Page 4 of Safety Net (Mendell Hawks #3)

CELESTE

I’d spent all morning pep-talking myself to get out of the house and drive over to the rental. Spent all afternoon doing a final rehearsal of what I wanted to say.

All that rehearsal amounted to nothing because quicksand may as well have laid the walk up to the front door. My lungs felt clogged with concrete, and my fingers wouldn’t stop trembling.

I knew Naomi and the other guys were gone. And Lincoln would be on his own, and that made for a less intimidating exchange…allegedly.

Before I could knock on the front door, Lincoln’s deep voice came from the side of the house. The buzzing in my ears cranked up a coule of notches because why not go for gold? I took a deep breath, breathing in a million more nerves.

“You got this,” I whispered. “Just talk to him. With words. Normal words. And he’ll respond. And you go back and forth like that until you understand each other.”

With another less-than-helpful deep breath, I turned the corner. I saw the mistake before it unfolded. Lincoln trusted a ladder that was over ten years older than me. It had survived an absurd amount of rainstorms and blizzards.

“I don’t know if—” I tried to get out before the wind stole half my words and the splitting of wood claimed the rest.

Gravity yanked Lincoln to Earth, uncaring and unbothered.

The loud thud of his body hitting the porch, along with the appearance of bright blood, forced my anxiety aside.

Worrying about impressions didn’t matter much when faced with pain and danger.

I went to Lincoln’s side without hesitation, leaving shyness at the front door for me to pick up on the way out.

Now, with his arm over my shoulder, our sides pressed together as he avoided putting too much weight on his knee.

“I could wait here,” Lincoln said when I struggled to find my balance. “Until you get the first aid kit.”

I shook my head. “It’s too hot.”

Harsh sunlight bathed the porch. My lower back was already soaked.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered leaving (after calling someone for him, of course).

I could tell from how tense his jaw got with every slight move of his hand Lincoln was in more pain than he let on.

I didn’t have anything to say that might help brighten the mood.

No silly story to distract him from the pain.

I wished to be witty. To be able to start a conversation of interest for once in my life.

“We’ll go slow,” I whispered because we were close enough to feel one another’s breath.

My arm wrapped around his waist, stabilizing us as we took a tentative step forward.

I could feel his heartbeat, pounding from the adrenaline of the fall.

I attributed the speed of my heart to talking to him for the first time in months.

Our text thread died sometime earlier this year when I couldn’t figure out how to keep up with his energy. I left his last message without a response, and days turned into weeks and months. Lincoln’s lack of messages had been a relief…at first.

Sometimes I went back to the thread and re-read every time we’d found an odd sort of rhythm.

Conversations were a lot like music; there were ebbs and flows.

An improv of sorts. Attempts at harmony.

There were pockets where our duet had been interesting.

Nothing extraordinary, but still nice. Almost sweet.

And I’d given it all up because I’d overanalyzed every note I decided to play.

The point of improv wasn’t perfection, but I’ve always been slow to realize those sorts of things.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” Lincoln said once we passed the house’s threshold.

“Really?” I asked, surprised at the idea of Lincoln being capable of embarrassment. I’d seen this guy dance on a table at a house party, pretend to be animals for children’s entertainment at the community center, and welcome the attention of hundreds at the hockey arena.

“Terribly.” His deep, warm laugh filled every corner of this old house.

I got him to the couch and held onto his arm while he lowered himself.

The transfer of weight could have been smoother.

What started as a careful seat ended in a quick fall onto the cushions.

I slipped in the process, heartbeat picking up a few more notches.

My knee landed in the middle of Lincoln’s legs.

I caught myself, palm resting on the cushion behind his head.

His hand reached out to steady me. Lincoln’s fingers folded around my waist, unaware I had managed to find my balance again.

Our gazes met for a second. While his eyes were calm, mine were wide with shock.

I yanked out of his grip, cheeks burning and mind wishing for the safety of my bedroom.

“Sorry,” I muttered, not sure if I was apologizing for the stumble or pulling away so fast. It wasn’t like his grip was awful. In fact, weirdly, I enjoyed the warmth of it. It was reminder he was just a person like me.

“You’re good,” he said, trying to meet my gaze without any luck.

I was miles away from “good.” I’d been talking to him for less than ten minutes, and my body was already giving way to social exhaustion. How did people do this daily?

The most shameful part about my anxiety wasn’t the racing heart, sweaty pits, or awkward responses.

It was the reality that being this conscious of perception placed me in a glass cage of my own making.

Being visibly anxious gave people my deepest secret (my desire and failure to be perfect) on a silver platter without me having to say a word.

The disorder that evolved from my need for protection gave away the soft, most sensitive part of me to strangers.

“Is the first aid kit still in the kitchen??” I tugged at the hem of my shirt, looking for some relief from feeling shrink-wrapped in my own skin.

“We moved it to the upstairs bathroom.” Lincoln winced as he tried to get into a comfortable position. “Underneath the sink.”

I hurried to retrieve the kit. While in the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of my wide-eyed panic in the mirror. I took a second, closed my eyes, and tried a breathing exercise my therapist taught me.

“He’s just a human,” I whispered to myself. “Like you.”

A kind, friendly human who probably thinks you’re a strange, head-empty loser, the little monstrous version of me goaded.

I tried the breathing again, but the voice was too distracting.

I was in an even worse state than before when I returned to the living room.

My need to avoid perception had multiplied tenfold.

I sat on the couch in silence, leaving a cushion between us.

“Alright,” Lincoln said when I rummaged through the supplies. “Alright, you got me. I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me?” I almost dropped the antiseptic and gauze when he interrupted the quiet.

“Since you’re so interested in why I was on that ladder,” he teased.

My cheeks burned because I was supposed to ask. That was what someone with passable social skills would have done, right? Ask a person why they fell. Start a conversation to fill the silence. The topic had been such low-hanging fruit; I didn’t know how I missed it.

Ask why, I noted internally. I would add it to my “talking to people cheat sheet” in my journal as soon as I could. Most of the entries on the sheet were things I’d observed from hanging out with Naomi. She spoke to people as if it were as simple as watching the sunrise.

“Why were you on the ladder?” I poured the antiseptic onto the gauze.

Lincoln offered me his hand without my having to ask for it.

He didn’t so much as wince when I pressed it to his skin.

It was hard to swallow being this close to him, but I tried anyway.

My loud gulp convinced me never to try again.

“Doing a test run for the entertainment for our Halloween party.” Lincoln reached for some gauze, using one hand to pour some rubbing alcohol, and started cleaning his knee.

We worked quickly and managed to avoid making skin-to-skin contact again. It was a careful dance I committed to because I had enough physical contact after helping him inside. Touching people I didn’t know was low on my list of social aversions, but it was still present nonetheless.

“Halloween?” I remembered the misshapen ghost at the base of the porch.

“Yeah, I won a coin toss to be in charge of it this year, thank god.” He smiled, excitement lighting up his face.

His hair was the longest it’d been since I met him.

The dark curls stretched toward the ceiling.

Lincoln’s brown skin was a few shades lighter than mine and far less textured.

What he lacked in acne, he made up for in birthmarks.

Three created a triangle on one of his cheeks.

An oval-shaped one peeked out of his collarbone when he turned his head.

I knew these marks well. I studied them when he was busy talking in the large groups he always found himself in.

There was no denying he was a cute guy. There was no denying that was part of the reason talking to him was so difficult.

“Did I cut my face, too?” Lincoln reached up to touch his cheek.

I hadn’t realized my observing had turned into staring. “No…you…umm… what’s the entertainment going to…be?”

My skin burned, but Lincoln didn’t miss a second.

“An immersive murder mystery set in a haunted house.”

I nodded and reached for a bandage. Lincoln loved hosting parties, especially ones involving the games he created.

He liked puzzles and getting everyone around him involved in solving them.

It was the one thing that made him a little less intimidating to me.

His special interest reminded me of how intense I could get with musicals.

How, if I weren’t socially awkward, I too would host themed parties about my favorite things.