Katie McGarry - Take Me On

“I heard you scream. No one’s imagination works that well.”

He grabs a dish towel and dries off the pot before placing it back on the hook on the wall. Lincoln’s so efficient, especially for a guy who “bends rules.” With a scrape against the tile floor, he pulls out the chair next to mine and angles it so he’s facing me. “Just so we’re clear, a stalker suggests multiple run-ins over a period of time. I think this is more of a prank.”

The skin between my eyes squishes together. “A prank? Really?”

Lincoln relaxes into the chair, his long legs kicked out, an arm resting on the table. I feel like a dwarf next to him. He drums his fingers once against the table, causing me to focus on his hands. The skin is tough, rougher than the hands of most of the guys I’ve dated. It’s not an imperfection, but a reminder of how he dangles from rock walls.

I wonder if he’d ever let me watch him climb or if he’d teach me. My stomach tickles as if fuzzy bunnies are jumping around. Would he catch me with those strong hands if I fell?

“You’re the CSI dictionary,” he answers. “Didn’t an episode talk about how stalkers have patterns or some crap like that?”

“You started watching CSI?” I’m grinning from ear to ear, and his cheeks redden in response. The big, strong rock-climbing guy folds his hands across his chest and switches his gaze to the floor. It’s my favorite show ever, and I’ve written a few letters to him detailing certain episodes.

He sloppily shrugs one shoulder. “I caught a few shows here and there.”

I don’t know why, but the fact that he showed interest in something I like creates giddiness. I swirl the hot chocolate in my mug and blow on it in order to hide the glee. “What makes you think it’s a prank?”

“You said it yourself. If someone wanted to hurt you, you’d be hurt. Your parents are gone, and I’d bet someone thinks it would be funny to scare you.”

My forehead furrows with the idea that anyone would want to freak me out. “Why?” I ask again.

“Because people can be stupid.”

True. Tired of thinking about it, I change the subject. “Hot chocolate?”

“I made it for Meg every night after she found out she was pregnant. It seemed to help calm her down when she’d get all worked up.”

Translation? He believes I’m about to crack. My heart beats a little faster when I replay the image of the shadow walking toward me. Maybe he’s not wrong. “Has she held the baby yet?”

Lincoln subtly shakes his head. “I keep wondering how jacked up the kid will become because his mother can’t get her shit together.”

The way his blue eyes darken into hurt causes a sharp pain in my chest. I reach out and claim one of the hands resting against his crossed arms. Lincoln weaves his with mine and we hold hands on the table, both of us staring at our combined fingers. God, his hands are warm—strong—and I swallow as I imagine him caressing my face.

“How’s Echo?” he asks.

“Good. She’s in Kansas or Iowa or someplace.” Not here with me, and that sucks. She no longer needs me now that she has... “She’s with Noah.”

“So she’s moved on,” he says almost as a whisper.

From me? Yes. But she hasn’t moved on the way Lincoln suggests. Sadness envelops me like a cloud. I’ve witnessed Echo grieve for her brother. Hell, I’m still grieving for Aires. He was like my older brother, too. “She’s living. Not forgetting.”

Lincoln removes his hand to rub his face. I leave my hand on the table for a second, hoping he’ll wrap his back around mine. When he lowers it into his lap instead, I curl my arm into my own body—hating the rejection, missing his warmth. But I’m not mad at him. I can see I’ve lost him to memory. Echo has done this mental retreat several times herself.

We lapse into silence, I guess both of us processing the past couple of hours. The silence feels comfortable, like an old quilt, and I revel in it. But then my eyes dart to him. What if he’s not comfortable? What if the written connection in our letters is all we possess? What if we don’t ignite a real life spark?

What does it matter since he lied to me? We need to talk about it, but not now. Not when I’ve barely slept in almost two days and my mind’s a disoriented mess. He could explain basic addition and I’d drool like an idiot.

Sleep—I crave it, but can I have it? My thoughts shift back to the idea of someone pranking me. “Who would want to scare me?”

“You tell me.” He kneads his eyes, and for the first time I notice the dark circles beneath them. He’s tired, and as I sip the warm drink, I realize my exhaustion is contagious.

“I have no idea.” And the unknown terrifies me.

Lincoln

It’s crazy how you brought up feeling alone. I feel alone a lot. Oddly enough, I feel the most alone when I’m in a room full of people. Everyone I know is changing. Echo’s distant. Grace wants new friends. Even Natalie is spreading her wings.

To be fair, I’m changing, too. At times I feel like my skin is too tight on me. All the time, I fight the urge to cut my hair and buy new clothes. I mean, who exactly am I going to change into? I’m still me, but not.

~ Lila

Lila’s fingernail taps repeatedly against the table, like a machine gun firing off multiple rounds. “I’m too tired to deal with this now.” She slams her hand on the table, silencing any more discussion on her possible prankster.

She stands and I follow, wondering if the park ranger will allow me back into the camp. Otherwise, I’m screwed. “Can I come back in the morning?” Then I remember what time it is. “Late morning? Afternoon?”

Lila freezes the same way Meg does anytime she’s near the baby. Hell, Lila hates me.

“Will you stay? I told the police you would. You told the police you would. If you leave that would be like breaking the law or something, so you have to stay.”

I raise an eyebrow at her logic—or lack of logic—but there’s no way I’m blowing this opportunity. “I’ll stay.”

“Good. Because you have to.”

Lila leads me back into the living room and mumbles for me to stay put. Her footsteps are light down the hallway. The one-story house is the size of a mansion and decorated like one of Mom’s Better Homes and Gardens magazines. Nice and breakable shit—everywhere. After several abrupt sounds that indicate Lila must have accepted a wrestling match with an alligator, she reappears with blankets and a pillow.

“Do you mind sleeping on the couch?” she asks.

I’d sleep on nails in order to be near her. “No.”

She hands me the ingredients for a temporary bed.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome.” Lila’s fingers draw toward the hem of her tank top, and I remind myself to breathe when I catch sight of the sun-kissed skin of her flat stomach. In seconds, she pulls at the hem and her belly button disappears.

“Well, good night,” she says while tucking her golden hair behind her ear.

“Night,” I respond. Should I hug her? Kiss her? Shake her hand? Get on my knees and start begging for forgiveness?

She shifts her footing but stays in place. “The bathroom is down the hall.”

“All right.”

“You can take a shower if you want.”

“Thanks,” I answer.

“You’re welcome.”

And we’ve already had this conversation. Lila sniffs as if her allergies bother her, and she lowers her head. I want to comfort her, but I have no clue how to tread on this territory. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t want to be alone,” she whispers. “Not even alone in a room. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“You could never be pathetic,” I say. Not the girl I’ve come to love from the letters. The girl who defended her best friend, even though taking that stand cost her other friendships. The girl who tells me exactly what she thinks of me, even when the truth hurts. The girl who dreams of being more—the girl who dreams of Florida.

Her lower lip trembles. “If you think that, then you don’t know me very well.”

I know her better than she realizes. I know the letters she writes to me late at night are more emotional than the ones written during the day, as if a lack of sleep inhibits reasoning. I ditch the blankets and pillow on the arm of the couch and plop myself onto the cushions. “Come here.”

Her gaze switches from the space on the couch to me. “I don’t understand.”

I snatch the extrahuge pillow and drop it on my lap. “Sleep here.”

Lila stretches the hem of her tank top over her hips as she moves toward me. When she sits, it’s with her thigh melting against mine. Her heat radiates past my jeans to my skin. Every single cell within my body sizzles to life. Play this right, Lincoln. She deserves a man, not a boy.

Without saying a word, Lila rests her head on the pillow and extends her legs on the couch. I drape the blanket over her body, and I love how she flips to her side, knees curled up in the fetal position.

Her eyelids flutter as she talks. “I’m sorry I slammed the door in your face.”

A lock of her hair strays onto her cheek. I shouldn’t, but I do it anyhow. With the same care I use when handling my nephew, I sweep the silky strands behind her ear. I’d give my left arm to comb my fingers through her hair until she falls asleep. “I deserved it.”

Her chest expands and she yawns. “Why didn’t you graduate?”

“Because I was stupid.” A nauseating pit forms in my gut. Stupid—it’s what Lila must assume about me. A moron who can’t put two words together to form a sentence, a moron who can’t add, a moron who didn’t graduate. But that’s not what happened. I didn’t graduate because I stopped caring.

Lila closes her eyes and lazily mumbles, “You’re not stupid. I’ve read all your letters—several times. You’re a good writer. And you got a twenty-nine on your ACT. That’s hardly stupid.” She pauses. “Not unless that was a lie, too.”

“It wasn’t,” I say. “I only lied about graduating.”

“What about getting in to the University of Florida?” she asks. “You told me you were accepted through early admission.”

“I was,” I answer. “But admittance was contingent on graduating.” I struggle to find the right words. How do I prove to her that I’m not lying? “I’ll send you my official ACT scores. I’ll send you my acceptance letter. Whatever you need in order to believe me.”

“I believe you.” She’s motionless long enough that I wonder if she’s drifted to sleep. Then she pats my knee and whispers, “Tell me what happened.”

Lila removes her hand, but my skin still burns from her touch. She believes me. Maybe, someday, she’ll trust me. I prop my elbow on the arm of the couch and lean my head against my fist. I should keep my other arm resting on the back of the couch. Instead, I cave to temptation and snake it around her body. She nuzzles closer to me in response. For a girl who is just my friend—just a pen pal—this feels incredibly right.

“Lincoln?” she urges.

“We should wait until morning,” I say.

“It is morning. And I’m impatient.”

I chuckle. She is. Lila informed me of her unhappiness anytime a letter from me ran a day later than she thought it should have. I take a deep breath and jump.

“I began skipping in the fall and then skipped more days than I should have. By the time I realized I hadn’t earned enough classroom hours to graduate, I was already screwed.”

Her eyes flicker open. “Did you skip because you missed Josh?”

Hearing his name on her lips causes my chest to jerk. The familiar, unwanted pain spreads from my heart to my brain. She’ll never know him. Never meet him. “Yeah, Josh. And everything else.”

I told her in several letters that I had skipped. That when I woke in the morning and felt the emptiness of Josh’s death, the burden of feeding a baby, the anger of listening to my parents argue, I’d feel like I’d explode if I didn’t break free. So I’d drive to the state park and climb until my fingers bled.

Her head rocks in my lap. “I should have seen it coming.”

“Seen what coming?”

“That when you can’t handle things, you run.” She wrote the same criticism in her letters to me when I told her I had skipped school.

“I don’t,” I say.

Her only response is the rush of air blowing out of her mouth.

“I don’t,” I repeat with the stubbornness of a dog gripping a chewed-up slipper in its jaws.