Take Care, Sara by Lindy Zart_ 9 page

“What’s that?”

Sara started, almost dropping the ornament. She fumbled with it, setting it safely away from her on the table. “An angel.”

Lincoln picked it up, perusing it. “It was Cole’s. From Grandma Lena. She passed away when we were kids.”

“Did you get one?”

“Nah. She didn’t like me as much as she liked Cole. She told me so every time I saw her.”

“That’s—that’s terrible.”

He laughed, shrugging. “At least she was honest.”

“Did she ever say why?”

Lincoln shoved his hands in his jean pockets, looking at the tree. He snorted. “Very simply put: I talked too much. She liked Cole because he was quiet and I, unfortunately, never shut up.”

“Poor Lincoln.” Sara patted his shoulder, feeling sorry for the little boy whose grandmother hadn’t like him. “I would have liked you.”

He looked at her, a half-smile on his lips. “Thanks. Too bad I didn’t know you then. You could have been my only friend.”

A twinge in her chest propelled her to ask, “You didn’t have any friends either? What was wrong with you?”

He laughed shortly. “What was wrong with me?” Lincoln tweaked a limb of the tree and a few pine needles fell to the floor. “I had a little too much energy. I liked to fight. I was mouthy and always getting into trouble.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t Cole.”

Sara swallowed, her brows furrowing. “I never knew…I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

But it was. Sara could see it was. Lincoln wouldn’t look at her and he always looked at her. Her heart ached for the misunderstood child Lincoln had been. She opened her mouth, but he was walking away.

“This is supposed to be a happy day, I said so, and here I am getting depressing. I’ll be right back.” Lincoln crossed the room and took the stairs two at a time.

Sara found a pile of tangled hooks at the bottom of the box, pricking her finger with one. She put the angel on one of the sturdier looking limbs and watched as it bent way down, looking close to the point of snapping. Sara stared at the angel appearing to fall from the sky, too heavy to fly, and sadness hit her.

“Here you go.”

A red sweater was dangled in front of her face. “What’s this?” Sara looked up, blinking, and then laughed. “What are you wearing?”

A brown fleece sweater a size too small formed to his fit frame. Rudolph, red nose and all; stared back at Sara. She grinned at Lincoln and Lincoln went still, his eyes on her, a strange expression on his face.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, the grin fading.

He shook his head and the look was gone. “It’s nothing. Put this on.”

Sara took the sweater, holding it up before her. A candy cane with a green bow was on the front of it. “Whose is this?”

“Does it matter?”

“A little, yes.”

“Grandma Lena’s. Do it justice.”

Sara touched Rudolph’s red nose. “And whose is this?”

“Grandma Lena’s.”

Sara laughed. “And are you doing it justice?”

“I’m trying.”

She nodded, her eyes meeting his. “That’s all you can do.”

Lincoln leaned toward her, his lips close to hers as he said, “Exactly.”

Her pulse quickened at his nearness and Sara hastily moved away, bumping into the table. Why did he do that? And why was she all flustered? She clutched the sweater to her chest, keeping her eyes downcast. “I’ll just…go put this on.”

“Please.”

***

The tree had candy canes, gold tinsel, red garland, and as many of the Christmas ornaments as would fit on it adorned to it. It was ghastly and garish. Sara loved it. She stood beside Lincoln, both of them looking at the decorated tree. The scents of melting cheese, Italian herbs, and red sauce floated over to them from the oven in the nearby kitchen and it was pleasantly warm in the house. Sara felt almost normal, close to happy.

“That is the ugliest Christmas tree I’ve ever seen, Sara. And I mean that.”

“It has character.”

Lincoln glanced at her. “Is that what they call it?”

Sara tugged at the neck of the itchy sweater. “Yeah. Like these sweaters have a lot of character.”

“At least you’re not a guy wearing a woman’s sweater.”

“No one made you.” She gave him a pointed look.

“Pizza’s ready. What do you want to drink?”

“How do you know the pizza’s ready?”

“Because I have no witty comeback to your comment, so that means the pizza’s ready. Drink?”

“Water. I’ll get it.” Sara moved before Lincoln did and bumped into him, his hands reaching out to steady her. Wariness shot through her as Sara’s eyes met Lincoln’s. His were intense, focused. Lincoln’s nostrils slightly flared as he stared down at her.

“Why do you always look at me like that?” Sara blurted before she could stop herself.

“Like what?” he asked cautiously.

“I don’t know. Like…that.” She gestured to his face, perplexed by him, by her reaction to him. Sara didn’t understand any of it.

Lincoln’s hands dropped from her arms and he moved away. “Because it’s all I can do.”

“What does that mean?” she demanded, following him into the kitchen.

The oven beeped as Lincoln turned it off. He swung around, stopping her with his gaze. “Do you really want to have this conversation?”

Sara helplessly lifted her hands, palms up. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t even know what conversation we’re having. I’m confused, Lincoln.”

With a sigh, he grabbed oven mitts from the counter and took the pizza from the oven. “Confused is good. Stay confused. Easier that way,” he muttered.

Frown on her face, Sara leaned her hips against the counter, crossing her arms, and watched Lincoln meticulously cut the half cheese, half pepperoni pizza into eight pieces. His fingers were long-boned and lean, covered in callouses and small cuts, but still graceful in a way she wouldn’t think a carpenter’s fingers could be, or maybe that was backwards; maybe they were exactly as a carpenter’s should be.

“Gonna get your water?” he abruptly asked, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Yeah.” Caught staring, Sara quickly moved beside him and opened a cupboard door, reaching up and grabbing a blue cup. “You want one?” She looked over and found his eyes on her, a pained expression on his face. “All right.” Sara slammed the cup down on the counter. “What’s going on?”

He straightened, dropping the pizza cutter to the stove. “You really have to ask that?”

“I—“

“What do you think is going on?”

Her face began to heat up. “I think you’re purposely being an ass.”

“Really? That’s what you think?” Lincoln moved closer, those silver with gold-flecked eyes narrowed and locked on her.

Sara backed up, bumping into the counter. “What’s your problem, Lincoln? Why are you acting like this? Why are you always pushing me lately, testing me? What’s the purpose of it?”

“I want you to live,” he said in a voice low with emotion.

“I am.” I don’t want to be, but I am.

Shaking his head, he said, “No. You’re not. You’re pretending to live. It’s not the same.”

“It’s the only way…I can endure this, Lincoln,” she said in a quaking voice.

Lincoln closed the distance between them, bracing an arm on either side of her, locking her between his arms and the counter. He lowered his head until his lips were close to her ear. Sara tried to swallow and couldn’t; scared to move, scared to breathe, scared to think.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m so screwed up in the head, Sara,” he whispered raggedly, his breath tickling her ear. “So unbelievably fucked up.” Lincoln’s shoulders slumped and his head dipped lower, his forehead grazing her shoulder. “I thought I was okay. I thought I could do this. But I’m cracking, unraveling. I’m being an asshole and I want to stop and I just…can’t.” The pain in his voice was like a laceration against her soul; hot agony that grew instead of lessening.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Lincoln. I don’t understand any of it.” Her voice was high, breathless.

He pulled back so that he could look at her. “Just…let me talk, okay? Just let me talk.” Lincoln drew in a ragged breath, his body tightly coiled and yet trembling all the same. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. I’m just…I’m angry and I’m sad and I just…I want to forget. I wish I could forget. Forget him, forget you, forget it all. I’m sick of feeling the way I do. I’m twisted inside. Knotted.”

Lincoln gently touched his forehead to hers. “I want to stop being this way. But I can’t. Because only one thing can make it better and it’s the one thing I can’t have. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sara.” The misery, the self-loathing she heard in the tremble of his voice; it was aching to hear. Her ears would bleed from the pain of it if they could.

Sara didn’t know what Lincoln was talking about, or maybe she did, but she didn’t want to know. Her pulse raced at an uncontrollable speed. This Lincoln was different; this Lincoln wasn’t the one she’d known for years. He was altered, changed. He felt more, hurt more. Could it be this was the real Lincoln and she was only now seeing him?

Had that teasing young man with the easy grin been an illusion and was Sara now seeing past the illusion to the real man? And who was Lincoln then? She’d thought she’d known him, but maybe she hadn’t really known him at all. The thought made her stomach knot up. Sara studied the face she knew almost as well as her husband’s that was so very different from his; the high forehead, the angular cheekbones, the square jaw. There was beauty and strength in that face and mysteries stared at her from stormy gray eyes. What truths did Lincoln keep locked inside, for him alone to know?

“Who are you?” she whispered. What was she asking him? Sara didn’t even know.

Lincoln stared at her, his long eyelashes lowering to hide his eyes from her as he answered, “I’m me, Sara.”

But who are you?

“I’ve always been me,” he continued.

The air was thick with unspoken truths and enigmas; it was riddled with shadows and murkiness. Sara felt like she wasn’t seeing something; there was something glaring her right in the face and she couldn’t see it. Her eyes were veiled; because they had to be, for her sake. She opened her mouth to tell Lincoln to move, but he was already dropping his arms and turning away. Sara exhaled loudly, her nerves jumbled and shaken. Her eyes refused to go to him; she couldn’t see his face, not now.

“I think…maybe I should go,” she said, her mouth and throat dry. Sara grabbed the cup and filled it with water from the faucet. She gulped it down so fast it hurt her throat.

He stilled. “Do you want to?”

She looked at him then. One look at Lincoln’s face and the answer she was going to say disappeared and was replaced with another. He looked lost, young. He stood tall and proud, and yet there was frailty to him she’d never noticed before.

“No,” unconsciously fell from her lips, surprising her. Didn’t she? Why didn’t Sara want to go?

He tried to hide the relief on his face from Sara by looking away, but she caught it, something inside her twisting at the vulnerability he didn’t want her to see. “All right. I got ‘National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation’ queued up. Sound good?”

“Perfect,” Sara said, trying to smile. The tension was still there, though she was trying her hardest to pretend it wasn’t.

“I’m zero for two.” Lincoln got two plates out of a cupboard and loaded them with pizza.

She gave him a quizzical look, taking the plate with four slices of cheese pizza on it. Sara would maybe eat half of that.

“This was my idea. I said we had to talk about happy stuff. I screwed it up twice now,” he said as he walked into the living room, turning on a lamp. Days were shortening now and dusk was already approaching, turning the inside of the house dark. It wasn’t even four in the afternoon yet.

Sara sat down on the couch, setting her plate on the coffee table. “You can’t make yourself feel how you don’t, Lincoln. Pretending only makes things worse. I guess not knowing how you feel about something is normal too. You can love someone and hate them at the same time. You can want something and not want it too. Sometimes lies are all you have; sometimes you have to tell yourself them just to be able to breathe.” She clasped her hands and looked at them in her lap.

“Is that would you do? Lie to yourself? Of course you do,” he answered for her, not sounding judgmental, only matter-of-fact. “We’re all guilty of it. Sometimes you have to pretend, just to survive. Isn’t that how you make it through each day? Pretending? Sometimes that’s all you can do or you’ll break, Sara. You’ll ruin everything by not pretending. Believe me, I know.”

She looked at him, but Lincoln was readying the movie on the TV. Sara was missing an astronomical piece of information and until she grasped it, nothing would fit. And when you figure it out, what then? Unease trickled through her veins, chilling her.

“Remember how he used to buy Peeps by the armfuls at Easter time?” Lincoln grabbed his plate of pizza as he sat down on the couch, setting it on his lap.

Sara smiled softly. “Yeah. Those things are disgusting. I can’t believe he didn’t have tons of cavities. I tried a Peep once. Never again.” She shuddered.

Lincoln laughed, consuming half a piece of pizza in one bite.

He would have eaten chocolate every day if he could have, and actually, he probably had. After every meal, his dessert was a Snickers or a Kit Kat or some other kind of candy bar. Snacks consisted of Hershey’s Kisses and miniature Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Good genetics and physical labor had kept him cavity-free and his body lean and hard.

That restless energy he’d had had kept him moving, never able to sit down or be still for too long. She had admired that about him at the same time it had annoyed her. Some days she’d just wanted to sit and watch a movie and he hadn’t even been able to do that. His knees would bounce, he’d tap his fingers on the armrest of the couch, he’d get up and move around, decide he needed to call someone. Even on her husband’s days off he was working. Come to think of it, all that sugar consumption could have been a large part of his inability to relax for any length of time.

“Don’t forget his orange soda.” Lincoln shuddered this time.

Laughter fell from her lips. “He liked his sweet stuff.”

“And baseball.”

“And snowmobiling.”

“Beer.”

“Grilling out.” Sara tried to smile, but instead her face crumpled.

She could see him clearly, the sunny summer scene playing out in her mind. His blue fire eyes, his teasing grin; the dirt on him from work he had yet to wash off. She took a deep breath and the image faded. Sara rubbed her eyes, not wanting Lincoln to see her tears.

The movie began; already forgotten before it had even started. Neither of them spoke, lost in their thoughts. Her mind was stuck on the words Lincoln had revealed in the kitchen. What had they meant? Would she ever know? Did she want to know? Some secrets were too painful to unravel.

When Sara looked over, Lincoln was watching her, his expression indecipherable. The only indication he felt anything at all was the tick in his strong jaw. He wordlessly reached for her and Sara fell into his arms, holding him as he held her. It felt right to be in his arms, it felt right to let him hold her when no one else felt right doing so. He alone loved him the same as she. She didn’t understand Lincoln; she didn’t know what he was trying to tell her or not tell her with his words, spoken and unspoken, but in regard to her husband and his brother; they were in accordance. They would remember him together and they would love him together, just as they would mourn him together.

***

“How are you dealing with everything?”

Pushing the empty coffee mug back and forth between her hands, Sara focused on a red stripe on the cup as she answered, “Terribly.”

As was customary, they sat at the table in Sara’s kitchen. Mason had brought caramel rolls, scenting the air with them. She’d eaten almost half of hers, to Mason’s surprise. Sara had always tried to be healthy in what she ate and drank, but now she had a hard time eating anything. She almost thought she’d forced that much down just to prove to herself she could. Her stomach was not happy with her.

“It’s to be expected. I know I said you were lucky to be able to say goodbye, but it has to be hard knowing there’s a set date. Or maybe that’s a blessing instead of indefinitely wondering when his final day will be.”

She looked up with a frown. Mason sipped from his cup, eyebrows lifted, waiting for her response. “You do realize you say a bunch of nothing almost every time your mouth opens?”

Half of his mouth quirked. “Depends on how you choose to interpret what I say. If you want to hear nothing, then nothing you shall hear. If you want to get something out of what I say, then you will.”

“There you go again,” she muttered.

He laughed, opening the crinkled white bag to pull out a second caramel roll. Mason took a bite, licking icing from his thumb.

“I thought these sessions were only going to last a month?”

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“You said—“

“What I said was,” Mason interrupted smoothly, “I was on vacation for a month, so technically I wasn’t here as a grief counselor. I never said the sessions would only last that long. People always hear what they want to hear, even if it isn’t the same as what someone says. Clearly you needed me for longer than a month. It’s okay. I get that I’m irresistible.” He winked.

She blinked at him.

“How long have you known Lincoln?”

Sara froze, not wanting to think about Lincoln. Not that that mattered, because he seemed to be all she thought of. It was unnerving and worrisome how much she was thinking of him lately. And she wondered what he was thinking; all the time. Sometimes she even turned to ask him his opinion on something, so used to his company now; almost longing for it when he wasn’t around.

“Sara,” he prompted.

Taking a sip of cold coffee, Sara used the time to gather her scattered nerves. “I met him a few days after I met my husband.”

“Do you know him well?”

“As well as I know myself,” she answered without thinking. Sara blinked as her words registered in her head, looking at Mason. He’d caught them.

His face was blank, but his eyes were narrowed on her. “Interesting.”

Face red, she shifted in her seat. “What is?”

Mason set his cup of coffee down, splaying his long-fingered hands on the table. “You said you know him as well as you know yourself, not your husband. I find that interesting.”

“You would,” she retorted, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes and Sara’s skin was abnormally flushed.

“I would. Yes.” Mason stood, carrying his plate and cup to the counter. His dark blue sweater and jeans boasted his fit frame. “I’ll see you soon, Sara,” he said as he walked to the door to get his coat and boots on.

“That’s it?” Sara got to her feet, rooted to the place beside the table. “You’re leaving?”

Mason tilted his head and studied her. “Yes. I’m leaving. But first, I want you to tell me something about Lincoln.”

She shifted her feet, looking anywhere but at Mason. “Like what?”

“Anything.”

Sara thought of Lincoln; picturing his stormy eyes and stiff jaw and the way his lips curved up, softened, when he smiled. “He…” A smile captured her lips. “He has this habit of nodding his head to music, even when he isn’t aware of it. His body moves too. It’s like he has to restrain himself not to bust out dancing. It’s funny watching him, and most times, he can’t help but sing. Lincoln loves music; always has. It’s…endearing. Sweet.” She exhaled deeply, looking at Mason.

Mason didn’t speak for a long time, finally saying, “I realized something just now.”

One eyebrow lifted. “Oh?”

“It wasn’t anything you said, but it was what you didn’t say.”

Sara frowned. “What? What does that even mean?”

“You, talking about Lincoln. It’s not the words you use, but how you look as you say them. Your face softens; you smile. You glow, Sara. Lincoln is it.”

“Again with the nonsense? Lincoln is what?” she said, exasperated.

Smiling as he shrugged into his brown leather coat, Mason gently mocked, “Open your eyes, Sara. You won’t be able to see until you do.” He left, leaving a reeling Sara behind him.

***

Sara wiped sweaty hair from her face with her arm and leaned back on her heels. The kitchen floor was gleaming clean. Somehow housework did what painting used to do for her, but now couldn’t. It was therapeutic. Maybe she should change her career from painter to housekeeper. She snorted. Sooner or later she would have to figure out what she was going to do about that. Sara had made enough money from her artwork in the past that she was stable for now, even though there was no new income coming in from that. They’d saved a lot too. And of course there was the monthly compensation she received from the accident. Those were in a messy stack in the junk drawer, none cashed.

Lincoln was heavy on her mind, not that he was ever far from it. She was confused and upset by his behavior. She didn’t know how to read him. It was more than sorrow for his brother. He seemed tormented by something, something he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell her about. The strain on his face; it was more than just from the circumstances concerning his brother. Or maybe he just couldn’t take it anymore. She understood how that could happen. Maybe it was simply too much for him and she understood that as well.

Lincoln is the key. Sara shook her head. Mason and his crazy ideas. She never knew what he was saying and he always acted like it was because of her that his words made absolutely no sense at all. Saying that about Lincoln just proved it. Lincoln wasn’t the key to anything except maybe Sara’s constant aggravation lately. She frowned. That wasn’t fair. Everything Lincoln did he did with her in mind. She knew that. But what was with him recently?

Sara had never seen Lincoln’s moods alter so much like that. What was hurting him so much he had to lash out like he had? And later, the way he’d held her; as though he was holding her up as much as she was him. She didn’t know how to help him and she wanted to. Part of Sara thought maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she was what was tearing him up like that. She didn’t want to be; Sara didn’t want to be responsible for his pain, for anyone’s pain. Only you already are.

The whirring sound of a motor, getting louder and closer, gave her pause and made her heart rate escalate. In her cracked mind, Sara knew it was him, finally returning. He’d been on a long snowmobiling trip and he was back. The sane part of her mind receded, letting her have her false reality for a time. Sara jumped to her feet, racing to the door.

She flung it open, her pulse crazy, her heart thundering. Biting air snapped at her and her bare feet turned to ice on the cold step outside the door. The rider turned the engine off on the red and black Polaris snowmobile. He took off his gloves and set them on the snowmobile console. His hands reached up to grip the helmet and Sara couldn’t breathe. Whose face would she see?

The black-garbed rider stood and strode toward her as he pulled the helmet from his face, holding it against his side as he reached the porch. It was Lincoln. Sorrow and relief punched her in the stomach and Sara sucked in a sharp breath, unable to look too closely at that response. His hair was matted against his head, but still managed to wave up in spots. His jaw was unshaven, giving him a rough appearance and making him even more handsome.

Open your eyes, Sara, Mason had said. She inwardly shook her head, knowing she would never truly understand Mason Wells.

“I thought you outgrew your snowmobile gear?” was the first thing she thought of saying.

“I lied. Ready for a ride?” He grinned, his gray eyes flashing with silver.

Sara looked down at her dirty, stained yellow shirt and ripped jeans, wondering why her heart rate hadn’t slowed down any. “No. I’m cleaning.”

“O…M…G, Sara,” Lincoln said, rolling his eyes. “That house is clean enough to eat meals off the floor, even when you haven’t cleaned it for weeks. You clean over clean. Get your stuff on. We’re going.”

She crossed her arms, getting tired of Lincoln’s bossiness and wanting to laugh at him at the same time. “Stop trying to run my life.”

Lincoln laughed. “Really? Stop trying to run your life? If I were trying to run your life, it’d be all kinds of different. Trust me. It’s day two. Let’s go.”

Heat warmed her cheeks. “You can’t do this.”

“Do what?” he asked, moving forward so she had to backtrack into the house.

“Make me do things. Make me…make me…” Her throat closed on the words and Sara blinked her wet eyes.

Lincoln shut the door behind him. “Make you forget? Make you have fun? Make you live?” He leaned forward, his cold nose bumping hers. “Yes…I…can.” Lincoln straightened. “Hurry up. I’m getting snow all over your clean floor. You might have to, like, mop it again or something.” Lincoln widened his eyes at her, clearly making fun of her.

She wordlessly shook her head. Sara couldn’t think straight with Lincoln and all of his ups and downs.

He sighed, crossing his arms, the material of his snowmobile jacket sliding together as he moved. “If you can’t do these things for yourself, Sara, you’re going to do them for him. Think of Cole. Do it for him. Stop fighting me and just do it.”

Her brows furrowed as she stared at Lincoln. He looked back, eyes steady and clear. Lincoln was like a rock, standing tall in the wake of a tsunami, unbending and unbreakable. She spontaneously hugged him, his jacket cold against her skin. Lincoln’s arms rose and his hands held her against him, somehow warming her through the chilled material of his snowmobile garb.

“What’s that for?”

“For being you,” she said, pulling back.

Lincoln’s eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together. He shifted his gaze away as he said, “We’re both hurting, Sara. Instead of wallowing in it and letting it take over, you, and I, need to find things to keep the pain at bay. We need to live. We need to do all the things Cole can’t and we need to be grateful for every breath we get to breathe on our own that he doesn’t. Understand?”

She inhaled deeply, taking in his unflinching gaze. “You’re better at it than I am.”

Lincoln flashed a quick grin. “I’m better at a lot of things than you are.”

“Thanks,” Sara said, snorting a little.

“I’m sorry about the other night. About the way I’ve been acting lately.”

“It’s okay, Lincoln.”

“It’s not okay, Sara.” He sighed and then gently bumped his forehead to hers and stepped back. “Get your stuff on. I’ll be outside waiting.”

Sara walked toward the closet as Lincoln went outside. Her heart was hurting, not because of that hated date getting closer every day, but for another reason. Lincoln was shoving life back into her, in spite of what she thought she wanted, in spite of her wishes. She could continue to fight it, but Sara knew it was pointless. Lincoln was…Lincoln. She was so thankful for him, even as aggravating as he was. He managed to put everything into perspective; he managed to make her see what she couldn’t see on her own. What about what he doesn’t want you to see?

***

It was loud. The engine was fast and high-pitched and so loud Sara could barely hear her own thoughts, which was a blessing. She held on to Lincoln, her arms wrapped around his waist, trees and hills passing them by in a blur. Sara closed her eyes, feeling the snowmobile’s power underneath her, Lincoln’s solid back against her front, the way her legs straddled the back of his. The windshield of the helmet fogged every now and then, showing how cold it was outside her snowmobile geared body, but it quickly dispersed, once again giving her a view of fluffy snow and countryside.

Lincoln and he had always liked their toys; be they motorcycles or boats or snowmobiles. In that way they were as one. Sara had never understood that need to disconnect from the world with speed and what she’d considered unnecessary wildness, but now, she kind of did. It was liberating, to go so fast, to forget about obligations and reality and just feel.

The trail was narrow and rough and at times Sara knocked into Lincoln, her helmet clunking against his. Up and up the hill they climbed, Sara adjusting her body to Lincoln’s, moving with him around turns and corners. Then they were wide open, nothing but space on either side of them. Lincoln cranked on the accelerator and they were soaring. Sara laughed, tipping her head back. Free. She felt free. She wanted to bottle the feeling up and take it with her. Sara hadn’t felt so guiltless, so alive, in a long time.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 540