Page 150 of What's Left of Us

When I click on the message, I hold it to my ear and feel the subtle rise in my heartbeat. “This is Jack Powell returning your call. I spoke to Shawn Hart, and I think I know how we can helpyou. But we’ll need more recordings. Give me a call back when you can.”

I delete the message and rub my clammy palms along my leggings. The feeling of betrayal weighs heavily on my shoulders, but I try brushing it off as I dial the number and listen to it ring.

That night when I get home from work, I’m surprised when I see Lincoln’s truck parked in the driveway. It’s enough to help me forget about the conversation that’s clung to my conscience all day.

When I walk upstairs and turn into the open dining room, I see Lincoln sitting on the floor with white pieces of wood scattered in piles around him and a screwdriver in his hand.

“I thought you took that overtime shift,” is how I greet him.

He looks up from the instructions on the floor. “I told them I couldn’t make it.” Setting the tool down, he pats the spot beside him. “Come here.”

Hesitantly, I set my things down on the counter and take the seat beside him on the carpet. That’s when I realize what he’s building.

“Bookshelves,” I whisper, touching the wood.

“For your birthday.”

My eyes dart to his.

“I didn’t forget.”

Guilt creeps up my chest.

He doesn’t let me talk. “We met four years ago today,” he notes, brushing a dark piece of hair behind my ear. “I know I’m a lot, but it’s because I want to give you a life you’re happy with. I may not be able to give you a bookstore, but I can build a few shelves.”

I smile. “I don’t want a bookstore, Lincoln.”

He meets my eyes.

“I just want my husband.”

His hand cups my cheek. “You have me, Peaches. Even on the days you might not think it.”

Yours,I told him only days ago.

“The same applies to you, you know.” I slide onto his lap and wrap my arms around his neck. “I don’t want to fight. I don’t want you to be mad.”

He presses his lips against mine. “Tell me what you want,” he says, his mouth brushing mine with each syllable.

All I say is, “For you to trust me.”

For a moment, his eyebrows pinch.

My whispered, “Please,” has his throat bobbing.

But eventually, he says, “Okay.”

I don’t know if he means it though.

Hours later, when he’s naked and asleep in bed, I crawl out of it and check my phone.

Unknown:Meet me tomorrow at 12

Unknown:You know where

I look back at my sleeping husband.

And then I delete the texts.

---