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“Neither did I,” I agreed quickly. “I just had a couple classes with him.”
Porter looked up, meeting my eyes with a smile that was a little too understanding. I shot to my feet, figuring my time as “friend” was over and it was time to get back to my receptionist duties. I returned to my desk to continue my work, chewing over the brief interaction.
Why was I so unnerved by Linc? Was it just old feelings coming back from long ago, or was there more to it? He had been more attractive than I remembered, muscular and tense in a way that spoke of life and death experience. His buzz cut and straight jaw left no doubt as to where he had been for the past eight years. I could see the ripple of toned biceps beneath his T-shirt, and the fabric danced loosely over his abdomen, promising a washboard stomach. It was possible that I was even more taken with him than I had been a decade ago. But that was crazy. I didn’t know anything about him. And he had made it clear that he didn’t want anything to do with any of us here in Singer’s Ridge.
I clocked out at five and went home. Friday night, I usually tried to go out, even if I didn’t have company. I could text Mary Beth and ask her if she wanted to go dancing. Sometimes she was up for a night on the town, even though she had a husband and two children. Sometimes Gina and I snuck away, leaving Porter to care for Seth. But tonight, I didn’t feel like doing either of those things.
My home was a cabin in the mountains. It was off of Deer Tail Road, about a ten-minute drive from work. I didn’t have enough money to buy it yet, but I had signed up for one of those rent-to-own deals. After ten years of monthly payments, I would be able to assume the mortgage—if I lasted ten years or if the owner didn’t sell it out from under me. Still, it was a dream, and something to look forward to.
I pulled up the drive and turned the car off. Outside the cabin there was a packed earth yard with a picnic table and a grill. The forest began about ten yards from my front door. Around back was a proper yard with grass and flowers. I had set up two lounge chairs, one for me and one for the company that I hardly ever had. There was a little bit of a view in the back. The land sloped off down into a valley, and the trees were sparse for the first hundred yards. Part of the next mountain was visible in the distance, along with a bit of sky.
I went inside, dropped my purse and my keys, and changed into something more comfortable. Pouring myself a glass of wine, I went out back and sat down. I practically lived in this lounge chair. I had a television, but I never watched it. If I was going to watch anything, it was usually YouTube, but I couldn’t get excited enough about any content creator to subscribe.
Most of the time, I just sat in the backyard, scrolling through social media or watching the forest. There was a family ofsquirrels that I had become familiar with. I watched them scurry back and forth, collecting food and leaping from branch to branch. I imagined myself alone on the mountain, divorced from civilization, free of all constraints.
I didn’t know if Lincoln had PTSD, but if he did, I could relate. Before I worked for Mr. Matthews, I had gotten a job as a waitress in Greenwood. It was one of those chain restaurants where they paid you less than minimum wage and made you wear goofy costumes and sing stupid songs.
The drama had been overwhelming. The manager was sleeping with one of the waitresses but was also married and everyone knew it. The franchise owner yelled at everyone no matter how hard they were working. There was a homeless guy who snuck in and sat in the back of the restaurant, forcing us to call the cops multiple times. I spent eight hours a day racing back and forth from the kitchen to placate toddlers who didn’t want buns with their hotdogs or retirees who said the coffee was too hot. In addition to all that, I was dating one of the cooks, and he was an emotional drain.
It didn’t rise to the level of shell shock, but the stress had made its impression. I stuck it out for years before I finally gave up. I called the manager in a crying fit, interrupting him at family dinner.
“I quit!” I had sobbed.
“Aly, you can’t quit,” he said forcefully as if I were one of his children throwing a tantrum. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
I never went back. They called me several times before deciding I was serious and held on to my last paycheck longer than they should have. When it became obvious that I wasn’t coming to getit, they mailed it to my old apartment. Then I came into a little bit of money when my grandmother died, so I lived off that for a while.
When I finally pulled myself together, I chose something that was the direct opposite of my failed job. At the lumberyard, I didn’t deal with the customers too much—at least not face to face. I had to make the occasional call about an overdue bill, and I was the point of contact for any questions suppliers had. But answering the phones wasn’t the same as being trapped in a restaurant unable to get away.
I had always been a light sleeper. Even when I was a child, I would wake at the slightest sound. Now it was a rare night that I slept even six or seven hours. Most of the time, I could coax two or three out of my thousand-dollar mattress, but anything more was just unobtainable.
I didn’t have the money for a therapist, but I had done some internet sleuthing. Prolonged stress could create unhealthy sleep cycles that were hard to break. Back when I had been working in Greenwood, I didn’t get a wink. I spent the whole night worried about the next day. I tried over-the-counter pills, but even they couldn’t guarantee me a restful night. I’d end up getting the same two or three hours and spend the next seventeen in a fog.
I tried lavender baths and scented candles on the off chance that aromatherapy might work. I tried meditation, even downloading one of the more popular apps. It walked me through guided imagery where I was supposed to imagine my “safe space.” It said I should pick a place where I felt comfortable and relaxed. I was already sitting in my backyard, so I had that covered. The soothing voice took me right up to the edge of sleep but left me hanging.
I tried classical music and the sounds of rain or the tide lapping on the beach. I tried yoga and going for walks after dinner. I bought the most expensive mattress at the department store and paid for them to ship it to my cabin. Once I had even tried drinking myself into a stupor, and my reward had been an entire night of the spins punctuated by vomiting fits. None of it helped.
I had resigned myself to a life without sleep.
I opened the reading app on my phone and picked up my current book. It was a cowboy romance, featuring the kind of man who didn’t exist in real life. After reading only one paragraph, a descriptive one in which the leading man stepped through the door into his lover’s bedroom, I set it back down.
I was picturing Lincoln’s face on the heartthrob’s body. He threw open the door and I was waiting for him, curled up on the bed. His face was dark with desire, his eyes drawn straight toward me. I sat up, breathless with anticipation. He crossed the room in two long strides, his shirt blowing open in a wind that couldn’t exist indoors. His cowboy hat remained firmly planted atop his head.
I closed my eyes in embarrassment. There were so many things wrong with that fantasy. To begin with, Lincoln wasn’t a cowboy, and we weren’t lovers. I didn’t even know if I felt that way about him, though I supposed if there was no attraction, I wouldn’t be daydreaming about him.
What was wrong with me? He was just some guy I knew in high school. Hell, I hadn’t even known him in high school, so why was I fixated on him?
From the moment I had learned he was back in town, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I wondered where he was and what hewas doing. I wondered how the last eight years had treated him—if he was injured spiritually as well as physically. And now here I was, practically making love to him in my mind.
If he knew what I was thinking about, I would have to leave town. I didn’t think I could stomach that much embarrassment. But nobody knew. Aside from asking a few questions, I hadn’t spoken about him at all. Maybe it was safe to daydream as long as I didn’t let it go anywhere.
Just because I didn’t know the man didn’t mean I couldn’t fantasize about him. People thought about other people all the time. As long as no one ever found out, I told myself, I could think whatever the hell I wanted. With permission from my own inner critic, I picked up the book again. This time it was definitely Lincoln and me in the bedroom with the illogical wind. I let the author take me away, exploring all the intimate details. The sun had set before I finally put the phone down and went back inside.
7
LINCOLN
It was early Monday morning when I climbed off the couch. I was avoiding the bedroom as if my life depended on it. I supposed, if I really thought about it, I felt vulnerable in the bed. Taking off my shoes and stripping down to my boxers only made me nervous. The thought of being unconscious for any amount of time turned me off. Too many times, insurgents had tried to attack our camp or our convoy in the night. I learned to sleep with one eye open, with a weapon at the ready, and my boots still on.
