CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

LUCIDA

( — the brightest star in a constellation. )

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

          IT'S STRANGE HOW LINCOLN'S APARTMENT SENDS MICHAELA'S HEARTBEAT INTO ERRATIC RHYTHMS. She doesn't even have to get out of her car for it to happen, but it also gives her enough time to try to calm down, take deep breaths and count to ten—no, to twenty—before heading out, as she knows everything will go a lot smoother if she doesn't knock on the door almost on the verge of tears.

          She doesn't want to admit she's, in fact, on the verge of tears, but that's thanks to all the imbalances screwing up her emotions. It's totally due to a purely organic reason, leaving no room for alternative interpretations. 

          Taking her millionth deep breath of the past ten minutes, she tucks strands of hair behind her ears and finally exits the car with wobbly legs. Her balance has been calling it quits and she insists on wearing heels and stilettos just because she can—and also because there will come a time when she won't be able to do it thanks to the future swelling on her joints—but she's determined to push through it.

          With June being closer, the weather gets warmer, and Michaela is almost three months pregnant, having only gained two miserable pounds. It's worrisome, even if the doctors say her health is fine and so is the baby's, as it seems to be growing at the rhythm it should be, but she sees absolutely no changes. In fact, if it weren't for all those ultrasounds, she'd have her doubts regarding the existence of the kid.

          Working for Serotinal Magazine has been doing wonders for her, she thinks, as she constantly feels eager to leave her house and go to work, which is something she rarely ever felt when she still worked for UD, and the staff is much nicer, having been extremely welcoming. It's comforting not working in a place where every wall is made of thin glass, granting her some privacy, but it's unnerving how the bouquets keep coming.

          She wishes people would stop doing that, whoever they are, as it's a constant reminder of how she played herself by thinking Barbra Streisand still gave a damn. She doesn't care who's sending them, knowing pretty darn well it's not Lincoln—sending her flowers every day for a year would be invading her privacy and he has always been marvelous at not doing that, giving her enough space to heal—and is always minutes away from demanding to know their identity.

          She's shuddering as she steps into the complex, feeling as though it has been an eternity since she last set foot in this place. Everything looks exactly the same as it did the last time she came here, except she's not crying anymore and is curiously pregnant, but she's still hoping no one will notice anything—as if there was anything to be noticed. Her hair is two inches shorter, but that's about it.

          Her lungs are burning when she knocks on the door, already dreading Lincoln's reaction—if he's even home. The amount of time Michaela has to wait until someone answers the door isn't nearly enough for her to think about what she's going to say and how she's going to say it, and, as she goes through her speech in her head, counting the seconds until the door swings open, she begins to regret having come here.

          It wouldn't be fair to him if she stayed quiet about it, anyway. It's his baby as well and he certainly deserves to know it exists and Michaela wants to keep it, but she doesn't want him to feel forced to stop everything he's doing and forget they're not on speaking terms. She doesn't want them to get back together just because of the baby—if they get back together, it should be because they want to do it for each other and for what they have, not for an extra variable in the equation.

          He's the one who opens the door, gray eyes widening when he notices she's the one who knocked. Her lips are awfully dry under her lipstick, and they crack when she attempts to throw him a small smile, but it's the best she can currently do. Her heartbeat resembles the rumble of thunder, reverberating beneath her feet, and simply looking at him hurts.

          It hurts because Michaela can't help but remember the pain cladding his eyes when she left, almost three months ago. He screwed up, but he wanted to explain everything, even if he had the best intentions towards Beverly—the problem is that he didn't have the best intentions towards her, having never bothered to explain what was going on before that night. It would have saved the two of them from heartache, and, hell, maybe they would have found a way of dealing with it.

          "Hi," Lincoln eventually greets. "Can I help you?"

          "We need to talk," Michaela states, fingers tightly curled around her purse's strap, and he steps aside to let her through, while she's unable to ignore the cold awkwardness around them. She can't really say she wasn't expecting it, honestly, but she's always taken aback when he's like this, as it's so unlike him. "I'm sorry. I know this might be an inconvenience, but I really need to tell you something."

          "No problem." He closes the front door, pointing her to the living room, where Lila Calloway is sitting, slumped on a couch. She winks at Michaela, whose nervousness keeps growing, as she didn't expect anyone else to be here, especially someone who knows about her pregnancy and is close to Lincoln. "We're just taking care of some . . . last-minute stuff about the release party. Feel free to sit down."

          "Actually, I'd rather talk to you in private."

          Lincoln stops walking and she hears him take in a sharp breath. "Is everything alright?"

          "In theory."

          He sighs, disappearing into the kitchen, and Michaela follows him as the sound of Lila typing furiously on her laptop fills the living room. She truly doesn't know why she's so scared, as it's not like he'll flip out as soon as she fills him in on what's going on, but it's still a bit nerve-wracking to be standing here in front of him when the last conversation the two of them exchanged was everything but amicable.

          Screw the media. Screw the paparazzi. Screw those obsessed with fame.

          He knows her too well, though, even better than Jillian, and the only reason she didn't know Michaela was pregnant was the distance; if she was in New York, all she had to do was look at her for around ten seconds and she'd immediately know what was going on. Lincoln, on the other hand, is two feet away from her and, though he doesn't utter a word, waiting for her to say something, she fears everything might be doomed before it even begins.

          "I know this is awkward," Michaela starts, twisting her hands in each other, "but there's something going on with me that I need to share with you, mostly because it involves you. I also don't want to not be on speaking terms with you, not after all the steps forward we took."

          "Michaela," he sighs again, and her chest instantly tightens. Not Michie, not Mich, and certainly not Mickey—Michaela. "Look, I . . . I tried to explain. I know I screwed things up pretty badly and I'm not trying to make any excuses, especially because I know I should have told you the truth, but—"

          "It doesn't matter what you did; what matters is that you didn't tell me earlier. Timing has never been our strong suit, has it? It's no wonder the same thing happened again when we were doing better." He runs his hands through his hair, brushing it back, and she sees his fingers tremble. Everything hurts and she can't find the right words. "I don't know how to fix this, Lincoln, and, trust me, it's all a lot more complicated now. I'm not expecting us to solve everything right here and right now, but I just want you to know that I . . . I had time to think things through and to clear my head. I also talked to Beverly that day and she explained everything"—he chews down on his bottom lip at the mention of Beverly's name—"so I understand it was hard for the two of you. It was also hard for me to see you kiss another woman hours after you told me you loved me."

          All the color vanishes from his cheeks once she finishes her sentence and utters that damn word, and Michaela is pretty sure she's also seconds away from having the same thing happen to her. She knows she's hitting him right where it hurts and she feels awful about it, but she was hurting too—she spent almost two months hurting over everything they had gone through.

          "I stand by what I said," Lincoln admits, lowering his voice, even though Lila couldn't hear them before over the sound of her fingers hitting her laptop's keyboard, "and I'll say it again, as many times as you want, but you know it's not as easy as having me stand here, repeat it over and over again and pretend nothing happened."

          "I know"—Michaela tries to relax her shoulders—"and I'm not expecting you to. I'll be happy just knowing you're willing to deal with this like the responsible adults we are and see if there's anything we can still do to fix it." She raises a hand when he opens his mouth. "There's something else I need to tell you. It might change everything about your answer."

          Lincoln simply nods, letting her open her purse and rummage through it, pulling out a folded piece of paper. He accepts it with shaky hands and her heartbeat echoes in her ears, thinking about all the ways this can possibly go wrong. It gets even worse, with bile rising up her throat, when Lincoln unfolds the paper and stares down at it, losing his balance.

          They say a picture is worth more than a thousand words, so she decided to show him a scan of her most recent ultrasound instead of spelling it out for him, but he's a writer. Writers handle words a lot better than regular people.

          "Mich," he whispers, having to support himself on a counter.

          "Please don't pass out," she begs, stepping forward to try to take the scan from his hands, but he moves it away, tracing the outline of the baby's body with his index finger. "I'm sorry. I know I should have told you sooner, but I didn't tell anyone until the beginning of the month because I was scared. I was terrified of your reaction."

           "Does everyone know?"

          "My parents. Lila. Jillian and Lennox. Ginny and Roya." She inhales. "And you. But it's not something I'm preaching everywhere I go. Lincoln, I really don't want you to get back together with me just because of the baby, okay? I don't want you to feel forced to be in a relationship with me over this, but I want you to want to be with me because of me and because you think we can do it. The baby . . . I mean, I know the baby is important and trust me, I'm scared to death of what's going to happen when I have no idea if everything will be all right, but . . ."

          Lincoln simply shakes his head, setting the paper aside, and carefully wraps his arms around her, as if he was afraid of having her shatter into a million pieces. On the other hand, having him press a quick kiss to her temple is what nearly brings her to tears, making her return the hug and clinging to the back of his t-shirt for dear life.

          When he smooths back her hair, she thinks she hears him sob. Though it breaks her heart even more, rendering her almost unable to breathe, she believes there's still hope for the two of them. They have a lot to talk about and not just baby-related stuff, but there's time.

          For a split moment, everything is okay. She doesn't want to let it go.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

          LINCOLN STOPS BY HER APARTMENT A FEW DAYS LATER, AFTER SHE HAS GOTTEN OUT OF WORK. It's Wednesday, making it so that four days have passed since she ever so kindly let him know he's going to be a father—and made him promise he'd keep quiet about it, as it's something she doesn't want to see plastered all over social media—and Michaela has just gotten out of her weekly relaxing bath. Her body needed it, but her muscles begin to ache just by thinking about everything there's still left to do this evening—write more articles, cook dinner, prepare her lunch for tomorrow, call her parents, call Jillian, like her friends' posts on Instagram . . .

          So, when the doorbell chimes, she's not thrilled to put everything she's doing on hold.

          The sweater he's wearing seems a bit too heavy for the current weather conditions, but the dark-gray color of the fabric brings out his eyes, especially under the lights of the hallway and the ones in her living room. She can count on one hand the number of times he has been here, as opposed to how many times she has returned to the apartment after they broke up, and it's a bit strange to have him here.

          She's pretty sure she knows what he's doing here. He's not here for dinner, but she invites him to stay anyway, as it's easier to talk to people when everyone has a full stomach, but he's so quiet.

          There's one thing she notices, though. When they're sitting on the couch, watching reruns of bad shows, and pretending they're okay, he often scratches his neck, right under his earlobe, and she remembers it used to drive him crazy when she kissed it. When she turns around to face him, he knows.

          "I want to try again," he confesses, in a raspy voice, still unable to look her in the eyes. She sets an elbow on the pillows, leaning her cheek against her arm, and can't do anything more than wait for him to elaborate. Her pulse vibrates against her skin. "I know we're messy, but we somehow made it work. We always did."

          "I know." She sighs and, when Lincoln returns the stare, there are stars sparkling in his eyes. "I just don't want that to be the rest of our lives from now on, especially with a baby. I don't want us to stay trapped in a cycle of toxicity. Not again." Michaela dares to reach out a hand towards him, cupping his face with it, and he leans his face against her palm, breathing it all in. "I want to do this as much as you do, trust me, but I don't want us to fall back into old habits. I'm not putting myself through it again and I'm certainly not forcing a baby to see us ruin each other."

          Lincoln slowly nods. "Still. At the end of the day, the only threats to what we had . . . have always been us. Not a baby, not Beverly, not my grandmother."

          She shifts on her seat. "About that . . . the woman was terrible. That's something we can both agree on. What she said that day, when she ruined my soup, I . . . I heard what you told her. I wanted to thank you for standing up for me, but I was scared the only reason why you stayed and why you agreed to go to counseling was to prove a point to her, even after she died." He knits his brows together and she's awfully ashamed of ever having thought such vile things about him. "I didn't know what to believe in. I'm sorry."

          Shaking his head, he simply leans forward, brushing his lips against hers as softly as the flapping of a butterfly's wings. She sits as still as a statue until he backs away, leaning his forehead against hers.

          "It was never about her," he whispers. "I stayed with you to prove to you that I wouldn't let her ruin us. I stayed with you because I didn't want it to tear us apart"—he takes his hands in hers and a shiver runs through her spine—"even though I messed it up shortly after. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for ruining you. I'm sorry for ruining us."

          "Lincoln, I know. I know. But I did it too, didn't I? By not trusting you." She gulps, with her heart jumping in her throat. "I trust you. After all we've been through . . . I couldn't possibly say and feel otherwise."

          His lips twist into a gentle smile. "We're going to be parents, Mickey."

          She chuckles, letting out a strange sound mixed with a sob. "I know. I can't believe it either."