Page 37 of The Captain

Sadness clouds her eyes, and I brace myself for the answer.

TWELVE

Lincoln

Five Months Ago

I rubbed at my mouth, suppressing the smile on my face as Cassie’s mom tells me a story about how Cassie used to use her Polly Pockets to make worlds. The little dolls would have magic and swords and have to complete missions.

“That’s amazing.” I laughed, listening with intent as Cassie helped bus tables. I was helping too, even though I was there to study, but I leaned against the long and wide breakfast bar that separated the employees from the occupants, listening to her mom’s stories.

Heather laughed as she retold the story—oh yeah, she asked that I call her Heather instead of Mrs. Grayson—and leaned on her side of the large countertop. “She was so good at the storytelling. You’ve got to read her book.”

I lifted my brows in surprise. “She wrote an actual book?”

Her eyes widened. “Of course! Been working on that sucker for years! Cassie!” She waved Cassie over and nodded at me when she got close enough. “You’ve got to let Lincoln read your book.”

Cassie’s mouth gaped. “Mom! Don’t go telling everyone everything, please!”

“What? What’s wrong with that?” Heather looked genuinely confused and waited for Cassie to give an explanation.

Which she wasn’t going to get because Cassie walked away and back to our booth.

I bit my lip and gave Heather an apologetic look like her daughter’s behavior was my responsibility. “Guess I’d better get to work.”

Heather smiled at me like she knew what she was doing. I’m glad she thought so, because I felt absolutely clueless.

I made my way over to the table we’d deemed ours, or at least, I had, and I sat in my spot, grabbing my drink and taking a long pull as Cassie took a red pen and marked over a paper.

I leaned forward to see what she was going over, and I grimaced. It was my paper.

For a few moments, I let her work out her frustrations on it.

I gave it to her two days prior, and she was still working on it. She sighed, sitting back, and looking at me dead on. “I’m sorry, Lincoln.”

I shook my head and smiled sarcastically. “It’s all right. I’m not a writer.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“This whole fucking course doesn’t make sense,” I admitted, slumping in my seat. I hated seeming vulnerable with her, showing her that I wasn’t a smart guy, that I couldn’t even get through a basic journalism course.

“I can talk to the professor about Mary—”

“No,” I cut her off, waving my hand in the air. “It was my own fault. I’ll take the punishment.”

“It’s not fair, Linc,” she said, surprising me. Cassie looked at me like she had real empathy for my situation. So far, when talking to me, she’d been tough on me, not allowing excuses when it came to the reason I was in this situation in the first place.

I’d come to realize she was right to be mad and to put the blame on me.

“Life’s not fair, Sunshine,” I said, raking my fingers through my hair. “Hit me with it, what can I do?”

Then, for the next hour, I got grilled by Cassie Grayson on how to write properly.

It was exhausting.

Cassie

“I’m starting to not believe your reason for coming up here after study sessions,” I joked, seeing Lincoln settle into the couch and make himself at home. He was good at that. Making himself comfortable wherever he went.

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