“This is supposed to be a happy day, I said so, and here I am getting depressing. I’ll be right back.” Lincoln crossed the room and took the stairs two at a time.
Sara found a pile of tangled hooks at the bottom of the box, pricking her finger with one. She put the angel on one of the sturdier looking limbs and watched as it bent way down, looking close to the point of snapping. Sara stared at the angel appearing to fall from the sky, too heavy to fly, and sadness hit her.
“Here you go.”
A red sweater was dangled in front of her face. “What’s this?” Sara looked up, blinking, and then laughed. “What are you wearing?”
A brown fleece sweater a size too small formed to his fit frame. Rudolph, red nose and all; stared back at Sara. She grinned at Lincoln and Lincoln went still, his eyes on her, a strange expression on his face.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, the grin fading.
He shook his head and the look was gone. “It’s nothing. Put this on.”
Sara took the sweater, holding it up before her. A candy cane with a green bow was on the front of it. “Whose is this?”
“Does it matter?”
“A little, yes.”
“Grandma Lena’s. Do it justice.”
Sara touched Rudolph’s red nose. “And whose is this?”
“Grandma Lena’s.”
Sara laughed. “And are you doing it justice?”
“I’m trying.”
She nodded, her eyes meeting his. “That’s all you can do.”
Lincoln leaned toward her, his lips close to hers as he said, “Exactly.”
Her pulse quickened at his nearness and Sara hastily moved away, bumping into the table. Why did he do that? And why was she all flustered? She clutched the sweater to her chest, keeping her eyes downcast. “I’ll just…go put this on.”
“Please.”
***
The tree had candy canes, gold tinsel, red garland, and as many of the Christmas ornaments as would fit on it adorned to it. It was ghastly and garish. Sara loved it. She stood beside Lincoln, both of them looking at the decorated tree. The scents of melting cheese, Italian herbs, and red sauce floated over to them from the oven in the nearby kitchen and it was pleasantly warm in the house. Sara felt almost normal, close to happy.
“That is the ugliest Christmas tree I’ve ever seen, Sara. And I mean that.”
“It has character.”
Lincoln glanced at her. “Is that what they call it?”
Sara tugged at the neck of the itchy sweater. “Yeah. Like these sweaters have a lot of character.”
“At least you’re not a guy wearing a woman’s sweater.”
“No one made you.” She gave him a pointed look.
“Pizza’s ready. What do you want to drink?”
“How do you know the pizza’s ready?”
“Because I have no witty comeback to your comment, so that means the pizza’s ready. Drink?”
“Water. I’ll get it.” Sara moved before Lincoln did and bumped into him, his hands reaching out to steady her. Wariness shot through her as Sara’s eyes met Lincoln’s. His were intense, focused. Lincoln’s nostrils slightly flared as he stared down at her.
“Why do you always look at me like that?” Sara blurted before she could stop herself.
“Like what?” he asked cautiously.
“I don’t know. Like…that.” She gestured to his face, perplexed by him, by her reaction to him. Sara didn’t understand any of it.
Lincoln’s hands dropped from her arms and he moved away. “Because it’s all I can do.”
“What does that mean?” she demanded, following him into the kitchen.
The oven beeped as Lincoln turned it off. He swung around, stopping her with his gaze. “Do you really want to have this conversation?”
Sara helplessly lifted her hands, palms up. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t even know what conversation we’re having. I’m confused, Lincoln.”
With a sigh, he grabbed oven mitts from the counter and took the pizza from the oven. “Confused is good. Stay confused. Easier that way,” he muttered.
Frown on her face, Sara leaned her hips against the counter, crossing her arms, and watched Lincoln meticulously cut the half cheese, half pepperoni pizza into eight pieces. His fingers were long-boned and lean, covered in callouses and small cuts, but still graceful in a way she wouldn’t think a carpenter’s fingers could be, or maybe that was backwards; maybe they were exactly as a carpenter’s should be.
“Gonna get your water?” he abruptly asked, glancing over his shoulder at her.
“Yeah.” Caught staring, Sara quickly moved beside him and opened a cupboard door, reaching up and grabbing a blue cup. “You want one?” She looked over and found his eyes on her, a pained expression on his face. “All right.” Sara slammed the cup down on the counter. “What’s going on?”
He straightened, dropping the pizza cutter to the stove. “You really have to ask that?”
“I—“
“What do you think is going on?”
Her face began to heat up. “I think you’re purposely being an ass.”
“Really? That’s what you think?” Lincoln moved closer, those silver with gold-flecked eyes narrowed and locked on her.
Sara backed up, bumping into the counter. “What’s your problem, Lincoln? Why are you acting like this? Why are you always pushing me lately, testing me? What’s the purpose of it?”
“I want you to live,” he said in a voice low with emotion.
“I am.” I don’t want to be, but I am.
Shaking his head, he said, “No. You’re not. You’re pretending to live. It’s not the same.”
“It’s the only way…I can endure this, Lincoln,” she said in a quaking voice.
Lincoln closed the distance between them, bracing an arm on either side of her, locking her between his arms and the counter. He lowered his head until his lips were close to her ear. Sara tried to swallow and couldn’t; scared to move, scared to breathe, scared to think.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m so screwed up in the head, Sara,” he whispered raggedly, his breath tickling her ear. “So unbelievably fucked up.” Lincoln’s shoulders slumped and his head dipped lower, his forehead grazing her shoulder. “I thought I was okay. I thought I could do this. But I’m cracking, unraveling. I’m being an asshole and I want to stop and I just…can’t.” The pain in his voice was like a laceration against her soul; hot agony that grew instead of lessening.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Lincoln. I don’t understand any of it.” Her voice was high, breathless.
He pulled back so that he could look at her. “Just…let me talk, okay? Just let me talk.” Lincoln drew in a ragged breath, his body tightly coiled and yet trembling all the same. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. I’m just…I’m angry and I’m sad and I just…I want to forget. I wish I could forget. Forget him, forget you, forget it all. I’m sick of feeling the way I do. I’m twisted inside. Knotted.”
Lincoln gently touched his forehead to hers. “I want to stop being this way. But I can’t. Because only one thing can make it better and it’s the one thing I can’t have. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sara.” The misery, the self-loathing she heard in the tremble of his voice; it was aching to hear. Her ears would bleed from the pain of it if they could.
Sara didn’t know what Lincoln was talking about, or maybe she did, but she didn’t want to know. Her pulse raced at an uncontrollable speed. This Lincoln was different; this Lincoln wasn’t the one she’d known for years. He was altered, changed. He felt more, hurt more. Could it be this was the real Lincoln and she was only now seeing him?
Had that teasing young man with the easy grin been an illusion and was Sara now seeing past the illusion to the real man? And who was Lincoln then? She’d thought she’d known him, but maybe she hadn’t really known him at all. The thought made her stomach knot up. Sara studied the face she knew almost as well as her husband’s that was so very different from his; the high forehead, the angular cheekbones, the square jaw. There was beauty and strength in that face and mysteries stared at her from stormy gray eyes. What truths did Lincoln keep locked inside, for him alone to know?