“I am full of myself, but I also saw you staring at me in the reflection of the coffee machine,” he informs me, and I glance at the machine to see it’s made out of mirror glass.
“I don’t trust you enough to not watch you closely,” I say because I don’t want him to assume desire had anything to do with it.
Lincoln frowns at my words.
“Why are your arms covered in dirt?” I ask to change the subject as he places the cup in my hands, his fingers lingering for moments longer than they should. “Why are you still touching me?” I say, and Lincoln moves around the kitchen island to stand in front of me.
“Because I like touching you,” he admits but creates a distance between us to keep me comfortable. “I’m dirty because I was in the garage, working on a vase for my mum,” he explains with a shy smile.
Lincoln does pottery? Since when?
Those are questions I should probably ask out loud, but I don’t want him to think that I am even the slightest bit interested in his life.
“Come with me. I want to show you,” he says and holds out his hand for me to take. I slide out of the chair and make my way toward the garage without accepting his offer. He chuckles but doesn’t say anything.
The Nashes’ house is wonderful. It’s big but significantly smaller than my parents’. There are a lot of windows because Elena loves her natural light, and, unlike my house, it feels like a home. It’s not overly sophisticated, and the furniture isn’t expensive.
George and Elena had very little when they first bought this house thirty years ago, and it shows in everything they have displayed. In the four years I’ve lived in England, and in the ten years I’ve visited this house with my family, it has become more of a home than my parents’.
“Feeling nostalgic, butterfly?” Lincoln interrupts my reminiscing.
“You wanted to show me the vase?” I reply instead of admitting the truth.
“Yes,” he simply says before opening the garage door and revealing his workstation.
An electric potter’s wheel stands in the middle of the parking spot no one is using. A stool sits behind it and a piece of clay rests on top of the machine. It’s already been somewhat shaped into a vase, but I don’t think it’s anywhere near ready. Lincoln grabs my hand to pull me toward his work.
“My mum asked me to make her a bouquet vase. I’m halfway done.” His voice is full of excitement. “Come, sit, please,” he says when he gets another stool for me.
I hesitantly take the seat, but Lincoln is already on his stool, wetting his hands and the dough to keep working on it. Silence fills the garage, but it’s soon broken when the machine starts to hum.
“How long have you been doing pottery?” I ask.
“Um, a few years now. I don’t like to share this with anyone else, which is why no one knows, just my family,” he explains, his gaze focused on the clay. “And now you,” Lincoln adds before using more water on the clay to get it in the proper shape.
A sad feeling spreads through me.
“I wish my anger toward you wouldn’t taint every nice moment we have together, past ones and this one,” I admit, causing him to stop everything and look at me.
“Nevaeh, listen to me closely now, would you?” he asks, and I nod. “I was young and stupid—” he says, but I stand up and laugh dryly.
“Would you like to be any more cliché? Being young and stupid is no justification!” I yell as the anger I usually feel toward him returns. Lincoln gets up too before grabbing a towel to clean his hands on and walking toward me.
“I told you you’re not ready to hear my apology, and it’s bullshit that you choose not to see that. Don’t blame all of this on me. I want to apologize. Hell, I’d do it so often, you’d be sick of hearing it, but what’s the use when you won’t listen to me?” he screams back. My heart thumps against my ribcage from anger.
“I am ready, but that start wasbullshit, and you know it!” His hands are clean now, which is why he slams the towel on the floor and gets even closer to me. I back away until my body touches a wall.
“I’m sorry! Okay? I’m so sorry for what I said. There is no justification, nothing that can make it better, but please, I can’t take you hating me anymore!” he yells at me, his hands moving to each side of me on the wall while both our hearts race and our breathing remains uneven. His lips are centimeters from mine and they get closer with each heartbeat. “Stop me,” he whispers, but my body fights against doing so.
Without thinking, without letting myself realize I don’t really want this anymore, that I haven’t wanted him in so long, I kiss him. I kiss him because I used to be in love with him and this was everything I had wanted to happen between us for so long, I lost track of time. I kiss him because he wants me to.
But as soon as my lips press against his, Iknow, I know I don’t kiss him because I’m still in love with him. I don’t want him anymore, and the heat of the moment won’t change that.
So, I push him away from me to get him to give me space.
“No, Lincoln, we can’t do this. This isn’t right. I’ve been mad at you for four years. Kissing you after you just apologized is not the right thing to do,” I go on and open the garage door to escape his captivating stare.
“Wait, Nevs!” he calls out, but I’m hurrying into the kitchen to grab my stuff and get out of here.
