Lincoln: Yeah. Wanted to make sure my girl was safe. And he needed to know what happened.
I stare at the words, warmth blooming in my chest despite everything. My girl. He called me his girl.
Me: Your girl?
Lincoln: That’s what I want you to be. But I guess we should go on a real date first.
A date. I close my eyes, then open them a second later, and look at my phone again. The words are still there. I didn’t imagine them.
Lincoln: So, Bayleigh Lennox… will you go out with me?
My heart skips a beat, a laugh slipping past my lips.
Me: Yes.
Lincoln: It wasn’t the way I hoped to ask you. I wanted to send a video of me signing it and asking. But then today happened, and I couldn’t wait.
Lincoln: You can bring James if it makes you more comfortable.
Me: No. I don’t want him to join us. I want it to be a real date.
I send the message, biting on my lip as I debate what I’m about to say. Screw it. I’m doing it.
Me: We can always pretend that you didn’t text and ask me out so you can do the video.
Lincoln: I like that idea too. Will you still say yes? It’s not your way of getting out of the date now, is it?
Me: I will and of course I’m not. I’m actually excited, Lincoln.
Lincoln: Okay then. Go home and let me know when you get there safely. I’m going to make that video and send it.
Me: I will.
Me: And Lincoln. Thank you for caring and being sweet. For being you.
Lincoln: Anytime, Bayleigh. Anytime.
I place the phone in the cupholder, then shift into reverse and back out of the parking spot. A smile spreads across my face; the last traces of fear fades. My pulse finally steadies, replaced by something lighter, warmer, alive. For the first time in a long time, I want to believe that maybe—just maybe—this could be real. Could someone finally be interested in me? Love the person that I am and not the image of who they want me to be?
The only issue now is what Benton’s going to think about me actually going on a date with the brother of his rival.
23
Lincoln
Bayleigh said yes.
I must’ve read that text ten times already, but it still hits the same way every time my eyes land on it—stupidly good.
I’m sitting in my truck at home after work, engine off, cab cooling. My gloves sit on the passenger seat, a smear of drywall dust across the knuckles. My tool belt’s dumped on the floor, half on the mat, half off.
And my phone’s in my hand like it’s the only thing that matters.
Yes.
I scroll back up, just to make sure I didn’t hallucinate it.
Me: So, Bayleigh Lennox… will you go out with me?
