Page 68 of Roses in Summer

“Should I be concerned that you’re stalking me now?”

“Nah, it’s harmless for now.”

“For now? Is there a chance that it wouldn’t be?”

“You know better than to ask that question. Walk with me?”

I gulp at his nonresponse. “Should I really take an evening walk with a guy who just refused to answer a question about stalker-ish tendencies?”

“Ciern,” he groans, his hand reaching out to clasp my hand. “Come on. We need to talk.”

“Fine,” I grumble, letting him pull me off the back step and into the inky darkness. I keep my hand in his until we clear the fence gate. Once we’re in the front yard, I pull away and nod toward the street. “There’s a park a couple of blocks down.”

With the illumination of the streetlights, I can see him more clearly, can see how his startlingly bright-green eyes stay on me as we walk, how his caramel skin seems to glow under the fluorescent lights, like a god from a mythological book, maybe Ares or Hades, a forceful, cunning god known for his wit and beauty. It’s a foolish thought, but I can’t help as my mind grasps onto it and envisions Lincoln in armor and cloth. I chuckle to myself, earning a sharp look from him that I wave away.

Thankfully, he doesn’t ask me to explain, and we keep our thoughts to ourselves as we walk. Unspoken words hang between us as we go the two short blocks to the neighborhood park, where swing sets line the perimeter and a small playset rests in the middle.

I lead him to the closest set of swings and sit down on a worn leather seat while he leans against one of the metal poles holding it up.

I shift from side to side, waiting for Lincoln to break the silence with whatever it is he wants to say.

Small moments stretch into long minutes, and just when I think he will keep us locked in a silent standoff, he breaks the treaty. “Why did you choose Marymount University?”

Of all the questions he could ask, I’m surprised by that one, especially since the answer seems obvious. “I wanted to come home.”

He nods, looking away as he considers my response.

I let him have his moment, continuing my side-to-side swaying on the swing.

“Can I text you?”

My movement stops, and I look up at him, finding his gaze still diverted. “You can do anything you want. And haven’t you already texted me?”

He turns to me sharply. “You know what I meant. Will you answer me if I text?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. No world exists where I don’t want Lincoln Simmons. None. But no world exists that hides the reality we both face: Lincoln just ended a long relationship, and I have more trust issues than the average person.

Lincoln lets out a huff, running both hands over his head. “I get it, ciern. I do. But I can’t stop this thing between us any more than you can.” He pauses, drawing in a long breath before releasing it. “I’m asking you to talk to me. I’m asking you to get to know me again. We were friends once. Even if you tell me to go kick rocks and fuck myself, just give me a chance to get to know you again. Or relearn you.”

I stare at him, absorbing his words. “I haven’t changed much,” I admit.

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. The Sera from four years ago, the one who let that prick hurt and manipulate and scare you, would have never left him. You would have stayed because you were scared and lonely. But the Seraphina now? The one who acts just like that little pain in my ass I met all those years ago? Her, I know. Give me a chance to get to know her again, to get to know you.”

Biting down on my lower lip, I can’t help the uncertainty that bombards me. “What if you don’t like what you find?”

“And what if I do?” His answer is immediate, almost like he anticipated my response. “What if I do, Seraphina? What then? Will you run scared?”

“I don’t—I’m not—” I break off, shaking my head. “I’m not scared of you, Lincoln. I’m cautious.”

“Same fucking shit. What this comes down to is you’re scared. Stop hiding, Sera, especially now when we have the opportunity to actually see where this could go.”

He lets out a loud sigh, the anger seeping out of him. “Look, Sera, I like you. I want to take you out on a date. I want you to respond to a text when I reach out. I want you to give me a fair shot and not self-sabotage a possibility because you’re chicken shit.”

“Everything sounded nice up until the chicken shit part,” I grumble.

Lincoln lets out a bark of laughter. “Fuck, Seraphina. I’ve missed your sass. I won’t pressure you now. I know you have shit to think about and enough on your plate. But promise me that when I text you, you’ll answer. I’ve wasted enough time with the wrong woman, and I don’t—I can’t—waste any more.”

“I—” I start, pausing to swallow. “Okay.” My voice is soft, but I know he hears it when he nods once.

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