“Maybe another time.”
I get stuck rediscovering a pair of flared shorts that I mourned the loss of last year, and it’s not until I’m midway through my mental rendition of “Together Again” and Lincoln is handing me a glass of water that I realize he’s been here for over an hour, sitting comfortably on my sofa and watching with a smile.
Somewhere in our fake relationship, we’ve become real friends, and I’m praying that after our inevitable (and personally devastating) breakup, I might be lucky enough to keep this.
It takes me another hour to sort everything, and when I finally look up, it’s Lincoln’s turn to be lost in work. He must have run upstairs to grab his laptop, because he’s now hunched intently over his keyboard, reading.
He claims to not be an actor (he’ll accept performer, though, which is conveniently also a train of thought that I have to cancel before I remember the way his fingers felt inside—Nope) but he is voracious about writing.
Sometimes he’ll ask for my opinion on a script and then launch into a deep dive on John Truby’sThe Anatomy of Story. It’s fascinating to listen to him connect threads of technique with various philosophical teachings on passion.
It’s clear his work means something to him. Yes, it’s salacious, but he cares about it beyond that. Enough to take his time, to write scenes he’s proud of, to breathe life into them. He talks about pacing and motivation, what exercises help him with modulation and breath control, the singing classes he’s taken to improve his range and pitch. I think I could spend a lifetime listening to him talk and never get bored.
I could spend a second listening to his recordings.
I’ve developed an unfortunate addiction to the sound of his sighs. Memories rise to the surface every time, imprints of his rock steady chest enveloping my back, the pressure of his palm on my throat, long fingers commanding me to bare the most delicate parts of myself to him. It makes me want to give him everything, to loosen my grip on my shields and let him in. The very thought of it is terrifying. And still, I want it.
There’s nothing more attractive than a touch of softness, no matter where I find it. Sometimes it’s in the eyes, glowing with kindness as we trade bios during happy hour, a hint of deeper meaning behind the surface-level backstory we’re sharing. Sometimes, it’s in the thighs, thicker than my hands can hold and a pleasure to kneel between no matter the owner. In that moment, I hold greatness under my palms and wield ecstasy with my lips in a feedback loop that keeps on giving.
My personal favorite, though, is finding softness where I least expect it. God, this probably says so much about me— and is likely the entire reason I keep falling for all the wrong people— but that moment when a broody man gently holds my hand or a jiu-jitsu queen brushes the hair out of my face?
I’m a goner.
Now that I know what to look for, I see Lincoln’s softness clear as day. It exists where his heart is, on his sleeve, as long as you know to look there.
There’s pride in the work he does, the creativity it takes. A hunger I’ve had the pleasure of being the focus of before.
Components, parts, that I’m adding up to a whole.
With every day, he becomes more interesting, more arresting, more wonderful. It’s awful (entirely because it’s not anywhere close to being awful at all).
If Reed really, truly believes Lincoln to be unambitious, or lazy, he doesn’t know his brother at all.
CHAPTER34
KISSES, GIFTS, GESTURES
LINCOLN
The Playhouse Theatre is an intimate space in midtown, a relic of an older time but still standing strong. It’s gotten a facelift in the last few years, and they’ve done a commendable job keeping to the original aesthetic. Of course, it’s not the building that has captured my attention.
While Ivy takes in the view, I only have eyes for her. Wonder and hope brighten her eyes like stars, like those I remember reflected in them the night of the masquerade, standing with her heart beating under my fingertips and my own reaching out for her in a way I didn’t understand until now.
Christ, if she doesn’t stop looking so gorgeous, I’ll have to throw myself into oncoming traffic, or better yet, propose.
Ivy turns to me, her mouth open. “When you said you had a surprise for me, I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Do you like it? I’ve never bought a theatre before.”
“What? Lincoln, no you can’t buy me a theatre. What the hell would I do with it?”
“Whatever you like.”
She stares up at me, lip caught between her teeth, her eyes intense with an emotion I can’t quite read.
It’s possible I just fucked up.
Then Ivy is stretching up, pulling me down with one hand clenched in my shirt and kissing me once, hard.
