Page 96 of Safety Net
You don't prefer it. Not if the alternative is being with him. Even when you don't feel like enough, you want to be with him.
"You wanted to talk about something?" Lincoln asked.
He did remember. I waited for frustration to rise to the surface, but tasted sadness instead.
"Let's talk," he insisted, swaying a bit so he had to grip onto the fence to keep himself steady.
"You sure you can?"
He laughed, unable to detect the thick seriousness in the air between us. "I'm not that drunk."
I gestured to his hands on the fence. "You're not able to stand up straight on your own."
"I can." Lincoln let go, held his hands in the air, and made a show of spinning around. He stumbled, and I reached for him. He laughed with his arm around my shoulder. The memory of us at the beginning of summer, when I was too afraid to respond to his text message, flashed in my mind. Despite my frustration, I smiled. "You seem happy."
Lincoln raised a brow. "Happy?"
"Yeah, in there with everyone. I thought I'd seen you happy, but that was a whole other level."
Lincoln laughed. Or tried to laugh. It was the kind of amusement someone feigns when they're unsure whether they should be offended or not.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"Nothing." I stepped back, out from underneath his arm. He didn't reach for me; instead, he shoved his hands into his back pockets. Lincoln tilted his head up for a second, staring at the sky like his last straw was floating amongst the stars.
The air between us was heavy with dissonance. It was him at the hockey rink all over again, but instead of having to contend with blocking a puck, it felt like he was blocking me. I'm at a loss, combing through our conversation like all the others I've had tonight. I hadn't had to do that for our interactions for over a month now.
"Is this what you wanted to talk about?" All amusement drained from his tone.
"No, not entirely." I folded my arms over my chest, and one hand massaged circles in my side. "Not at all, actually."
His eyes softened a bit when he noticed I was hugging myself. "Then what was it?"
"I wanted to ask about the…sets," I said. "My aunt said you hadn't dropped them off yet. I thought you'd done that last week."
He sighed. "I got it, Celeste. I told you, I got it."
"I know. It's just that the opening show is tomorrow. And I'm kind of worried. Do you know if it's completed? Will you have enough time to pick it up and put it all together?"
I didn't know all that went into putting the pieces back together because I'd completely given up the responsibility. Lincoln had assured me I could afford to with him in charge.
He took a deep breath and ran his hand over his head. "I'm sure it's ready."
"Sure?" My forehead wrinkled. "Wait, you haven't confirmed with the person you have working on it?"
"He's going to have it done."
"He's going to have it done," I repeated, more to myself and the knots in my stomach.
"Yeah, he is," Lincoln said. "Trust me. Try to relax. Don't let your anxiety win."
At any other time, I would have let those words wash over me. They were common enough to be ineffective. But right now, in this conversation, I didn't believe my anxiety was an issue. My nerves were burned through, replaced with annoyance.
I didn't appreciate the idea of my disorder being brought up when I responded in a perfectly normal way to something that would cause anyone concern. Cause anyone to question.
"Lincoln, those sets have been gone for almost a month," I said, voice hard and steady. "You said they'd be done in time for the show—a show where someone I really need to impress will be. I'm sorry, but I don't think this is an anxiety issue. I don't think most people would be relaxed."
He leaned his head back for a second. "Celeste, I swear I will get you those sets."
