A knock at the door put the conversation on hold. I got up, grateful for the excuse, but found no one there. Just a cupholder and a to-go bag from the coffee shop I loved next to that tiny studio apartment I’d loved living in, even with attack-inducing mold.
There was a neon-yellow index card taped to it. I recognized the handwriting immediately. Iwantedto focus on all the bad blood, but my lenient, forgiving heart still skipped a beat at the sight. I carried the tray to the counter. Carmen’s eyes glinted, seeing right through me.
“I thought you were team Diego?” I asked, a little more defensive than I meant to.
“Diego’s a distraction,” she said, shrugging. “But he’s too… sunny for you. You’ve had some rough patches. I bet he wouldn’t know what to do with that.”
Words to defend Diego formed at the tip of my tongue, but they shriveled in my throat. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t understand. I wanted more intensity than he could ever give.
I tore the note out of the bag and read it.
Nina’s world’s about to upgrade. I know you’re going to burn yourself out working on this pitch. So here’s what’s happening: you work. I’ll keep you fed, caffeinated, and unstoppable until Monday. You’re going to own that room. No one’s getting in your way this time—I won’t let them.
Carmen pointed at me. “He’s also done all of that. Bought coffee refills. Moved out of his own apartment so you could have a safe place to live. Wore stupid pink clothing.”
Lincoln hadn’t done all bad. Especially not the past few months. But he also left the second he’d remembered. I could have gotten answers. What had I done for him to hate me so much? From afar, sure, he’d kept me healthy, in his home, delivered my meds on the day they were filled. Groceries. My favorite coffee. I’d recited his meanness to myself so much I was starting to feel immune. The tenderness and thoughtfulness he’d shown me lately almost overpowered the hurt of the past.
“You should know, he’s not staying with me anymore.”
“What?” The word was a whisper. “Where did he go?”
Carmen nodded at the tray. “Where do you think?”
“I have no idea.”
“He’s renting your old apartment, silly.”
My stomach dropped with the weight of the revelation. He was living my old life, maybe even with my roommate—the mold stain. He’d looked down on the precarity of it, but now he’d taken over the only place that had ever been just mine. The only space where I hadn’t needed to cater to someone else’s needs. He was there, catering to mine. His choice to live there brought all those self-deprecating Post-it Notes to life: telling me he’d protect whatever I’d decided was important at his own cost. That heowedme his loyalty.
“Why would he do that?” My voice was thin with mistrust.
“Well… he’s out of a job. That’s an option for not splurging on another fancy apartment.”
He’dresignedhis coveted promotion to clear my name, and it’d made mefurioushe’d even had to do it in the first place. Old Lincoln knew and kept his mouth shut. Old Lincoln had fucked up. New Lincoln didn’t owe me anything, but he’d been giving so much regardless.
“He needs his place back. I should move out.” The words were out before I could stop them, a knee-jerk reaction, shoving away this… this loyalty I didn’t want. His words of sorry I could take, keep at arm’s length. Lincoln in my moldy apartment was an apology sinking into my bones. I didn’t know what to do with it. It was too heavy, too real, too close to forgiveness waiting to happen.
“He doesn’t want you moving out.” Carmen’s voice was maddeningly gentle. “He wants you here and safe.”
Safe.
I gripped the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles whitened. Safe. The word was both a trap and a promise at the same time. Anger simmered, red and raging inside me. Who was he to decide I should be safe?
Carmen’s hand on my forearm kept the fury from boiling over into words. It didn’t keep her feelings from spilling though. “Maybe he’s decided that you should be safe.” Her knowing, understanding eyes, held mine. “But you get to decide if you believe he could change or what’s enough to say he has.” She squeezed my arms. “He isn’t taking that away from you. You get to figure that out on your terms.”
The man who got me fired. The man who’d lost me a scholarship. The man who stood back while his girlfriend humiliated me.
And yet.
My chest tightened until it hurt; what if Carmen was right? If I believed people could do better, why would Lincoln bean exception? I hated that my pulse tripped over itself at the thought.
It was pitch day.Lincoln had been true to his word, keeping me fed all weekend. I’d been true tohisword that I’d burn myself out working on it. My presentation was damn near brilliant. I also had copies on the cloud, on another cloud, and on two thumb drives, one in my tote, one in the pocket of my pants. With my luck, we’d lose Wi-Fi, and I’d somehow be responsible for it.
I’d been on time, early even, and treated myself to tea to calm my nerves. The line at check-in was longer when I got back, and by the time it was my turn, the staff was already rushing people through. I was directed to the security system, where they scanned my bag and made me power on my laptop. At the lockers, the attendant said, cheerful but firm, “All personal belongings” and pointed at the blue square doors. He tilted his head toward my tote specifically, as if it looked particularly nefarious.
I hesitated for a second. Then I saw everyone else—at least a dozen people from five different teams cramming their coats, chargers, notebooks, purses, and phones into lockers without a second thought. I followed suit, tucking my bag in, and shutting the door with a loud click. We were then ushered to the left side and into a large conference room.
It was set up more like an arena than a meeting space. The clear message of “enter ye gladiators, prepare for your marketing deaths” delivered in the form of an elevated table holding three BrightMark execs, the projector’s glow throwing their profiles into a sharp shadow behind them.
