Cole averted his face as he played with the brush on the bathroom sink. “Do you…do you have any doubts, Sara?”
“What do you mean?” she whispered, dread forming inside her.
He rubbed his jaw, still not looking at her. “About us. The wedding’s coming up—“
“The wedding’s in two days,” she interrupted shrilly.
“Yeah. I just…do you? I have to know. Do you have any doubts?”
Her stomach dropped. “What? No. Never. Do you?” Sara’s pulse tripped as she choked the words out. If he doubted his love for her, she wouldn’t be able to take it. He was everything to her.
“No. Of course not. I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone, Sara. You’re it for me. I just…I wanna make sure I’m it for you too.” He lifted his head, showing his distraught eyes; a darker blue than they normally were with unhappiness. His jaw was tight, his lips pressed together.
“You’re it for me too, Cole,” she vowed, grabbing his dry, calloused hands and kissing the backs of them.
“Sure?”
“Positive.”
The troubled look faded and a grin captured his lips. “Better be. We got a wedding coming up.” He grabbed her and spun her around the small bathroom, knocking stuff over and making her laugh, which made him laugh.
Sara fisted her hands, staring at Lincoln. “You made him doubt himself. You made him doubt me. Why did you have to tell him that?”
Lincoln gritted his teeth. “I never gave him any reason to think I cared about you more than…more than I should have, but he thought it, knew it, anyway. I didn’t say anything until he punched me. I told you that. And if he had doubts, I didn’t put them there.”
“What are you saying? That he had doubts on his own about marrying me?” she whispered, her chest squeezing painfully.
“You think that’s what I’m doing?” His eyes flashed as he shot to his feet and advanced on her. “You think I’m trying to make you feel like shit? So what, I feel good or something? You really think I’d do that?”
“That’s what you’re doing.”
“It’s not what I’m doing!” Lincoln loomed over her, his face close to hers. “What I’m doing…what I’m doing…I don’t know what I’m doing.” Lincoln hung his head, his hair tickling her cheek.
Sara sucked in air through her lungs, but it was never enough. She was struggling. Her heart pounded with his proximity. Her body responded to Lincoln whether she wanted it to or not. She didn’t want it to. She didn’t want to feel about him the way she did. Especially now, at this moment, when he was saying what he was saying.
“I just want you to know that he wasn’t your only chance at happiness, that he wasn’t the only man you can love. I just want…I just want you to admit you care about me. Something. I want something from you, Sara, and I’m getting nothing.”
You have more of me than you know. Sara couldn’t tell him that. It was true, but she couldn’t say the words. As he stared down at her, the pull of him was too powerful, hypnotic. She didn’t understand why a yearning was forming inside her, pulsating with need, longing for something, for Lincoln. Sara’s eyes remained locked with his as she angled her face up. His brows lowered, his breathing quickened.
What are you doing? something inside her screamed and Sara leaned back in her chair, shaking and unnerved. “I think…maybe…”
Lincoln straightened; his facial expression empty. He crossed to the front door. “Yeah. Take care, Sara,” he said as he opened the door, but there was a hint of mockery to it.
***
He hadn’t been perfect. He’d been a little too prideful at times, and even somewhat selfish, but Sara had loved him anyway. He’d been her husband, her world, and she’d loved him. And now—She inhaled deeply, briefly closing her eyes—now there was pain and loss where the love had been. Lincoln had no right to point out his flaws to her, as if she hadn’t already known them, as if Sara would forget them.
When Sara thought of Lincoln, her insides knotted uncomfortably and she felt a little sick. It made her think of him—her husband—less, and that brought relief and guilt with the realization. Most days she felt emotionless, especially when her thoughts went to him. There was just…a void where he was supposed to be and that hurt the most. The thought of closing her eyes and never reopening them was appealing. It was as if all the grief she’d had stored up for him had evaporated or been buried with him to be replaced with nothing. Sara was nothing. She felt nothing. Why not feel nothing forever?
She wanted to hate Lincoln for making her feel when that was the last thing she wanted. The numbness faded when he was near. He brought life back to her, and it was painful and stinging like a limb coming awake after going to sleep from disuse. Sara hung her head as she leaned against the kitchen sink, her hands gripping the edges of it. She almost hated Lincoln for forcing her to live, but of course, she hated herself more. Sara especially hated how she had a life to live and she was wasting it and couldn’t find the courage, the strength, to not let it rot away.
If God was really around, she’d like to ask Him why. She’d like to ask Him why about a lot of things, but most prominent in her mind was: why her? She was ungrateful, unworthy of the life she had. If Sara could give it back to her husband she would. Too late, Sara. It’s too late for that.
“Are you here?” someone asked. It took a moment for Sara to realize that the unfamiliar voice was hers; high and breathless and distorted.
She slowly turned around, wondering what she would see, wondering what she would hear. It was her kitchen, same as it should be. The air didn’t shift, no image produced itself, and there was no disembodied voice. There was no one. It made her sad, which Sara realized was probably not a good sign. Pretty soon she’d be having full conversations with inanimate objects.
The pull to leave the house was profound. Sara quickly washed the plate and cup from her supper. The peanut butter and honey toast and milk had been tasteless, but it had reduced the gnawing sensation in her stomach. She tugged on a coat and stood before the closed front door, thinking of the painting of the blue door the color of his eyes. Her hand trembled as it reached for the doorknob; Sara already knew where she would go. Something in him called to her, or maybe it was as simple as she didn’t want to be alone.
Sara opened the door, icy air brushing over her as she stepped outside. The month was April, but the nights said it was still January in temperature. It was dark out, sporadic streetlamps adding a hazy glow to the houses and not completely thawed ground, giving it a surreal look. She hurried to the car. Sara started it up, quickly pulling the car out of the driveway.
Days, sometimes weeks, went by without them speaking, but it always became too much. There was a point, without fail, when it turned unbearable for Sara to continue to keep her distance from Lincoln, and she knew it was the same for him when he abruptly appeared at her house, surly and confrontational, but close-mouthed about that day he’d changed everything with his confession.
She didn’t know what they were doing to each other. It was like they tried to stay away from each other, and then they couldn’t stay away any longer. And his words. Those words Lincoln had spoken to her; they haunted her, made her hot and cold at the same time; caused her heart to race, and filled her with fear so intense she tasted it in the bitterness on her tongue. Why had he said those things to her?
Because they’re true. Sara swallowed painfully, eyes on the darkened house. It was obvious he wasn’t home. The truck wasn’t out front. Not a light was on in the house. Sara glanced at the clock on the dash. It was after eight.