Lincoln and I took turns to wash off as much mud as we could.
“Um… so… Anders wants you on this site next week, with me. I know not everyone likes… uh… being away from home, or… uh… living with someone else, so if you don’t want to be here every day, you don’t have to, like… stay over.” He rambled. A wince still marked his features whenever he moved.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Honestly?” He huffed out a heavy breath. “Not really. My back is killing me, and I need to lie down.”
Luis pointed at the bedroom. “Go ahead. That’s the spare room, no one’s in there. Mark’s taken off for the rest of the month.” He then walked toward the front door. “I need to make a few calls. I’ll be out front if you need me.”
Lincoln walked—with much effort—to the bedroom, and I followed, wishing I could carry him instead.
He lay down on his back and shut his eyes, but it did nothing to soothe the lines of pain across his forehead. His fists were clenched at his side.
I crawled onto the bed beside him. “What can I do to help?”
“Ibuprofen helps, heat or ice helps, too, but mostly I need to rest.”
“Is it because you carried me?”
He chuckled and winced. “No, Elizabeth. It’s because I carried my mother’s piano.”
“Ah, yes.” I got off the bed and went to the kitchen. In the bag filled with tampons, I also found a pack of ibuprofen. I poured a glass of water and returned with my offerings outstretched. “Take this.”
He struggled to sit up and drink it, but once he was done, he dropped back down with a groan. “It should subside in a few hours. Luis can take you home.”
“And leave you here on your own?”
“I’m on my own all the time,” he said with that half smile.
“Do you get this often?” I asked as the soft warmth of the bed called to me. I slid down until I was lying flat on my back too. Our shoulders were almost touching.
Lincoln was quiet for a while, and I thought perhaps he’d fallen asleep, but when I pulled my attention away from the wooden ceiling, I saw his eyes wide open and staring ahead.
He looked away. “When I overdo it. It’s… from an old back injury I like to pretend I don’t have when I offer to help my mom move furniture, or carry women around, apparently.”
I laughed and that seemed to bring out a smile on his face. “How’d you hurt your back in the first place?”
Lincoln sucked in a deep breath and frowned. “Uhh… remember I told you about how my dad died?”
My heart already ached at the hesitation in his voice. “Hit-and-run?”
“Uh-huh.” He swallowed. “I was, um, I was with him. We were walking to the store to get stuff for dinner, and he, uh… he must have seen the car coming. I didn’t. He pushed me out of the way, and I fell into a concrete channel and hurt my back. I didn’t even register it at the time.” He swallowed again, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
I moved closer, wanting nothing more than to give all the comfort I had. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. So am I.” He blinked a few times, but a rogue tear still escaped.
I reached out and dabbed it with my thumb. His lids dropped closed.
He removed his glasses, setting them on the bedside table before rubbing his palms across his eyes. “That’s the most I’ve spoken about it in years.”
“You can talk to me about it whenever you want.”
With great effort, he turned around, shoving his face into the pillow. “Thank you,” he mumbled, his voice muffled. “Could you tell me something else? Another interesting and random fact I wouldn’t have guessed about Elizabeth.”
Lincoln rarely used my last name. I don’t know how he knew not to.
“I’m a masseuse.”
