“I’m so fucking sorry,” I repeat, at a loss for what else to say.
“You didn’t do it.” He straightens up and backs away a step.
“But I should be here for you. Stay with me. Tomorrow, I’ll take you there and get a bag, then you’re moving in with me.”
I should have never let him go back. I’ll take a stand against my father no matter who he is.
“You know he won’t let that happen,” he says. “In the morning he’ll apologize and say work set him off and at least he’ll be cool for a while.”
“For how long?” I ask.
“Until the next time,” he says coldly on a shrug.
“There won’t be a next time,” I swear it like an oath.
“Twenty months and I can move in here with you. Until then I just have to lay low and keep out of his way. This wasn’t that bad. I didn’t even want to show you.”
With every sentence Lincoln’s voice raises in panic. He balls his fists and shoves them in the pocket of his hoodie. He’s scared. He’s knows what happened the last time I tried to get custody. My father has too many powerful people deep in his pocket. My calls to Child Protective Services were ignored. The police always sided with my father; he is the only remaining parent, after all. I was slandered in the courts for my long hours and unfit household. My father used his influence to make me seem weak, dramatic, and incapable of caring for another human. And in some ways he’s right, because here we are again. My brother is hurt and I wasn’t there. I was distracted by the shiny new thing.
“Just because it could be worse doesn’t make this even remotely okay. Fuck, Lincoln, this has to stop.” My voice cracks as I plead.
Lincoln just shrugs. So defeated. Already weighted with the adult understanding that when you have money you can get away with anything.
“I just gotta make it a little longer. Then you’ll be wishing I was out of your hair,” Lincoln says, trying to lighten the mood.
“Not possible. I could just keep you here.” Nothing would make me feel better than having him sleep under my protection every night.
“Yeah, I’m sure he’d be fine with that.” He turns away with a sniff. “Got any food?”
He wants to move on even though I’m still seething with helpless rage. I follow his lead, knowing if I push he will just retreat. He’s right though. Lincoln is a power play for my father. The more I want Lincoln to be here with me, the more he’ll fight to keep him out of obstinance alone.
“There’s leftover pizza in the fridge,” I say.
As he scrummages for a pop and a slice, I get a baggie and fill it with ice. “Put this on your face.”
He takes it and puts it to the split lip after chewing half a slice in one bite.
A few minutes of chewing, he must feel me watching him. “What?” he asks. “Your face is all screwed up like you have to shit.”
“Can I take a picture? If I can build a case with evidence—”
“And then what? We go through the whole process again? He fucks with your entire life again? You know he’ll do whatever he can to ruin your life. I can’t let that happen,” he mumbles.
“And I can’t let you get hurt,” I say, emotion making my throat tight.
Lincoln looks me dead in the eyes and says, “I’m not going to come here at all if I think you’re going to get involved again.” He’s already inhaled one slice and is reaching for the other one. “I know you care, man. I appreciate that somebody gives a fuck about me—”
He cuts himself off and starts over. “But when you get involved it just makes everything worse. Just be here for me when I need you and feed me occasionally. That’s all I want. You had to deal with his bullshit too.”
I have the scars to prove it and the limp when it’s cold. I’m not about to let this go but I know my brother well enough to not push. For now. He’s pale and exhausted. He’s safe here with me tonight. If that asshole were to ever come here for him, he knows I will exercise the second amendment. I gave Lincoln the code to the gun safe under my bed too. Money can only protect our father to a point.
Lincoln shakes the pizza box. “What gives? Two slices left? I wasn’t going to mention your weight but when I have to suffer for your fatty ways, I draw the line.”
“Hey,” I say, patting my admittedly slightly soft core. “I split it with someone.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, it’s a lady?” he says doing his best his Ladies Man impression. Years of watching old SNL skits has always provided plenty of quotable fodder.
I scratch at my stubble and mumble something.
