“It almost sounds like you have experience torturing a man.” I glance up at a server—not Alessio—as she stops by our table and silently fills our water glasses. When she’s done and wanders away, I bring my gaze back to Lincoln’s. “I understand war is war, and bad things happen. But I always took comfort in knowing my brother was in the motor pool. While his comrades killed other soldiers and ducked to avoid losing their heads—or the scarier stuff, like interrogating the enemy—Ry messed with engines and cleansed his skin with motor oil. Which is still, ya know,same-samein the end, since he was still at war and still making the tanks operational. But…” I take a slow sip of my water, wetting my throat and following the slide of cool liquid all the way to my belly. “It was adjacent enough to help me sleep at night. And then there’s you…” I search his face. “I would have worried about you, too, if I’d known you existed. Maybe that was Ry’s intention. Maintaining that boundary and saving me from the emotional turmoil of getting to know his friends, only for something awful to happen to them. But now I know you, and I find myself immensely glad you’re retired, and the most action you saw was smashing your fingers with a socket wrench.”
“Yeah…” He looks across as Alessio’s father stops by with a bottle of wine. Lincoln holds the stem of his glass and waits for Elio to pour a little in, then taking a sip and nodding his approval, he gestures for my glass to be filled.
Once Elio leaves, he settles back in his chair and stares across at me like I’m the only other human in this entire room. “Tell me something about yourself. Something fun. Something that makes you smile.”
“Um…” I swap my water for wine and grin at the man tryingsohard to be decent. “So, I brought this guy home one time. And his penis was?—”
“Nova!” He slams his elbows on the table and growls. “Move on from that one.”
“But you make it so easy.” I sip and snicker, careful not to make a mess with the sweet liquid. “Okay. So, when Ry and I were nine, back when life was a little less…” I consider my options, only to land on, “shitty, we wondered why we couldn’t read each other’s thoughts.”
Stunned, Linc’s brows furrow. “What?”
“Twins,” I explain. “It was science, so itmust be truethat we possessed some kind of telepathic connection, right? We’dshared a womb, and until we were thirteen, we even shared a room.”
“Thirteen? Babe, heneededout of that room by his teens. Men have impulses. Men have desires.”
“Oh, God.” I plug my ears andla-la-la-launtil his lips stop moving. “Fine. We’re even. I won’t talk about Justin’s small penis anymore.”
His eyes flitter between amusement and exasperation, until finally, he tilts his glass my way. “Glad we have an understanding. So, telepathy?”
“Well, we were trying to figure it out. I threw rocks as hard as I could at the backs of his legs. Ya know, to see if I’d feel the pain.”
His chest and shoulders bounce with mirth. “Did it work?”
“No. But Ry got pretty grouchy about the welts over the next few days. He encouraged me to hold my hand over an open flame and see how long I could stand it.” I study my palm. “I lasted about two seconds before yelping and pulling away. He didn’t feel a thing. We tried thinking of something really,reallyhard. Like, something that was the center of our worlds, and the only thing we could ever wish for or hope for. Then, to really drive those thoughts home, we wrote them down in notebooks and tried to guess what the other was thinking.”
His bottom lip trembles with a smile. “Did it work?”
“Not consistently. We had a few lucky guesses, since sometimes things are just that obvious. Like when Larissa Cameron wasbeggingfor Ry’s attention in seventh grade. She’d just discovered she had boobs, and he’d just realized he really liked that kind of thing.” I cross my legs beneath the table and wrinkle my nose at the memory. “That was an easy one toguess. Another time, it was nearly Christmas, and we were on the very edge of believing and non-believing. Mom and Dad never confirmed when we asked if it was fake, but they didn’t deny it either. It was one of those things where we were allowed to think whatever we wanted. So, Ryan, being Ryan, wanted to know my thoughts.Real or not? We agreed we’d write our answers on a sheet of paper and try to guess what the other said. I knew from the outset he would sayno, because he was always the practical one of the two of us, and he knew I’d sayyes, because even if I knew better, I erred on the side of magic.” Shrugging, I bring my wine up and enjoy the delicious flavors on my tongue. “Even when I was younger, I felt life was more tolerable when I could believe in the best about something, even if it was unlikely. And now that I’m older,” I stare down into my glass, pensive, “even though Iknowmagic doesn’t exist, and life seems pretty intent on showing me the worst, I cling to my hope, even in the darkest days. If I don’t,” I bring my eyes up again, “I might cry.”
Alessio pops up on my right, startling me, and says nothing of the way my eyes glitter with unshed tears. “Would you like to order appetizers?”
“Yeah.” I snatch the menu from the poor kid’s hands, flip to the pasta page, and stab a finger directly on top of the white wine and parmesan penne. “I’d love my main, actually. I’m starving.”
15
LINCOLN
CREDIT WHERE CREDIT’S DUE
Naïve, I wonder, or determined to believe in fairy tales?
Self-loathing dances with self-disgust, taking up residence in my stomach and making it damn near impossible to enjoy a sixty-dollar plate of pasta the way Nova can.
Her appetite is fine because her conscience is clear. Mine, on the other hand, is riddled with the lies I’ve told and the false promises I’ve made. With the USB stick in my pocket, burning my thigh and reminding me, minute after minute, what a piece of shit I am, and the vibration of my phone in a different pocket, Aster demanding my attention, and no doubt, confirmation I sent his package this afternoon.
I did.
My heart aches because of the watch I stole. It probably isn’t even the fucking key we’re looking for, and because of that uncertainty, my mind scrambles for a valid excuse if she notices its absence.
Though I can’t give her any. Because I’m not supposed toknow it exists, and I sure as shit can’t admit I was in her home when she wasn’t aware of it.
Ryan lied to her, too. That much is certain. Because he went nowhere near the motor pool while he served, and he, too, knows the art of interrogation. With or without weapons, and in the presence of, or not, mental fuckery.
Did he ever manipulate her? For good or for bad, did he use his skills to point her in a certain direction, or—and more likely—away from one?
His lies, at least, were to protect her. To maintain that magic she clings to, and cement an image of perfection so she could continue to love him and be proud, long after his passing.
