Once Upon a List (23 page)

“Yes!”
both Clara and Lincoln answered together.

C
lara and Lincoln were in his car, driving back to his apartment, when a song came on the radio that instantly caused Clara's heart to stop beating in her chest. It hit her like a sudden painful combination of mace and electroshock therapy, overwhelming her to the point that she had to consciously remind herself to continue breathing.

As Lincoln rambled on about how one of the Argentinosaurus's back vertebrae had a “shocking” length of 1.3 meters, Clara, suddenly desperate for fresh air, lowered the passenger-side window all the way down.

Frank Sinatra's
Night and Day
was the first song that she and Sebastian had ever danced to. Swaying beneath the light of a full moon at a mutual friend's engagement party on a private beach, they held each other close. Months later, they both confessed to falling in love with each other during that memorable dance on the sandy shore. Throughout their years together, Clara and Sebastian shared countless special moments to “their song,” and when their wedding coordinator asked if they'd chosen the music they wished to use for their first official dance as husband and wife, it was a no-brainer.

In those first, dark, horrible weeks after Sebastian's accident, Clara listened to their song often—hundreds of times: late at night when she was tossing and turning in bed, trying to fathom falling asleep without him; early in the afternoon when she was sitting on the couch, trapped in the numbing haze, doing absolutely nothing. It comforted her, and helped her feel close to him.

It had been a long, long time since Clara last listened to their song. Too long, she berated herself, gazing out the window of Lincoln's car while it played in the background.

And that's when she remembered.

Clara felt her chest constrict as an overwhelming sense of guilt and confusion engulfed her. How on earth had it failed to cross her mind until now that tomorrow was August 3?
August 3!
The anniversary of Sebastian's and her first date. For ten happy years, they'd celebrated their very first lunch together at the Sandwich Shack, a surprisingly nice restaurant to include the word “shack” in its name. August 3 had always been an important date that Clara typically looked forward to well in advance, making special dinner plans, getting all dolled up, buying Sebastian a little gift—nothing fancy or expensive, just a trinket to remind him how much she cherished him. Last year, she'd given him a funny magnet of a foot with googly eyes that she knew he'd appreciate. And there it was, 10:00 p.m. on August 2, and it had only
just
dawned on her what tomorrow was! Clara's stomach turned at the realization that perhaps, if she and Lincoln hadn't been listening to the radio, their anniversary might have passed without acknowledgement. August 3 could very well have come and gone with nary a blink. This distressing thought hit Clara like a kick in the gut, shaking her to the core. But even worse, in her mind, was the fact that she was so busy pondering going on an adventure-of-a-lifetime, two-week dream vacation with another man that she'd started to accidentally lose track of what had always mattered to her most. Or, perhaps more precisely,
who
had always mattered to her most.

Never had Clara felt farther away from Sebastian.

“I love this song,” said Lincoln, checking his rearview mirror and switching lanes. “Old Blue Eyes is the best.”

Suddenly, it seemed to Clara that the oxygen in the car had been sucked away, and its walls were closing in on her. All she wanted to do was get the hell out of that car. And quick.

“Don't you think?” Lincoln glanced at her. “Hey—you okay?” He placed his hand on top of hers and began singing along with Sinatra.

Clara fought to stifle the rumbling threat of tears. “No, I'm—I'm not okay,” she mumbled, her face twisted in anguish. Abruptly pulling her hand away from his, she leaned forward and changed the radio station.

“What's wrong? Why do you look like that? And, why are we listening to polka music?”

Clara glanced uneasily at him, but all she could see was Sebastian's face. Inhaling a deep breath, confounded, she asked herself again how she could have been so distracted, so
selfish
that she almost forgot about August 3?

“C.J., what—what is it?” Lincoln's face was contorted in obvious worry. “You look pale. You're not gonna faint again, are you?”

“Night and Day
was the song Sebastian and I chose for our first dance,” Clara blurted. “Tomorrow is our anniversary. And I forgot. I
forgot
. . .” She shook her head in shame, squeezing her eyes shut. “I just”—it was hard for her to form a coherent sentence—“I think I need to be alone right now. It's been a long night. Could you take me home, please?” Her voice was meek and detached.

“Wait.” Lincoln appeared incredulous, as if perhaps he had missed something. “I don't understand what's happening. I know I threw you for a loop earlier and our evening got off to a shaky start, but I thought we'd gotten past it and were having a good time,” he said. “We were laughing a few minutes ago. And now you want to go . . .
home?”

Clara nodded. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt Lincoln again. Yet, she knew that there was no way she could return to his apartment and climb into his bed. Not tonight. Not when the only person she could think about—the only person she
wanted
to think about—was Sebastian. “I am so sorry, Lincoln.
So sorry
. I don't want to cause any more trouble. Especially after the whole Argentina thing. Please just understand that I really need to be by myself right now. Okay? I just—I can't do this . . .”

Wearing a shell-shocked expression, he pressed, “You can't do what?”

Clara's eyes couldn't seem to find his face. “God . . . let's not make this a big deal. It's your special day, Link, and I've already ruined it, and I feel
hideous
about that. I feel hideous about a lot of things.” Again, she closed her eyes, covering her face with her hands. “It would really just be best if you took me home.”

“Best for who? You're shutting me out.” He turned off the radio. “Please, just talk to me, C.J. Talk to me.”

“I
can't
talk right now!” Clara snapped, her voice catching in her throat. “Please,” she whispered as a tear dripped down her cheek, the absence of Sebastian slicing through her like a cleaver. “Take me home. I—”

“Fine.” Lincoln cut her off, his voice husky and low. The growing tension in the car was almost palpable.

“Please don't be mad,” Clara begged. “I promise you, this is not what I meant to happen.” She paused, trying to collect herself. “This is not how it's supposed to be . . .”

“Not how what's supposed to be?” Now Lincoln really seemed confused.

Clara couldn't help but note the impatience in his voice. “I don't know,” she said, struggling to put her swirling, complicated thoughts and emotions into words. “All of this, Link. You. Me.
Us
. Sitting here in this car with you right now. Being in Chicago.
None of this
is what I had planned.”

“Jesus, C.J.,” Lincoln replied, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. He turned and looked at her, obviously baffled. “Don't you get it by now? None of this is what anybody planned. Whose life actually turns out the way they planned it? You think I planned for my wife to die a painful death? Do you think I planned to get offered this job in Chicago? Do you think I planned to fall in love with you? Of course not! Stuff happens!” he declared in an escalating, powerful voice. “Like it or not, sooner or later you're gonna have to face up to that. It's what life's all about.”

A stark silence followed.

“You're”—a pair of dazed, brown eyes lifted to Lincoln's, and Clara felt herself at a genuine loss of words—“in love with me?”

“Forget it,” he glowered. “I don't know why I said that. I was on such a rampage it just flew out of my mouth.” He turned left on to Clara's street.

“Okay,” she said quietly, looking down at her lap, tears streaming down her face.

Lincoln pulled his car up in front of Clara's building, put it in park, and shut off the engine.

Neither of them moved.

He waited a tense minute or two before asking in a dejected tone, “So . . . what now?”

The truth was, Clara didn't have an answer for him. At least, not one that she suspected he'd like. Slowly, she lifted her shoulders to her ears. “I don't know.” She wiped her eyes. Though it crushed her to admit it, she felt the least she could do was offer Lincoln honesty. And so she told him, “I think . . . maybe I need some space to figure some things out.”

Lincoln seemed as surprised by this as Clara herself.

For a moment, it looked as if he was going to protest. He opened his mouth to say something, but apparently thought better of it. Instead, he stared at Clara in silence with a pained expression.

She had the distinct feeling that he was exerting every ounce of his control to keep his emotions in check.

“I can't believe you just said that,” he eventually mumbled so softly she could hardly hear him. “I take it Argentina isn't happening.” This was more of a statement than a question.

Clara shook her head.

“I get that you're upset, C.J. I assure you, I get it all too well.
Because I've been there.
But, do you really think pushing me away right now is—”

“That's not it,” Clara countered, her voice strangled with shame and self-loathing. “You don't understand.”

“Of course I understand. That's exactly my point!” Lincoln argued with unintentionally increasing force. “You think I'm not familiar with how it is to fear that you're beginning to forget about the single most important person in your life? The person who
was
your life? I let Jessica's birthday pass last year without any acknowledgement whatsoever. I didn't even realize it until almost a week later. Do you think I don't know how confusing it is to feel like that at the same time you're moving forward, you're also slipping further away from that person, and there doesn't seem to be a damn thing you can do about it? You believe I don't know how scary it is to realize your life has suddenly taken a whole new crazy direction that you never even saw coming?”

Lincoln's jaw had clenched in a taut line, his face hardened, and Clara could sense by the intensity of his emotion that their conversation was quickly spiraling to a point she had not originally anticipated. “No. That's—That's not what I'm saying, Link.”

“But you
are
saying that despite everything we've been through together, despite what we have”—his voice cracked—“you . . . need time away from me.”

Torn between guilt and desire, Clara still couldn't bring herself to look him in the eye.

“Who can possibly understand what you're experiencing right now more than me?”

“God.”
He certainly was not making this any easier for her. “I know you understand, but—”

“But, rather than trust me to relate and support you,” Lincoln interrupted, bewildered, “your natural instinct is to close me out.” Appearing as if he'd just been slapped in the face, he looked away from her. “Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

Clara's heart constricted with an emotion so intense that it made her ache. Trying her best to keep from crumbling to pieces right there in the car, she reiterated in a small, contrite voice, “I didn't say that I never want to see you again. All I said was that I need some space to figure some—”

“Yeah. I got that part,” he clipped. “And I hope you'll forgive me for taking it personally. Although . . . maybe . . . it's what's best. I have no interest in arguing with you about the fact that you're letting the past hold you back and interfere with the future.” He shook his head, his eyes filled with melancholy. “I can't make you see that, Clara. Even though I wish I could.” Lincoln cast his gaze downward, pausing. “And, space or no space, I can't move forward with someone who's obviously not ready to let go of the past and let me in.” He shrugged. “It can't work . . . I know that.”

Clara looked at him through eyes spilling with tears.

“I think you should go,” Lincoln muttered. His tone was not angry. It wasn't hostile. It was just sad.

“Please don't hate me,” she whispered achingly as she slipped out of the car and hurried into her building.

 

32.

R
esolved, come hell or high water, to
Dig up Leo's recorder from the backyard
once and for all and then never, ever again mention the frustrating debacle, Clara arrived at Libby's house early in the afternoon prior to “Sunday Family Dinner.” Busy catching up on some work at the courthouse, Leo planned to drive to River Pointe separately later in the day.

After saying a preoccupied “hello” to her mother, Clara made a beeline for the backyard and went straight to work, grateful for a legitimate distraction to hopefully help take her mind off Lincoln.

She had been digging to no avail for two hours, working up a good, angst-fueled sweat, when Libby, wearing a floppy, wide-brimmed sunhat and a scowl, arrived in the backyard with her fists planted on her hips. “
Mary, mother of Christ
. I cannot believe what you've done to my yard,” she stammered in a visible state of shock, slowly spinning around, taking in the muddy eyesore. “It looks like a goddamn golf course!”

In no mood to resume this ongoing squabble, Clara, irritable to begin with, rolled her eyes. “I've told you a zillion times,
I'm sorry. I will fix it.
I don't know what else you want me to say about it.”

“Hey”—Libby held up a disapproving hand—“watch your tone,” she warned. “I've been nothing but patient and understanding about this entire recorder fiasco and I am about ready to put my foot down.” She shook her head, peeved. “Probably in a stupid golf hole.”

“You think what I'm doing is stupid?” Clara challenged.

“I did
not
say that. What is wrong with you today?”

“Nothing,” insisted Clara. She hadn't discussed Lincoln's and her breakup with anyone yet, and as she was trying with every fiber of her being not to think about it, she quickly changed the subject, inquiring in a disinterested tone, “What's on the dinner menu for tonight?”

“Okay”—Libby made a vague gesture with her hands—“now you're really worrying me.”

“Why?” Squatting in the dirt near Maple Manor, Clara put down her garden trowel, staring up at her mother, confused.

“Because we discussed this last night on the phone. We had a whole conversation about it. Remember?” When Clara didn't respond, Libby continued, “I asked if you'd like barbecue ribs or steak for dinner and you told me you just saw a delicious-looking rib recipe on the TV show
Heavenly High-Rise
? And then we talked about how we're both big fans of Delilah White?” Libby was referring to the charming domestic diva and host of
Heavenly High-Rise
, the popular do-it-yourself program.
“Remember?”

“Oh, yeah. That's right.” Clara recalled that when she'd first heard her phone ring, her pulse rate skyrocketed, for she hoped it might be Lincoln. But alas, no luck. “I'm a little spaced out today.”

Tilting her head to the side, Libby paused to examine her daughter. “Clara-pie,” she said in a much gentler tone. “I think I know what's going on here.”

“You do?”

Libby nodded, a compassionate look of understanding spreading across her face.

Clara picked up the garden trowel and began digging again, wondering how her mother had figured out her relationship with Lincoln was over. Was it that obvious?

“There are still days when I miss your father so badly it's literally all I can think about. Days when something out of the clear blue reminds me of him, and the next thing I know, I'm sobbing over some silly cat food commercial . . . or a song playing in the background at the mall . . . or the sight of a complete stranger in a parking lot who happens to look just like him . . . or even a random scent, like toasted pumpkin seeds, his favorite, which—as you know—make me gag. And you know what?”

“What?” The hostile chip remained on Clara's shoulder.

“I remind myself that it's
normal
. It's healthy. It's what happens when someone you love dearly passes away. You miss them every moment of every day. There's no escaping it. The pain never goes away. You just learn how to live with it. Sometimes, it all boils to a head and the pent-up emotion needs to come out.” Libby released a slow, contemplative sigh, choosing her words carefully. “I know how much you miss Sebastian. And it's
okay
. It's okay, honey. You don't have to fight it.”

“Christ! I know that!” Clara replied in a much harsher tone than she'd intended. Currently, she lacked both the patience and desire to discuss Sebastian.

Narrowing her eyes, Libby straightened her spine. “You know what? I give up. I don't know what's the matter with you, but you better have that attitude changed by the time I get back from Foodthings. I'm out of butter,” she mumbled. And with that, Libby turned around and began marching toward the house.

“Fine,” Clara glowered, already feeling guilty about the repellant way she'd behaved toward her mother, but too aggravated and discomposed to do anything about it.

“And find that recorder because I've had it!” Libby shouted over her shoulder.

A few minutes later, Leo arrived in the backyard.
“Whoa.”
His eyes widened like saucers. He stopped to assess the landscape, mouth agape. “What just happened between you and Libby? I bumped into her on my way in and she warned me to keep a safe distance from you because you're
in a mood.”
He gestured quotation marks with his fingers.

Clara made an unattractive sound as if something were caught in the back of her throat. “Don't ask.” She shoved her digging tool into the ground, hurling dirt over her shoulder. “She's pissed about the mess I've made back here.”

“ ‘Mess'
is definitely one way to put it,” Leo agreed. “Actually . . . It sort of reminds me of a golf course. We should get some clubs. And maybe a concession stand? I could go for a nice, cold beer right about now.”

Clara was too annoyed to crack a smile.

“All right. Spill it,” he demanded. “Something's obviously going on.”

Finally putting down her garden trowel, Clara rubbed her eyes with both hands and rose, standing a few feet away from her brother.

She exhaled an anguished sigh, looking off toward the house. “I think I ended it with Lincoln on Thursday night.”

Leo practically did a double take. “
What?
You broke up?”

Clara nodded solemnly.

“But
why
? What happened? And, on a separate note, why am I only hearing about this now if it happened on Thursday? That's
three days
ago.”

“Because I wasn't even sure what was going on—or if it would really last. It's extremely complicated. And it all happened so fast. Frankly, I'm still not sure what exactly happened, or how everything escalated to the point that it did. It's crazy . . .”

“That's usually how it goes.” It was clear by Leo's tone, he could relate.

Clara described Lincoln's surprise invitation to Argentina, followed by the painful experience of hearing
Night and Day
in his car, and the upsetting sequence of unexpected events and emotions it triggered. “I didn't say anything to you about it because I had to process it all,” she rationalized in a small, spiritless voice. “And, I feel like a fool for admitting it, but I thought maybe there was a slight chance I might possibly hear from Link yesterday or Friday, but—”

“No word?” Leo interrupted, a crestfallen air about him.

Clara shook her head. “Which should not surprise me in the least, based on the look in his eyes when I left his car.” If only she could erase from her mind that awful, haunting image of Lincoln sitting in the driver's seat staring at her, heartbroken and confused.

“Well, if you want to talk to him, then why don't you just pick up the phone and call him?”

“Oh, because I can't, Leo. It wouldn't be right.”

“Why not?”

“You don't get it. I made it
abundantly
clear how I need my space. He tried to talk me out of it, but I refused. I have zero right to complain now that he's giving me exactly what I asked for,” lamented Clara. “Especially after what I just put him through. No way. Trust me, it was horrible, Leo.”

“So, let me get this straight. You're gonna sit back and let your own stubborn pride get in the way of what you really want?”

“It's not stubborn pride,” Clara argued. “For crying out loud, he offered me a once-in-a-lifetime dream trip, told me he
loves
me for the first time, and I told him I need space! I might as well have pulled a
‘Say Anything'
and given him a pen! What am I supposed to say now? ‘
Oops?
Just kidding! Sorry for making you jump through all my cuckoo-for-Cocoa-Puffs hoops. Changed my mind!'
” Clara sighed, shaking her head. “ 'Cause, see . . . That's my whole problem, Leo. I really don't know that I have changed my mind. I don't know anything anymore. Other than the fact that I'm conflicted as hell about what's right. Well,
that
, and I hurt Link. I hurt him bad . . .”

“To be fair, you did rip the rug out right from under his feet without warning,” Leo agreed. “You can't blame the poor guy for being upset or not calling you immediately after a double dose of that kind of rejection. Especially after telling you that he
loves
you for the first time?” Leo ran his fingers through his hair, imagining it. “
Man . . .
Talk about harsh.”

“Great. Very helpful. Whose side are you on anyway?” Clara scowled, knowing that Leo and Lincoln had developed a solid friendship. She'd suspected that her brother might not take this disappointing news very well.

“This has nothing to do with sides. You know I'm always on your side. And I completely get why you'd want to give the Argentina trip some thought, and why hearing that song hours before your anniversary you almost forgot would be distressing. Absolutely . . . But, still—let's call a spade a spade.”

“Meaning . . .”
Clara prompted.

“Well, you have to admit, whether or not you had some understandable soul-searching to do, you did have a major meltdown and push Lincoln away.” Considering it, Leo shook his head in what Clara, feeling as if she'd been accused of a crime, interpreted as disapproval.

“Yeah. Like you're one to talk,” she automatically charged, hearing the frustration in her own voice.

Leo winced, taken aback. “What's that's supposed to mean?”

“Oh,
come on
, Leo. You're the undisputed master of pushing people away!” It was as if an internal censuring filter in Clara's brain had suddenly fractured, allowing her words to spew effortlessly from her mouth.

“Why?” He folded his arms across his chest. “Because I ended things with Ava?”

“Ava, Anne, Layla, Harper, Joanna, Eleanore”—she was on a roll now—“Kristin, Victoria Lynn—”

“Okay
. . . Clearly, I should have taken Libby's advice,” Leo grumbled to himself. “Look, I'm sorry that you're hurting, Clara. And I am genuinely sorry if you messed up the best thing that's happened to you in a long time because you're afraid, but that does not give you the right to take it out on the people who care about—”

“Please!”
Clara flew off the handle like a camel that just had its back broken by a flimsy straw. “
I'm
‘afraid?' That's laughable.
You're
the one who's terrified, Leo.”

“Of what?” He raised both his hands and his resentful voice to match Clara's.

“Good question! You tell me,” she welcomed without pausing to let him speak. “Ever stop to think that you avoid giving your heart to someone because you fear something bad might happen to her? Like it did to Dad? And Sebastian? Better not to take any risks and play it niiiiice 'n safe to prevent getting hurt, right? Ever stop to think maybe
that's
why you run away like a scared little boy the moment you finally let your guard down and start getting close to a woman? Maybe
that's
why you consistently cop out? News flash:
you're
afraid, Leo!” Clara was about to say something else, but the expression on her brother's face suddenly stopped her.

“And you're the one who just crossed a line,” he said, his voice shaky and gruff, almost a whisper. “Real nice . . .”

And then, with his head hung low, he walked away.

“I
can't find your sister anywhere,” said Libby to Leo as she entered the kitchen. “It's almost dinner time. Have you seen her?”

“Not in the past few hours,” he answered, feigning interest in
The New Yorker
spread out before him on the kitchen table.

“This is the strangest thing. She's not in the backyard—
thankfully
,” Libby added under her breath. “She's not anywhere upstairs as far as I'm aware of. I just came from there. And she's not down here. I looked in the music room and dining room. All of the bathroom doors are open. Huh.” Her eyebrows pulled together as she tapped her fingers on the kitchen counter.
“Clara? Honey?”
she hollered loudly, her voice echoing throughout the house.

“Maybe she's in the basement,” Leo suggested with his nose still stuck in his magazine.

“Good idea. I'll go check.” Libby meandered off.

She returned to the kitchen several minutes later. “No sign of Clara in the basement. This is very odd. Where could she be?” And then Libby's brows lifted and she raised an index finger in the air as if she'd solved the mystery. “Her car! Maybe she's outside getting something from it. I'm gonna go see.” Again, Libby walked off in search of her daughter.