“This was around eight or nine.” She pointed at the boy in a school uniform. “He was so brilliant, the teachers would force him onstage and test him in front of everyone.”
“Oh” was all I managed, because the Lincoln I knew would have hated that.
“He started feeling isolated from his peers. They pushed him over a grade. My little genius.” She sighed. “I didn’t know how to slow him down or protect him, so he did it himself.”
She turned the page, and Lincoln, a few years older than the previous set, wore the same grumpy expression he wore now. Beside it, another photo of Lincoln, this time with half a smile as he held a deck of cards with a little girl standing next to him.
“Who is that?” I asked, pointing at the girl.
“Claire.”
“Claire?”
“His friend. They’ve been friends since he was a child. One night, I prayed to God my boy would come out of his shell, and the next day, she moved in next door. I may have orchestrated a friendship after that,” she said with a chuckle. “And I’m so glad I did. She was the only one who could pull the occasional smile out of him.”
There were two strange pangs in my chest. Jealousy and heartache. I stared into the sad eyes of this boy who resembled my boss. The man who spent countless hours helping me in more ways than one. And even though he was only a few feet away, I missed him.
Irene pointed at another photo of Claire. “But I knew she’d be able to handle him. He was a lot more back then, and the kids weren’t always sure what to do with him.”
“He’s perfect as is,” I clipped out, without intending to. I brought the cup to my lips and shut my eyes.
“He is,” she said with a smile. “I wish more people would see that. But judging from the way you look at him, you have.”
I gulped down the scalding tea.
She patted my back. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
The timer went off, and she pulled open the oven door, letting the scent of freshly baked carrot cake engulf me. “Let’s take our boys a slice of cake, shall we?”
Ourboys.Our?
Lincoln wasn’t mine. He was my boss, and I should probably tell his mother that, but then why was I carrying a slice of cake? Why did I want to be the one to hand it to him?
And why, why is it that, when his shirtsleeves were rolled up and his hair was all messy, I lost my breath? Why is it that when he took the slice of cake and thanked me, his smile seemed to control the blood flowing in my veins?
Danger, Elizabeth. Danger.
26
LINCOLN
[58 weeks ago]
@theanswerisno:
I am plagued by wondering if every pancake-eating woman is you
@pancakesareelite:
Every pancake-eating woman IS me
@theanswerisno:
Well, that certainly doesn’t help
@pancakesareelite:
I am plagued by wondering if every pancake-hating man is you
