I wanted to ask him something, anything about the event. But the words didn’t leave my mouth. I was overwhelmed by what questions to ask and the appropriate way to ask them.
“You should come,” Lincoln said. “I don’t think you got the chance to play last time.”
I tried to smile. The last time I’d pushed myself to come to one of their house parties, I ended up overstimulated. I had a panic attack in my car afterward. It took me days to feel like myself again. I couldn’t handle being around anyone, not even Naomi, for more than ten minutes. That was when the textsbetween Lincoln and me came to an official end. He’d checked in, and I’d left it unanswered.
“It’s okay,” I said, meaning it was okay that I didn’t get to play, not that I didn’t want to come. Lincoln assumed the latter.
“No worries.” He smiled and pulled his hand away since I had finished bandaging him.
“I meant…I hadn’t been ready the first…time.”
“It’s not everyone’s cup of tea.” Lincoln focused on patching up his leg.
My mouth remained open as I tried to come up with something to say. The anxiety that had made my stomach sour turned into frustration. If I couldn’t correct a simple misunderstanding, how in the world did I expect to ask him to work with me? Or anyone to work with me, for that matter?
Say something, I willed myself.Anything.
At this point, I’d settle for a dry comment on the weather. My brain had other plans.
“Who’s your favorite mystery author?” It was random but not too out of left field… I hoped.
“Too difficult to narrow down.” Lincoln smiled, his bright energy returning. “Will you settle for my favorite one at the moment?”
“That works.” I nodded; the weight in my chest loosened because I’d done something to push the conversation forward. It was a small, pinky-finger, minimal-effort push. But a push, nonetheless.
“Zoey Carter. If you happen to look her up, don’t believe the reviews,” he warned. “She’s ahead of her time; I promise.”
I raised a brow. “Why…uh…do you like her?”
“Her plots are a perfect blend of real and nonsensical,” he said, moving his hands as he spoke. “Every time I finish her books, I’m more confused than when I started.”
“And that’s… a good thing?”
“The best. It makes me feel a part of it. She doesn’t spell everything out, and it’s exciting trying to fill in the blanks. It’s like I’m writing the story along with her, you know?”
I nodded, trying to wrap my head around it. I didn’t know how I’d feel reading something that left me with more questions than answers. It sounded stressful. I already had enough internal anxiety to overcome. But something about the way Lincoln’s energy skyrocketed while he talked about it was enough to sell me. I tucked the name in the back of my mind, vowing to read something from the author. And if I did, I’d have an in with him—something easy and sure to talk about.
“Do you…have a particular book of hers you’d recommend to a new reader?” I asked.
“Oh, for sure—” Lincoln stopped short when there was a loud knock at the back sliding door. We turned. A guy with long, curly brown hair and sunburned cheeks stood there with his phone pressed to the glass. I couldn’t make out whatever was on the screen, but it was clear that he wanted Lincoln to see it.
“You can’t ignore me all week.” The glass muffled his stern tone. His posture more rigid than a telephone pole.
“This guy.” Lincoln sighed, unfazed by his new guest’s icy glare. “Sorry, excuse me for a second. I’ve gotta take care of this.”
He got up, limping a bit as he went to open the door.
“Get in, hurry, hurry,” Lincoln said with renewed vigor as he rushed the guy past the threshold.
He stepped inside, brow wrinkled with confusion and concern at Lincoln’s sense of urgency. His dismay grew when Lincoln scanned the backyard before closing the door behind him.
“What’s going on?” the guy asked. When he didn’t get an immediate answer from Lincoln, he glanced at me for an explanation. I was as lost as he was; my nerves spiked now there were two people I had to try to figure out how to interact with.
Lincoln made a show of closing the blinds and curtains. He still favored his leg but did an impressive job of getting around. “I can’t have the neighbors seeing you. They have a bad habit of wanting to introduce themselves when they see people come over.”
The guy shook his head. “What are you going on about?”
“Since the Incident, they’ve obsessed over Mendell’s hockey team,” Lincoln explained in a stage whisper. “If they find out you play, they’ll ask for your jersey number. They’ve memorized every player.”