What do you do when you’re really sad?
@theanswerisno:
Ignore those feelings
@pancakesareelite:
Sounds reasonable
@theanswerisno:
On occasion, it’ll bottle up and you’ll explode for seemingly no reason, but other than that, it works
@pancakesareelite:
I’ll have to give it a go. Seems better than crying.
@theanswerisno:
I don’t like crying
@pancakesareelite:
Because you’re a big, tough man?
@theanswerisno:
Nah, because I get really snotty
My mother couldn’t even sayI love you. Douglas had found her, so she hung up without a word.
I washed my face in the bathroom and then walked to my bedroom, trying to keep the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach from wreaking havoc on the rest of my body. I climbed onto the bed and pulled the pillow over my head, letting it swallow my tears. With a heaving sob, my lungs emptied.
Would we ever truly get away from him?
I’d been running for so long, but I was tired. I wanted to go home. I wanteda hometo go to.
Breathing became difficult, and I lifted the pillow. A light clatter came from the kitchen. I sat up and listened. It sounded like Lincoln was awake and doing something unusual for this hour. I’d washed up, dried everything, and packed it away. I’d made sure of it because last night he still found items needing to be packed away after I’d cleared up.
To be fair, for most of my life, I didn’t have to clean anything.
The tick of the gas stove drew my attention.
Was he cooking? Why?
I could go and look, but that would mean facing him in this state where a breeze could knock me over, and Lincoln Carden wasn’t a breeze; he was an all-encompassing hurricane, sweeping me away with every thoughtful gaze and tentative touch.
Falling backward, I stared at the wooden trusses, studying them as I did on the first night to ensure there weren’t any spiders. Tonight, I studied the structure, finding some peace in geometry.
Something crashed in the kitchen and shattered. I hopped out ofbed and swung the door open. Lincoln was folded over, picking up broken pieces of mossy-green ceramic.
He glanced up from underneath those ridiculously long eyelashes. “Hey.” His voice was thick and low. “I didn’t mean to disturb you… yet.”
“Yet?” I asked, taking him in. His eyes were wider than I’d ever seen before and he still wore the gray sweatpants and plain white T-shirt. His curly hair was a messy flop.
He stood and threw some of the chunks of sharp edges into the bin. “I’m almost done.” He gestured awkwardly to his left. To a plate of… pancakes.
Lincoln Carden made pancakes.
