Cyclists whizz along the wooden bicycle path. Couples walk hand-in-hand under the tree canopy. Children do flips and cartwheels, their laughter rising in the air.
The sun is going down as Lincoln and I sit on the grass with our legs kicked out in front of us, watching it all. My stomach is full to the point of bursting. Still, I manage to steal one more French fry out of his brown paper bag when he’s busy checking his phone.
Without lifting his eyes off of his screen, he manages to grab my wrist.
“Thief,” he accuses with a playful lilt in his voice as he pulls my hand to his mouth and licks my ketchup-covered fingers.
“We’re married,” I say in defense. “What’s yours is mine. Your French fries are my French fries.”
He drops his phone in the grass and tugs me into his lap so that my back is nestled against his strong chest. His lips come to my ear. “And you—you’re just mine.”
That’s all it takes. My heart is off, galloping for the hills.
This man sure does know all the right things to say. With just a tiny, little comment, he can get my imagination running off withwhat ifs…
But Lincoln only says those sweet things just because. Just because it’s fun. Just because it’s playful. Just so he can get a laugh out of me. He doesn’t actually mean any of it.
I’m guilty of it, too. We both tend to get carried away with the banter and flirtation. I wonder if my playful words have the same confusing effect on him?
My birthday is just around the corner, and I’ll be getting the first disbursement from my trust fund. I’m confident Lincoln will sign his new business deal any day now. He and I haven’t spoken in detail about what will happen beyond that.
We’ll file for a divorce, I assume. Or maybe an annulment, if we’re lucky. I don’t know. All I know is, our marriage will soon be over. Sweet moments like this—sitting in the park to enjoy the sunset—will be a thing of the past. Nothing but a cutesy, little memory.
That hurts.
Because I want to be a part of Lincoln’s life. Day-to-day. I don’t want our marriage to become just another forgotten memento sitting on some dusty shelf at the back of his mind. How the heck will I survive that?
He was clear about his expectations from the beginning. I was clear about mine. Somewhere along the line, things got muddled for me.
But that’smyproblem. I’m the one who didn’t stick to the plan. And when my heart is lying in pieces on the floor, that will bemyfault. Because I didn’t follow the rules.
Out of nowhere, my sinuses begin to burn. Uninvited tears threaten to make an appearance. Damn. What is wrong with me these days? All these back and forth emotions are exhausting.
Must be PMS hormones. On jet fuel.
I scramble off of Lincoln’s lap, gingerly heading for the bridge.
“Hey. Where are you going?” he calls after me.
“Just stretching my legs,” I say, careful not to turn around and reveal the tears now inching down my face.My god, Jules. Get it together.
I step onto the bridge, gripping tightly to the rusty railing. I stare out at the water. When I was little, there was this folk tale around town. The kids believed that there were fairies under the bridge and that if you made a wish and threw a coin into the water, those fairies would find a way to make your dream come true.
I never believed that damn legend, and I definitely knew better than to throw away good money. But as I stand here twenty-something years later, I’m desperate to make my fake relationship real. Because my time with Lincoln and Cameron is as close to a fairytale as I’ll ever get.
My eyes fall closed and I find myself saying a short prayer. Just a few words up to the sky, asking if there’s someway, somehow I might be able to keep this new life of mine. This life with a man who looks at me like I’m something special and a little boy who makes me laugh. A house that feels like the home I always wished for.
Wiping at my eyes with my knuckles, my other hand reaches into the pocket of my leather jacket. I dig out a few pennies and nickels. Holding my breath, I toss them into the river below.
But I know the answers to my problems don’t lie at the bottom of that bridge. I just need to put on my big girl panties and face this mess I’ve made.
Footsteps crunch on twigs and gravel. I feel a presence approaching me. I know it’s Lincoln before he even lays his big hand at the small of my back.
Gently, he spins me around to face him. He lowers his face to mine. “You okay? Why are you crying?” The pad of his thumb tenderly swipes beneath my eye.
Because the way I feel about you scares the shit out of me.
“What? I’m not crying.” Sniffling, I duck beneath his arm.
