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Chapter 30
Lincoln turned off his computer and locked the desk. He rarely used the small office at Folio he’d taken over after his father died, but sometimes it was easier to work from here rather than the brownstone. He hadn’t wanted to use his father’s old corner office—five stories up and with a view of Central Park—instead, he’d left that to the CEO and president.
He pushed back his cuff to look at his watch. His week away from Bliss Cove had felt like a year. The board meeting was the following afternoon, which meant he couldn’t make it back in time for Grace’s second-to-last performance even if he left for the airport right after the meeting.
It was for the best, he told himself unconvincingly. She’d been right. His time was up. Soon enough, he’d leave for Afghanistan again and immerse himself in other people’s lives and stories. Good thing, too, considering he’d failed at his own life.
The thought created a hollow ache in his chest. Except when he was writing, he’d always felt as if he were living someone else’s life or, at the very least, playing the role that was expected of him.
Even now, during book tours and lectures, he was Lincoln Atwood, award-winning author. He’d worked for his success and was grateful for it, but what had happened tohim? How could he lack even one person to call from the damned hospital?
Not for the first time, he wished he’d been more like—
“No corner office?”
Lincoln looked up. Sam stood in the doorway, dressed in torn jeans and a T-shirt.
“What are you doing here?”
His brother shrugged and circled the office, studying the book covers and photos lining the walls. He paused by the bookshelf and picked up a framed photo of the two of them when they were kids. He’d been about ten and Sam, five or six. Lincoln had found the photo buried in a box of old paperwork at their father’s house after he’d died.
They were at a zoo, probably with a nanny. They stood in front of the giraffe enclosure. Lincoln had his arm around Sam’s shoulders. Sam held an ice cream cone, which was dripping over his hand, and they were both smiling and squinting against the sun.
It wasn’t a great photo—overexposed and slightly blurred—but, for some reason, Lincoln had bought a frame and put it on a shelf in the office.
“So what do I need to know for tomorrow’s meeting?” Sam asked.
“You’re going to be there?”
“I didn’t fly across the country to hang out with you.”
Lincoln couldn’t figure out what his brother’s motive might be. Maybe Sam didn’t have one. After all, he had nothing to lose. Not like Lincoln.
“I’ll email you the agenda,” he finally said. “But you don’t have to go. I didn’t hold up my end of the bargain.”
“Yeah, you did.” Sam sat down.
“Bliss Cove is like a thousand other small towns.” Lincoln sighed. “Sure, the beach is nice and all, but that’s not a good enough reason to stay. Neither is the soup or the cat café or the cookies from that bakery. I didn’t even like the soup all that much.”
“Man, shut the fuck up.” Sam rested his foot against the edge of the desk. “Get out of your own damned head for once. All the reviewers are always talking about how honest and raw your books are, and yet you’ve never been able to see what’s right in front of you. You haven’t had to. It was so damned easy for you to do what everyone else wanted instead of figuring out if it was what you wanted.”
Lincoln groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “Why do you even care?”
“I’m the only one who’ll tell you the truth.” Sam dropped his foot to the floor. “And the truth is you’re an idiot for running away. I told you that you finally have a chance to figure out a plan, but instead you’re setting yourself up to go back into the same old life.”
Silence fell. Lincoln studied his little brother. For the first time ever, he saw himself in the shape of Sam’s face and in his dark eyes. Despite all their conflict and differences, they’d both become storytellers. They both had journeys to share. They both had certain truths they wanted to tell.
“It’s over,” he finally admitted. “It was temporary. She’ll never move to New York, and she won’t want to or be able to travel with me…I mean, how the hell do people work this stuff out?”
“You have to want her more than you want anything else.” Sam shrugged. “Then you’ll move mountains to be with her.”
“What if she doesn’t want me to move mountains?”
“Take the risk. You do that all the time, right? Do it again.”
Lincoln rubbed the back of his neck. The ache in his chest intensified. “How is she?”
“Still teaching and working to finish up the year,” Sam said. “A Midsummer Night’s Dreamopened last weekend. Big hit. Everyone did a great job. Brooke wrote up an article for the paper.”
