Behind Our Lives

Book 1: Behind Our Lives Trilogy

by Charlene Carr

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

He's broken. Her world is falling apart. Neither believes they will trust again.

Lincoln Fraser's hiding out. His girlfriend cheated on him, he blew a major account at work, and now he's lying to everyone he loves. After months of chugging craft beer and waking up filthy and alone, he's ready to pack his bags and head to the woods. Literally.

Kali Johnson feels stuck. Her husband's gone, her son won't talk, and she's living in a mold-filled apartment that's about to be condemned. Things couldn't get worse ... until she hears the scurry of little feet in the night. Now she starts her days by checking traps for dead rats.

When a freak accident places Kali and her son in Lincoln's path, a split-second decision alters their lives forever.

Thought -provoking and brutally honest, complex and deep, Behind Our Lives, Book One in the Behind Our Lives Trilogy, will grip you, breaking your heart at every turn.

Release date: December 8, 2016

Publisher: Coastal Lines

Print pages: 382

Sample

Chapter One

 

Lincoln lay on a patch of grass in the sunken yard just outside the Halifax North Memorial Library. Romper snored beside him. It was one of those days when the sky made him dizzy—the way the clouds zoomed on by like that. Racing. Time seemed to stand still, stuck in a world moving far too fast.

But time never stood still. Like the clouds, it raced. The weight of it all a sea upon his chest, he lay there, half-drowned by all the hours still to be lived. The seconds. Minutes. Days.

He breathed deep the scent of truck exhaust; coughed, sputtered, sat up. Romper let out a startled bark. The mutt looked both ways, seemed to roll his eyes at Lincoln, then settled back down.

A woman pushed out of the library door, a large bag and a small boy trailing behind. Her.

She seemed everywhere lately: invading the streets, invading his thoughts. She strode past him with steps that seemed too long, too forceful, on a person so graceful.

The first time he saw her, he'd thought, 'Foxy Brown.'

Was that racist?

He was a fourth black after all, though no one would know to look at him. So, racist to say it, but not to think it.

The woman raised a hand to someone across the street—barely an acknowledgement, barely a smile—and walked on.

Lincoln had been wrong. Not Foxy Brown—a Nubian goddess of ancient times. Transported here, to Gottingen Street, to the year two thousand and fifteen.

He collapsed again, but a relaxed fall this time. The grass seemed friendlier. Welcoming. If she could transport to another time and place, maybe he could too. Escape.

Beautiful. Clean. With no guilt or uncertainty. Without hurting anyone.

Lincoln ran his fingers through his beard, scratching, pulling, contemplating. He could go inside or stay here. Return home or stay here. Close his eyes and be swept away. He'd stay, just a little longer. He had time.

When Lincoln opened his eyes he convulsed. His hands were damp. His clothes. The sky had darkened. The clouds stood still. He propelled himself forward—up the steps, over the railing—and leapt toward the library doors. Locked. How long had he slept? Hours, obviously. The library closed at nine p.m.

Stupid. A waste.

With his hands against the glass, Lincoln caught a movement. Cheryl. He pounded three times. She jumped and turned, her brow furrowed.

Lincoln grinned.

She pointed to the clock above the desk. 9:01.

“It's fast,” Lincoln shouted. “I swear.”

She turned her wrist. Shook her head. Pointed to the watch.

“Please.” The grin again. He always put a grin on for Cheryl, and it always worked.

She walked to the door and stood staring, her hands on those big ol' hips. But he saw the twinkle in her eye. Lincoln turned to Romper, who had sidled up beside him, and gave the dog a nod. Stay. Romper looked away with a huff and settled onto his front paws.

Cheryl turned the lock and opened the door. She didn't step aside. “You know our hours.”

“I don't have a watch.”

“And that's my fault?”

“I fell asleep on the lawn.”

“You fell—?” She shook her head. “Lincoln, we're closed.”

“But the door is open.” He pushed past her to the stacks. “My stuff is on hold. I'll be 20 seconds.”

“Ten.”

“Ten. Okay.”

A minute later Lincoln dropped a pile of books on the desk. Cheryl jumped, then reached for the first. “You don't deserve this.”

Lincoln nodded.

“What are you doing, anyway? All this stuff ... architecture, woodworking, solar energy?”

Lincoln beamed. “Learning.”

“I know, but—” She shook her head, her gaze on the books, and then at Lincoln. “What are you up—?”

“Your husband's waiting, isn't he? John, is it?”

Cheryl huffed and scanned the books. She pushed them to Lincoln, her brow furrowed once more. “Go on, then. Get.”

He grinned and stepped outside. The night wouldn't be wasted. He would dive into these books, devour them, then go through again slowly, making sure he understood every concept and had thought through every application and possibility. He cocked his head at Romper and turned toward home.

No, not home. Home was a ten-minute drive. A forty-seven-minute walk. A thirty-minute bus ride, with transfer. Not that knowing these numbers mattered. In eight months he hadn't made the trip once. Hadn't even told his family he'd returned.

Lincoln walked past the community garden, the church that had been there longer than anything he could see, the greenhouse the local kids were so proud of.

Halifax wasn't a big city. But it was one you could get lost in—if you wanted. And where he was headed wasn't home. It was just a place to be lost.

 

***

 

One-two-three, five-six-seven. One-two-three, five-six-seven. Clomp-clomp-clomp, clomp-clomp-clomp. Lincoln was at least four buildings away and already he could hear the words and sounds that filled his life, invaded it. Five evenings a week and every other weekday afternoon.

He hoped the music would start soon—drown out the incessant sound of those heels, of the instructor's booming voice. The music, though not his style, was a reprieve after the clomping. A gift ... for the first few minutes.

Several women in dresses with swishing skirts and high heels rushed past Lincoln, chatting with high pitched, laughing voices.

He couldn't figure out the appeal. The dance? He doubted it. Salsa was supposed to be passionate, freeing, not this regimented counting and clomping the studio seemed to advocate.

Didn't the women get that?

More likely it was the idea of the dance. The idea of something exotic and freeing and full of life. That, he supposed, he could understand.

Maybe he'd pop in one night. Get a closer look at who, exactly, had the wool pulled over their eyes. New lovers awkwardly trying to impress each other? Seasoned lovers aching to fill the empty, silent hours of knowing everything there was to know and yet still being strangers? Or singles?

A man strode past in khaki's and a tucked in dress shirt; he flipped his key fob then clicked it. A horn sounded just behind Lincoln, making him jump. He shook his head, then followed the man with his gaze.

The studio accepted singles, a big sign made sure no one missed the announcement. Hello, lonely soul. This too, is for you.

The man jogged up the studio steps.

Maybe it was all singles, a myriad of people hoping there'd be some kind of magic in those numbers, those steps—one-two-three, five-six-seven—that would mean they didn't have to be alone anymore. Two buildings away now, the sound dominated the street.

Lincoln held the library books to his chest, envisioning their promise—silence, solitude, a life apart.

He felt sorry for the dancers. For their blindness, their searching after something they could never have. We were all alone. That was the truth. Born that way, we die that way. The big lie was that the years in between could change that.

One building away, and he could feel the music thumping in his chest.

All the windows were open. That's why the sound had travelled so far. Warmer weather. The window would be open all the time now. Lincoln sighed.

A slew of hopefuls poured down the studio steps. Laughing. Chatting. Arm in arm. He walked past them, through them. They spread wide as if he were Moses parting the sea.

Almost there. Almost home. He'd close his windows, no matter how hot it was.

Romper ran ahead, past a car in front of Lincoln's steps, past the long toned leg attached to the woman stepping out of it.

Lucy.

Lincoln stood frozen, his back against a tree. Flee? No point; she'd see him run. A door slam. They were here. What could they want? How had they found him?

Lucy laughed as Joseph took her arm. That tinkling laugh. The laugh that made him first notice her, made him turn his head in a crowd and see.

Lucy.

She was beautiful as ever. Slim. Blue eyes flashing under lashes long with mascara that never clumped, not once in their four years together, that never ran or smudged. Not when she cried. Not when she was slick with the sweat of lovemaking.

The mascara of every other woman he'd ever been with had clumped.

Her eyes met his—Lincoln braced himself to say something, anything, but her gaze flitted away. She gripped Joseph's arm tighter. Joseph, who barely looked at him, who walked on as if Lincoln were nothing more than a bum on the street.

Lincoln watched them pass. Her in her red dress and black heels; Joseph in khakis and a wrinkle-free shirt. They weren't here for him. The dance. They were here for the dance.

Lincoln slumped against the tree, his heart thumping against his chest like a mallet. He looked down at his loose and aging clothes. Not the crisp suits and perpetually shined shoes Joseph and Lucy were used to seeing. Instead, Lincoln wore an old flannel button-up and torn jeans. His hair hung in greasy clumps, inches longer than it had ever been.

He raised a hand to his beard. He hadn't intended to grow it, had never had more than stubble before. But in those first few weeks, which quickly turned into those first few months, he couldn't bother shaving. What was the point? Then one day an old classmate approached. Lincoln walked on, dreading each moment the distance between them shortened, the questions that would come, the explanations he'd have to give. He braced himself, steeled himself, readied ... and the classmate walked on with only a casual glance. He hadn’t recognized him. More than that, he dismissed him. In that moment, Lincoln decided the beard would stay. And he hadn't bothered to cut his hair once in the eight long months since he’d seen them. But he never thought ... Joseph. Joseph not recognizing him. Joseph not seeing him.

Lucy had, though. Whether or not she'd known for sure it'd been him, there'd been a flicker of recognition. And then she walked on.

Lincoln kept his back close against the tree. What time was it? After nine? Nine-fifteen, maybe? Classes started on the hour. So they were late. Typical. Of Lucy, at least. That magical mascara took time to apply.

Thursday at nine. He wouldn't be outside at this time again.

 

 

Chapter Two

 

Lincoln stood against the tree a moment longer. He refused to turn his head, see Lucy staring back at him, them staring back, discussing—Is it him? No. It can't be. But Joseph, it's him. I would know. No, I would know.

Lucy knew it was him. She saw. Lincoln could almost hear it, the conversation they'd be having. The conversation they must be having. Any minute now, Joseph's voice would boom. He'd stride over like he owned the street. Owned the world. Owned Lincoln. Any—

Lincoln opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—and turned from the tree. The salsa studio's steps were bare. The sidewalk was bare. They'd gone inside like he didn't matter. Like he was nothing. No one.

He should be happy.

Lincoln turned to his own steps. Romper's head was cocked to the side. His eyes curious. The red bandanna around his bushy black neck flapped in the breeze.

Swallowing, Lincoln took the steps two at a time. Stupid. Pathetic. He almost laughed. He should laugh. If she'd seen, known, she would have said something. She wouldn't walk by. Couldn't walk by. She'd always been a person to want the last word and he hadn't let her have it.

He should have said something. Anything. Not stood there like a frightened child, back pressed against a tree just to stay standing.

He unlocked the door to his building and trudged up the old wooden steps to his apartment one at a time. If he didn’t, Sandy from unit 1a, hating the noise, would bang her broomstick or golf club or whatever she used against the ceiling the second he stepped through his door.

Inside, Lincoln dropped the books on a crate and rammed his fist into the wall. Hard enough to hurt, but not to break anything—flesh or plaster. He could only be so stupid in one night. He punched again, near the door frame this time so he could punch harder. Tingles of pain radiated through his arm. The broomstick banged. Lincoln cursed under his breath. Enough.

He'd wasted enough hours today. He scooped up the books and took them to the couch. He flipped through the first one. Diagrams. Diagrams. Lucy.

Lucy laughing. Crying. Yelling.

He pulled over a crate and kicked his legs up. Was this normal? The way his stomach twisted? The ball that felt like an actual presence within his gut?

He clenched his eyes shut—trying to force away the words and images that flew at him.

“I won't do it,” she had screamed. “I won't.” A bottle of coconut scented lotion soared across the room, aimed at his head.

“Calm down.” He'd held his hands out. Supplicating. Wearing the half smile he saved for the office war room. The smile he'd seen on Joseph since they were children. “Be reasonable, Sweetie.”

“Reasonable?” A tube of toothpaste this time.

Yes, reasonable. Practical. Logical. Lincoln had just started to make a name in the company, to earn respect that didn't come from his family name: all the things Lucy wanted, all that she had pushed him toward. “We're not ready. Not yet. Our lives aren't—”

A laugh. He hadn't known what it meant. Hadn't even guessed.

“Our lives?” She'd looked at him with disgust, like he was the pathetic one in the situation, like he was the one not capable of seeing the larger picture, and left.

Lincoln's stomach growled, bringing him back to the present. His library-lawn nap had meant no dinner. But he couldn't cook, not tonight. Not when, nowadays, cooking meant Kraft Dinner or Ravioli or cereal and toast. A glance out the window told him the rain had come. No matter. He'd get dry again eventually.

Lincoln slipped into his make-shift galoshes. He chuckled. What would Lucy think of these?

Romper came to the door expectant, tail wagging. Lincoln shook his head and the dog sidled away—snout hung down—then looked back, reproachful.

Outside puddles were forming. Lincoln walked in the opposite direction of the salsa studio. He had a good thirty minutes until class was over. Plenty of time to make it to Kut Korners Pizza and back—with time to spare.

When Lincoln pushed through the door, the kid with the shifty eyes and puffed out chest stood at the counter. “Usual?”

Lincoln nodded. He perched on the stool and swivelled back and forth as the kid rambled on his cell phone, as the rain came down in torrents.

Lincoln paid in cash, double knotted the plastic bag holding his dinner, and stepped into the onslaught. He guessed he'd sat in the shop ten to twelve minutes. Five to seven to get home, depending on the lights. He was cutting it tight.

A whooshing sound rose up. Lincoln turned to see a typhoon of muddy water coming straight at him. It ran into his eyes. It soaked through his shirt and pants. He should get angry. Yell at the driver, scream expletives, give him the finger. Do what any normal person would do.

Lincoln sighed. That lump, knot, whatever it was in his stomach, grew heavier. He walked on, skin sticky, clothes thick. Yet his feet were dry. He looked down at his favourite pair of loafers, the left one opening at the toes, flapping like a mouth, revealing the 'b' in the Sobeys grocery bag he'd stuffed inside it. What would Lucy say? He couldn't come up with an answer for that one. Lucy's Lincoln wouldn't have thought of such a thing. Grocery bags in his shoes. Ridiculous. But Lucy's Lincoln, new loafers or no, would have wet feet right now. A smile crept across his face. Life had its positives.

Lincoln continued down the busy street. In this city, if rain kept you inside you'd be a hermit. Some walked as casually as him, but these had umbrellas and rain boots to shield them. Others dashed past, holding a purse to block the rain or a jacket, raised up like a tent. Pointless. This rain flew in from the side as much as the sky. And wet was wet.

Wet was wet. Lucy had said that the first night they'd met—when she smiled across the room, when they left the party only to get caught in the rain.

“Just like a movie,” she'd said when he tried to shield her with his coat, when he suggested they hide under an awning. “And wet was wet.” She'd spun. Acting out her little movie, he later realized. Playing the role of carefree and excited. He'd kissed her, falling for the scene, the romance she created, and thought—Life would begin again. That's what the moment meant. His heart had been broken just weeks earlier, but with one laugh, one spin in the rain, one kiss, Lucy had put it back together. Life had begun.

No. No. No.

Lincoln clenched his teeth. Stupid. Pathetic. Broken. Think of something else. Something. Anything. Her. Not Lucy. The afro-haired woman. The Nubian goddess. Not Lucy with her silky blonde hair and bright blue eyes: bluer than the sky, bluer than the deepest lake. Those eyes—not now. Not tonight. Not when he'd come so far.

But the woman he'd started seeing everywhere. Graceful. Determined. Fast. He could think of her, of the first time he saw her. It had been a night like this, one block from here. The rain poured down. And she'd come running—thighs flexing, arms pumping. He'd heard her before he'd seen her: The thump of her black boots on the pavement. The steady puff of her breath. He'd turned as she'd flown past him. She didn't yell for the bus. Didn't wave her arms. She just ran. And the bus, which started to pull away from the stop, slowed. He imagined the smile on her face, the sigh of relief, and wished he'd seen it.

A moment later he'd seen her face, barely. Foxy Brown—the 'whole lot of woman' 70s action queen—had been his thought while he watched her retreating figure, but as he glimpsed her face through the flash of wipers against wet glass, the comparison didn't do her justice. Not even close.

 

Steps away from his apartment, Lincoln walked past Joseph's car. He hesitated, looked in the back. A gym bag and protein bar wrappers. So that hadn't changed.

Upstairs, he stood in the entry and peeled off his wet clothes. One by one he let the items fall. Positives. He could leave them there as long as he wanted. He wouldn't, but he could, and no one would say a word. His boxers were the last to go: now dingy Calvin Klein's Lucy once thought were so spiffy.

Better.

Untying the bag that held his dinner, Lincoln stepped to the window. The city shone. Each light representing how far society had come: a view disorganized yet perfectly planned. Stop lights, crosswalks, buildings made to withstand the wind—when winter came, the snow.

Lincoln took a bite of his calzone, luxuriating in the freedom to stand naked in a window with no one to tell him not to. The city twinkled. It didn't look real. More like a set, like the idea of what a city would be. Full of its systems, its rules lived by, that worked so well, until they didn't. That kept most people safe, most of the time. That prevented utter chaos.

Lincoln took another bite, the hot cheese and sweet pineapple a burst of goodness.

All anyone had to do was obey the rules. Stop at a red. Pay your taxes. Slow at a yellow. Register to vote. Yield when directed. Don't sleep with your brother's girlfriend. Green means go.

Follow the rules and you got to live thinking everything was okay, got to believe that those years in between could be filled, could mean something. Break them, and—

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Lincoln dropped his takeout dish. Pizza sauce and bits of bacon and pineapple splattered the wall. The ball in his gut plopped right back in place from wherever it had drifted away to. He stood frozen.

 

 

Chapter Three

 

The noise came again, three loud bangs. Lincoln looked at the spilled calzone.

Stupid.

He stayed frozen.

Stupid.

Romper trotted over to the spill and looked up at Lincoln.

“No.”

The dog edged closer.

“No.”

He slinked away.

Three bangs once more.

Lincoln moved to the door. But he was naked. There were steps to take: Get clothes on. Go to the door. Face them: Joseph and Lucy.

Another bang. “Lincoln?”

Not Joseph's voice. Certainly not Lucy's. “Lincoln, I know you're there.”

Andrew. Only Andrew. “Just a minute.”

A loud sigh.

Lincoln dashed to his bedroom and grabbed a pair of sweatpants from a dresser drawer and a t-shirt from another. Back in the living room, he pushed the pile of wet and muddy clothes out of the way and opened the door just wide enough to stand in it. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Andrew's eyes widened. “What in the—?” He reached out and peeled something off of Lincoln's temple. A crumpled leaf. He held it out, left eyebrow raised.

“A truck got me.”

“A truck.”

“A puddle. You know. A ...”

“Whatever. Can I come in?”

“I'm kind of busy.”

“Busy? You got a job?”

“No.”

“A girl?”

“No.”

“Then I'm coming in.” Andrew pushed on the door.

Lincoln held it. “I'm working, okay? I'm eating dinner. Just ... what do you want?”

Andrew gave the door a shove. Lincoln stumbled back, then stepped aside.

“This, Lincoln, this is how you live.”

It was a statement, not a question, so Lincoln didn't answer.

“You don't have to live like this.”

“I like living like this.”

“You don't.”

Andrew walked through the living room. It wouldn't take long to absorb—couch, work table, crate, shoes lined up neatly by the door. He shook his head, then turned. “You practicing monk-hood? Rejecting materialism?”

Lincoln shrugged. He'd had everything in Lucy and his apartment in Montreal. More than he ever wanted, than he'd ever thought he wanted. When he left that life, he left it all. Every TV and designer tie and espresso coffee machine. (They had two.) And it felt good. Freeing. Those monks knew what they were about.

“You have your shares in the business. Why aren't you—?”

Lincoln stepped forward. “I'm not touching those shares.”

“I'll get you a job then. You tired of office work? Is that what this is about? You can work on the floor. As a construction manager. Or on one of the crews? You used to love that when we were kids. Dad used to say you were better than some of his men, and Uncle Alex—”

“Don't talk to me about my Dad.”

Andrew's mouth snapped shut. He nodded. “I could get you a job.”

“If I wanted a job, I'd have one.” Lincoln wanted to sit. Exhaustion rolled over him. But if he sat, Andrew would too, and stay for a while, get comfortable. “If this is why you came, you can go. I don't need a job. I don't want a job. But if I did, I wouldn't get one from him.”

“From me, Lincoln. From—”

“They're all from him.”

“You need to work.”

“Who says I'm not? Who says work has to be what you think it is, what society thinks it is, what Joseph thinks it is?”

“Linc—”

“I'm alive, aren't I? I'm fine.”

Andrew let out a puff of air. “For now.”

“And now is all that matters, isn't it?”

Andrew frowned. “Whatever savings you have, they won't last forever.”

“I have a plan. A good plan.”

Andrew scoffed. He pointed to the cut outs on the wall, the detailed lists of everything that went right and everything that went wrong, the table scattered with experimentation. “This, right? This is your plan?”

Lincoln leaned against the wall, hating this exhaustion, the fact that he couldn't stand up and say what he was doing mattered with verve, say that with every swing of the axe, every thrust of the hammer, he was getting his life back. Building it. But he couldn't say it, not with Andrew's face looking like that. He hated Andrew's face: Pity? Frustration? Sadness?

Andrew picked up the book on architecture, studied it a moment, then let it drop to the table. “I know what happened—”

“You don't know the half of what happened.” Lincoln stepped back to the door. “You've offered me a job. Cleared your conscience. Now, can you go?”

“So you can get back to what? Eating dinner? That dinner?” He pointed to the calzone below the window, half out of its Styrofoam holder.

“You startled me.”

Andrew laughed. The big, boyish one he'd had as a kid. The one that got them in trouble during sleepovers when Mom or Aunt Mindy would come in shushing them. “I'm not here to talk about a job.” He picked up the calzone, put it in the container, and wiped his hands on a napkin. “I'm not even here to lecture you about living like a slob.”

“I don't—”

Andrew walked around the table. “You get the invite to Aunt Marilyn's sixtieth?”

Lincoln nodded.

“Rachel said you didn't RSVP.”

Another nod.

“Man.”

“You RSVP when you're going. I'm not going. So—”

“She's your mother, Lincoln. It's your mother's sixtieth birthday party.”

Lincoln straightened. Eight months. He hadn't seen her in—“I'll send a card.”

“You can't just—” Andrew crossed the room. He sank into the couch, legs spread.

Damn.

“I mean, Lincoln. Come on. She misses you.”

“She—”

“She doesn't even know you're here. None of them do.”

Lincoln walked to the window. The city twinkled on. He turned to face Andrew. The ball in his stomach pulsed. So heavy. “And they won't.”

“I know. I know. You want it to be some big mystery. Some big secret.”

“I want my privacy.”

“They're your family. And they're worried.”

Lincoln sent his mother an email once a month. Every month. The second Tuesday.

“Privacy doesn't exist when it comes to family.” Andrew slapped his palm on the arm rest. “Especially our family.”

Sunday made more sense, but the library was closed on Sunday. He used to send messages to his grandmother every Sunday, before she passed, and she forwarded them around to the rest of the family—no privacy.

But Lincoln had privacy now—he looked at Andrew—most of the time. “They know I'm okay.”

Did his mother send Lincoln's Tuesday message around? Did Joseph see it? Did Lucy? Not that he told much: I'm okay. I'm fine. I saw a beautiful sunset or took a rejuvenating hike. Lies about the location of the sunset or hike. No indication of when he'd be back.

Andrew stared at him. Too long. Lincoln reached for the calzone.

“Aren't you lonely?”

Lonely? Nope. “You ever read David Potter?”

“Relative of Harry?”

“He talks about how in literature any story about a man's complete isolation from his fellow man—be it physical, psychological, whatever—is considered a horror.” Lincoln took a large bite. Still warm. He wiped his mouth. “But it's not. Or at least it doesn't have to be. When you're alone you're ...” Lincoln paused. “Free. You don't have to account for yourself, for anyone else. You can just live.”

“Lincoln, come on.”

“People lie, Andrew. Have you ever met a person who didn't lie?”

“What's your point?”

“They lie. They disappoint. They cheat. Steal. Pretend.”

“Yeah. People suck. So what? You suck, too. But your family still loves you. They still miss you.”

“They're fine. They're better—”

“I miss you, man.”

Lincoln's throat tightened. He shook his head. Andrew and he riding bikes, having their first cigarette, their first toke … telling stories about the first girl they'd slept with, years before they had.

“But you're pissing me off.” Andrew rubbed a hand through his hair. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t your mother that … well, whatever happened between the two of you, you work it out. You say sorry. Or I forgive you, or—”

“I'm not going to the party.”

Andrew stood. “You're a selfish bastard, you know that? A cowardly selfish bastard.” Andrew turned before he opened the door. “I'll keep your stupid promise. Act as if I didn't come here. Act as if I don't know you're minutes away, hiding out like a baby. And yeah, you're right. People lie. Even to themselves. Don't think you're some big exception.”

When the door closed, Lincoln stared after it. At last, he picked up the calzone again. It was cold, but he wasn't hungry anymore, anyway. He threw it against the wall, then stared at what looked like a Rorschach splatter.

Even if Andrew couldn't see it, even if no one could see it, Lincoln was right. People were the problem. People who thought the highest goal was to have these biologically determined social networks. It kept babies alive, yes ... but beyond that? Once we were grown? People no longer needed tribes. That yearning to connect had been an evolutionary requirement to ensure we didn't die in the wilderness: so we could protect and clothe and feed each other. But through grocery stores and electric heating and running water, society created a world that enabled the individual to be just that, an individual.

What had the tribe done for him? Lincoln was tempted to hit something again. Throw something. But it wouldn't work, he'd just have more mess to clean. He closed his eyes. Lucy.

Lucy on the street corner—Haughty. Resistant. Lucy in the hospital bed—outwardly so fragile, so precious, inwardly a cold, hateful vessel of recrimination.

This is your fault. She'd looked at him, her blue eyes like steel. You killed my baby.

Which was ridiculous, of course. The fall killed their baby. Lucy stepping backward down a flight of stairs killed their baby. But Lincoln was the reason she'd stepped.

Stolen from him, that’s what the tribe had done, stolen everything. His joy, the things he'd loved about himself. A new life.

That's what social living had done. Stolen his passion for the outdoors, the ecstasy of burden-free love, his hopes for the future.

I never wanted your baby. His passion for working with his hands. It probably wasn't even your baby. His joy in being alive. In fact, I'm sure it wasn't your baby. His ability to trust.

Stolen it and morphed him into a man who lived for business. For appearances. For the bottom dollar. For a woman who stood for everything he thought he wanted and nothing he truly desired.

Lincoln opened his eyes. It had taken time alone to realize he'd never wanted her, not really. To realize she'd done him a favour. Not freed him, he wouldn't credit her with that, but led to his freedom. He was happier now than ... not than he'd ever been, but than he'd been in years. Than he'd been since he started following the path people, the tribe, laid out for him.

It had taken time to forgive himself for the death of the child that was either his son or his nephew … though he wasn’t sure he’d quite forgiven himself for that. Not yet.

He would see his mother again one day. His sisters. His aunt and uncle and cousins. But not today, or tomorrow either, or at the party. Not until he'd created a solitude that was sustainable. Not until he knew they wouldn't suck him back into the life that had sucked away everything he loved about himself.

A cabin in the woods. A cabin in the sky. A parcel of land large enough and isolated enough that nothing and no one could touch him. That would be his answer. That’s what he was working toward.