of boots on sale. She takes a seat on a footstool and taps the one beside it. “It’s lucky that you were off today.”
Right. The job that I definitely still have. I really should stop forgetting about that. It would have come in real handy sixty seconds ago to explain why I can’t go to the reunion. Sitting beside her, I fake a cough. “If anyone asks, I’m sick.”
She chuckles, toeing off her flats to try on a pair of tan ankle boots. “Well, then, I’d say the fresh air is doing you a world of good.”
I wonder what all this lying is doing to me.
“So,” I say. “I know Lincoln’s dad is a painter, but I’m sad to say I don’t know what you do for work.”
“I’m long retired, even though I indulge Reed on occasion. But when I did work, I was an environmental lawyer.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Wow, I would never have guessed.
