Chapter 7
Really lost at 1,014 Miles
I throw my burger on the dented dresser in my room, flop down on the bed, and beat myself up. I scold myself for feeling what I felt tonight, for reacting to his touch, for feeling proud as hell when he stood up for me. Only two people have ever stood up for me, Jazzy and Old Man.
His smell. Dear lord, the scent turned me on. When we were sitting on the sidewalk, I couldn’t help but smell him. It took everything inside me to not lean down and straight out sniff his bare shoulder.
Looking back, everything was a complete clusterfuck tonight. From the fight, to Lincoln’s bloody knuckles, our reactions to each other, his admission to trying to find me, and the awkward touching on the curb. Any normal girl would have leaned on him, asked about his day, maybe asked what position he played, his last name, where he’s from, or any normal fucking question. Nope, not me. I played it completely awkward and a little cowardly.
Hell, if it had been Jenni, she probably would’ve been spread-eagle on that curb trying to make babies with him already. I guarantee a sexy-ass football player like Lincoln wants just that, a girl to spread for him and be his little arm candy. At least, that’s what I’ll try like hell to convince myself. It may take days or weeks to imprint it in my mind. His actions and scent may be two things I’ll never get over.
No energy or motivation to shower tonight, I will myself to drift off with a certain blue-eyed brunette on my mind.
***
I work all morning at the coffee shop, praying the next customer would be that blue-eyed brunette who dominated my dreams and every thought since waking up. It’s not that I want a relationship, but the fact he stood up for me has replayed over and over in my brain and heart. That single act meant more to me than anything else. The man didn’t even know me and stood up for me. Then when he was waiting for me outside, it made me hopeful. He wanted to walk me to my car, and that’s when reality struck. I’m not his type, but still every engine I hear pull up to the hut, I hope it’s a truck with a certain somebody smiling back at me.
No special coffee customer. Then my obsession turned into a doughnut customer. He did mention stopping in for a doughnut if I wasn’t at the coffee shop, but Jenni is working a couple hours to fill in there. I’m sure if he came by, she’d probably trample the poor man.
I talked to her a little bit when she came into the bakery before her short stint at the coffee shop. You’d think it was killing her to work for two whole hours. She complained on and on about her back hurting, and then how she tried a new hair color and it didn’t quite “pop” like her last one. She wasn’t even sure if she could go out in public with it, and that’s why she had it pulled up under a bandana.
While half listening to her endless diarrhea of the mouth, it hit me why I was so skeptical and gun-shy of her at our first meeting. She’s the typical snobby know-it-all bitch from high school. There was a little gang of them where I went to school. After freshman year, they finally realized whatever torture they would deal out, I just sat back and took it. They could never embarrass me, make me cry, or even anger me. Yes, all their pranks and mean jokes stung like a bitch, but they had no concept of knowing you can’t hurt someone who is already broken in every which way possible.
Jazzy, on the other hand, gave those bitches every fight they asked for. She screamed, cried, and bullied their asses right back. She was never willing to give in to anyone. I always knew it was because she had Old Man to go back home to. So many nights she made me stand in front of the mirror and practice cussing out Elizabeth, the head bitch at our school. As Jazzy liked to call her, the cunt of all cunts who ever walked the earth. She had me memorize so many comebacks and jabs to send her way the next time Elizabeth pointed out how inferior I was. Each and every time, I lowered my head and continued with my day.
Judging Jenni and comparing her to those bitches and the cunt of all cunts was definitely a mistake on my end. My conclusion upon chatting with her for the second time is she has a heart of gold, fewer brain cells than most, and really, really digs all things make-up, hair, and clothes. And football players. Apparently they’re high on her list, so I’m sure if Lincoln stopped in we would’ve seen smoke signals coming from the coffee shop. This hasn’t stopped me from looking up every so often to check.
I finish out my bakery shift with mindless tasks. This type of work only leads to more thinking, analyzing, and dreaming about Lincoln. How in the hell has this man done this to me? Never in my life have I been so taken in by a person. The last time I obsessed on something, it was my plan to leave when I turned eighteen. To leave, no matter the circumstance, and to never, ever look back was the goal at hand. I was completely engrossed in the plan. Not listening to one thing a teacher said at school, or the screaming from my mom. My mind was only focused on one thing, and that was leaving.
In a very similar fashion, my mind has been consumed with Lincoln. His eyes haunted me in my dreams the first night I saw him. His scent now lingers in my soul from just spending a few minutes with him last night. Completely obsessed, but not able to reach out to him. Lost in my own thoughts and drowning in my own fears is the reality I face.
My Boone’s shift goes even faster and is easier on my thoughts because the work isn’t so mindless. The gal running out the back door asked me to cover her shift tomorrow. I’m only scheduled to work four days a week there, but I never turn down extra shifts. It’s an added bonus that Lincoln will be less likely to invade my mind since the work is at a quicker pace.
Every time the door opened, my eyes gravitated toward the door, and each time my heart deflated a little bit because Lincoln never walked through those doors. The man had three chances today to see me for coffee, a doughnut, or a burger. My heart wanted all three, but my brain knew he’d be having none today. I’ve convinced myself he stuck up for me because he’s a good guy. In the world there have to be several good guys, and I was lucky to be graced by the presence of one. That’s that. I wipe the tears from my cheeks, glance at the name Jodie on my chest, and let it go.
I grab another pack of ice, because my wrist is really swollen from the twist last night and all the work today. You have no idea how much you actually use your wrists until one is majorly fucked up. I’m now fully aware of how much I use mine. Upon exiting the bathroom I notice my to-go box is ready in the window. I snag it and head for the door. The diner is packed, and nobody notices me exit through the front. Tonight I’m definitely showering, and over the weekend I have to find a Laundromat. I smell like a walking fried nacho, and I’d bet if you licked my shirt it would be tasty as a cheeseburger. I’m saturated in Boone’s.
Before getting completely out the door, I grab my keychain and ready myself for the short walk home. The night air is warm, quiet, and very peaceful. Nights like these at home, I’d sneak outside with a towel if we had any and lie on it under the stars and wish like hell. Looking up into the sky, I spot several stars and wish like hell just like I did when I was a child.
“What are you wishing?”
A familiar dark shadow walks out of the darkness and into the streetlight. It’s Lincoln.
“What are you doing?” I squeal, my heart pounding. I mentally pat myself on the back for not breaking my other wrist or tossing my food into the air.
“What did you wish for?” he asks again.
“To be found. I’m tired of being lost,” I say softly.
“How’s the wrist?” he asks, avoiding my wish.
“Sore.”
“Good day?”
“Busy,” I reply.
Then the awkward silence settles between us, and this is when I realize it’s my turn to make the small talk. It’s how it works. I’m use to loudmouth Jazzy running the show or my mother screaming. The last year I’ve been on my own, only talking when a job demanded it.
Diving head first, I go for it. “Have you eaten?”
“Nah, long day.”
Going out on a limb and feeling every single fiber freezing, I ask, “Want to?” I gesture with my box toward a picnic table on the side of Boone’s. The stars and moon light up the table. The streetlights don’t hit it.
“Actually, I do,” he says, a slight smile flickering at the corners of his mouth.
“Want me to order another one?”
“I think I’d like to share with you,” he replies.
It’s a square picnic table with four sides. Lincoln takes the bag of ice from me with a frown and a shake of his head. I settle down on one side of the table, expecting him to sit across from me, but instead he scoots in right next to me.
“What are we eating?” he asks, adjusting the ice bag on my wrist.
“Bacon cheeseburger.”
“My absolute favorite.”
Before chickening out, I take the plunge of all plunges and try to make small talk with him. Jazzy was my only friend, and everything came naturally to us growing up. This is a first for me.
“How was your day?” I ask, and immediately cringe at the boring question.
There is only one thing worse than the “how was your day” question, and that’s any question that deals with weather. Those two types of questions are sure signs of digging for conversation.
“It was okay. Training camp started, and I’m exhausted from it.”
“For soccer?” I ask.
Lincoln turns his head in dismay and lets me have it. “You think I’m a soccer player? Are you fucking shitting me? Do you think any soccer player could light up someone like I did for you last night?”
Unable to hold my giggle any longer, I let it out, and I can physically see the worry and hint of anger leave his face. He wasn’t impressed, but now realizes it’s a joke and smiles. “So, she can joke around.”
“I’ve got jokes,” I say.
“Good to know.”
“Who do you play for, and what position and all that jazz,” I ask, opening my to-go box and sliding it toward him.
“CSU,” he says around a bite of burger.
I watch as he passes it to me to take a bite. I guess I didn’t think this plan through very well. When I talk about splitting a meal, there’s a knife involved, and cutting.
Lincoln continues talking, like this is no big deal. “I play defense. My dad played in the pros for Texas, and my only brother plays there now. I have big shoes to fill, you know.”
“That’s impressive,” I reply, taking another bite and passing the burger.
“Tell me a little about you.”
At this innocent request, I lose my appetite and all the happiness from this simple meal. The darkness in the night sky takes over, dimming out the moonlight and stars, and my feet steady themselves in their favorite position to run.
“I, uh. I don’t have anything to say about myself. I’m really nothing.”
Lincoln tries to pass me the burger, and I decline.
“Not hungry anymore?” he asks.
“No, I’m good.”
“Did I just ruin the whole night by asking about you?” He looks puzzled and a little sad.
I give my head a shake. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m not a good person. You shouldn’t even be here with me.”
“I’m not here to judge you. I want to spend more time with you and find more about you.”
“But I’m not a good person.”
“Neither am I. Hell, I was raised here. My childhood home is twenty minutes away, and my parents basically live in Texas during football season to be with their golden child. I was an ass in high school, rebelling and partying it up. Challenging my parents in every way. I was a spoiled-ass fucking brat.”
“What changed? You seem like a pretty nice guy now,” I point out.
“My coaches. It’s taken two football seasons and a lot of hard life lessons.”
“I’ve had those. Not coaches, but a lot of life lessons. Here’s my story. I don’t have a past I care to remember or memories worth reminiscing about. I left home, and not one single person noticed. I’ve lived in various places the last year, and not one person has missed me when I’m gone. I don’t leave an impact on anyone.”
“Until now,” he says, grabbing my hand and rubbing my scars again.
“Yeah, right. You’re just hungry,” I say, shrugging off the true impact of his statement.
“I am that, but I’m always hungry. I came back for you, and I will every night because I want to know your story, and more importantly, be a part of your story.”
“I don’t work here tomorrow night. I only work here four nights a week, and tonight was the fourth. I work at the coffee shop and bakery the rest of the week.”
“Guess we’ll be sharing doughnuts and coffee tomorrow, then?”
“I can’t do this,” I whisper.
“Oakley or Jodie, whatever the hell you want to be called, you don’t have a choice in this situation. The moment I saw your brown eyes, I’ve been hypnotized. I think about you during the day and at night before I go to bed. I just want a chance to get to know you.”
“There’s nothing to know,” I insist with a note of panic.
Lincoln is taken aback by my voice, and my feet finally find their place to run.
“I can’t do this. Please leave me alone.”
Standing up, I grab my keys and ice and make my way to the lit-up lot. I tried, I really tried to be normal and act like a girl on a date. I asked the boring questions and enjoyed every single one of his touches. Ate off the same plate, and never did I think sharing a hamburger could be so intimate, but it most certainly was. I enjoyed watching him eat more than taking my own satisfaction from the meal, but once again I ran. These few memories are the only things I can hold dear and replay over and over again in my mind. The way his hand naturally runs over the scars in my palm soothes my soul and almost makes me want to take the leap off the cliff.
I’ve never felt so lost in my emotions. One minute, there’s nothing but him in the moment and wanting more with him. Then it only takes his asking about my past to bring that high to an abrupt halt. Am I being too sensitive? Can he get over never knowing about my past? Can I truly stand by his side? Do I even deserve the chance?
I’m really lost, and currently drowning in desire and burning in shame.