For all I know, he could still be fucking Sarah. There’s a part of me that wonders if that bitch even wants him now that she’s blown up his marriage.
That’s the thing. These hoes will work overtime to steal someone’s man, and then the minute they get him or he leaves his wife, they toss him, having accomplished their conquest.
Sarah probably saw Lincoln as desirable because he was unavailable. But how long would Lincoln be? How long would it take, after realizing I’m not going to take him back, for him to jump into the arms of that again?
Doesn’t matter.
It’s none of my business.
Now that I’m back in Hudson Vale, New York, I notice the storm clouds billowing in. Pulling up to our house… the one that Lincoln and I own… I notice the lights are off.
It’s about 9:00 at night.
Taking a deep breath, I step out of the car and walk up the steps. Turning my key in the lock, I expect it to be changed, but it’s not.
Opening the door, I take off my shoes, and when I turn on the light, the place is a mess.
Good grief.
It clearly looks like someone had been cleaning it on occasion. The furniture looks like it had been waxed at some point. Probably Lincoln’s mom came by, or maybe Sarah, who the fuck knows.
The only thing I’m here for is the remnants of my stuff. While I was out traveling, I secured an apartment nearby. Well… not totally nearby, it’s outside the city, on the other side. This way I can still be close to my father and family.
I’m almost frightened out of my wits when a scruffy man, tall and imposing, walks out of the bathroom.
It takes me a minute to recognize him.
It’s Lincoln.
Looks like he hasn’t shaved in weeks. He’s in a washed-out black T-shirt and his gray boxers.
I try to ignore the bulge in his pants… soft and asleep but stillthickand nostalgic.
I haven’t slept with anyone. I made out with a guy at one of the festivals, but I was only able to get through it when I envisioned Lincoln back when we had gone to a festival on one of our outings before our life became this.
Rolling my eyes, I walk past him.
“Are you real?” he asks, his voice hoarse like he hasn’t talked in weeks.
“No, I’m not here,” I say as I head upstairs to the bedroom, his eyes following me.
He stumbles before following me up the stairs. “Gabby?”
“I’m just here to get some of my stuff. I thought you would have thrown them out by now, but… I was waiting for you to sign those papers, by the way. You said you’d give me the divorce.”
“Wh—yeah. I’ve been… I actually have them,” he says, like the words scrape coming out of him, like talking physically hurts.
I pause at the top of the stairs, waiting.
He gestures weakly toward the landing where I’m already standing. I look away from him and step down the hallway. He follows, reaching the top beside me, brushing past, his body squeezing against mine in the narrow space.
God dammit… just feeling his muscles against my body fills me with dread at the very notion that I still want him that way.
Looking at his back, he seems a lot skinnier.
Heading into the bedroom, he opens a drawer and takes out a folder. He seems to weigh it in his hand before handing it to me, and under the light of the bedroom I can see the circles under his eyes. His hair is messy and greasy, like he hasn’t washed it in a while. I want to ask him if he’s taken a bath, and honestly, the way he looks makes me hurt for him. That must be what love is. It makes people batshit crazy, because someone can hurt you so bad and you still care more about them.
I have to fight all of my instincts to nurture him right now.
