Something lurches in my chest at the thought of being alone in our building without him. Slowly but surely, home has expanded to mean more than the four walls of my apartment, growing to include his as well, or perhaps just any place where he is.
“I won’t leave you,” I say, because the rest feels too big to say out loud. Besides, if we’re going to face the wolves, I can’t stomach the thought of not trying to protect him from it.
I’m the one who got us into this mess.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”
I stare down at his long fingers, too close and too far from where I want them to be.
“I’m keeping a list,” I say.
He squeezes my thigh, and my whole body responds in kind, like an echo. “Are you now?”
No, but if I was, there wouldn’t be enough paper in the world to contain all the things I like about him.
“All right,” I say once we’ve reached the highway out of town. I turn as much as I can in the passenger seat, slipping off my shoes and tucking my feet under me to get comfortable. “Quiz me.”
I spent all night memorizing the Bradbury family tree so that I wouldn’t embarrass myself this weekend. Top of the heap is Joe, Deacon’s twin brother, and an ex-agriculture pilot. His lifetime partner Art is, hilariously, a tenured art history professor at the college whose students donated their work for the masquerade auction. (It really is a small world, after all.)
Then there’s Betty, Deacon’s widow. “She’s lovely, although you won’t see much of her,” Lincoln adds, after I tick her off my mental list. “She’s always been a quiet one. Spends most of her time in her reading room.”
Deacon’s kids come next. Five in total. Richard is the eldest, the owner of the estate and, deeply unfortunately, Kyle’s dad. He and his wife Helen must have known they’d spawned a demon, because they never had another kid.
Lincoln’s laugh fills the car when I voice this. “Have I mentioned how much I adore your imagination?”
It takes two miles before my face cools down.
Next in line is Judy, a retired family lawyer, and maybe the one I’m the most scared of. Attorneys (with the exception of Astrid, who is completely lovely) can hardly be good if they aren’t able to sniff out the truth. I’m convinced that with one look at me, Judy will know about the time I snuck quiz notes into my pen in fifth grade.
If anyone’s going to discover the truth about Lincoln and me, it’ll be her. The best plan is for me to stay as far away from her as possible.
“No one’s expecting you to be an expert.” Lincoln laughs when I shush him.
“What if I call her Julie by mistake?”
“She’ll probably try to cleave your eye out with her nails,” Lincoln says, his words dripping with sarcasm.
Oh, God. She will, won’t she?
“Not helping,” I say before I send up a silent prayer.
After Judy (Judy, Judy, Judy)is Dale, who looks boring in every way I could name. Apart from being one of twelve Dale Bradburys in the state, his online presence was exactly what you’d expect for a sixty-something white guy who grew up with money— board member at a one-word corporation, who posts opinion pieces on LinkedIn denouncing the “woke agenda.”
As soon as I saw that he’d titled himself an “international thought leader” I closed the tab and had to rewatch an hour ofThe Walking Deadto shake off the urge to call this weekend off (the good seasons; I’m not a masochist).
Second youngest is Sally, who spends more time talking about her husband than her kids, if her Instagram is anything to go by. To be fair, in his heyday, he was a pretty decent wide receiver.
“And last, your mom,” I say. “Who I might like more than you.”
Lincoln spares a quick smile in my direction before facing the road. “Not too much more, I hope.” His hands look massive on the wheel, ten and two like my instructor taught. Why is responsible driving so hot?
I pull my feet up onto the seat, wiggling my toes in my socks with a sigh. The last thing I want is to mess this up more than I already have. “I promise to be on my best behavior this weekend.”
“Who says I want that?” He reaches across the console, and I watch, enraptured and tingling, as he threads his fingers with mine, bringing my hand up to his lips for a kiss without taking his eyes off the road. My heart practices somersaults in my chest.
“No matter how this weekend goes, I’m glad you’re here. I’d rather an awful weekend with you than a thousand good nights with anyone else.”
Somewhere out there is an Ivy who gets to have this. I’m sure of it. An Ivy who isn’t questioning everything he says, each touch, every look, until it’s impossible to know what’s real.
