Page 9 of The Captain

“What do you mean?”

Marie came back and delivered food to our table—an order of fries for me, my favorite and Lincoln’s meal, which is piled high with lettuce, tomato, and pickles—his eyes lit up like it’s Christmas.

“Wow, this looks awesome.” Lincoln thanked Marie, starting to put the hamburger together the way he wanted it.

“So, what kind of class are you studying for?” Marie asked, leaning a casual hip against the booth.

It’s at that moment, with her mama bear laser eyes, that I know that she knows who Lincoln is.

“Cass is helping me with my journalism class.”

“Ah, well, you couldn’t have picked a better tutor. Tell me.” She narrowed her gaze on Lincoln, and while I love to think he’s a clueless man, he’s not. He paused his movements and gave her his full attention. “Why are you bothering Cassie with this and not another English major?”

Lincoln swallowed and looked to me, regret swirling in his gaze. I absolutely hated that look on his stupid face. I didn’t want to see it.

“My coach was the one who set it up, actually,” Lincoln started, looking from Marie to me. I could feel a flush break out on my cheeks and wondered if it was already working its way under my hoodie. “But I was glad he did.”

“Why?”

Marie was quick with her retort, and as much as I appreciated her sticking up for me, I was kind of hoping a big black hole would suddenly open up and swallow me whole.

“Cassandra is one of the smartest people I’ve ever met,” Lincoln stated, plain and simple, his eyes latching on to mine.

Why did him using my full name make my stomach twist?

“I thought you two didn’t get along.”

“Okay, that’s enough, Marie. We’re just working on his homework,” I said, not wanting her to give away everything I’ve ever said to her.

“It’s fine,” Lincoln said, but I could tell he was getting irritated.

Marie looked at me, and I widened my eyes, signaling to her to leave so that I could actually survive this. She didn’t know all the details. Didn’t know that Lincoln’s sister was dating his coach, didn’t know that I was keeping that a secret for the both of them, thus making this whole interaction hard enough—I hated keeping secrets—but Lincoln would lose his mind if he found out anything I’ve said about him or his sister, so I implore her to drop it.

“Holler if you guys need anything,” she said, wandering off to help other patrons.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief as she walked away.

“She’s protective of you.” Lincoln’s voice was soft—softer than I’d like to hear it—and I waved my hand nonchalantly. I didn’t need Lincoln to ever feel sorry or worry about my feelings.

Not ever again.

“Don’t worry about it, so let’s get back to the topic at hand.”

But our study session was less than productive. Lincoln grew even more quiet, telling me that he was having a hard time developing a good argument on the topic that he was given by his professor, and I was wondering why he didn’t get to choose.

“I got to choose the topic I argued for in that class,” I stated, not thinking anything of it, and Lincoln shook his head.

“We don’t. The topic is made for us, and mine is the political climate.”

“That’s…a hefty subject for creative writing and journalism.” I sat there, more than a little confused by this subject.

“Well,” Lincoln started, his cheeks tingeing red, and I frowned at him.

“What?”

“I think I was…targeted.”

Immediately, my defense went up, and I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why. That same feeling, that one that lurked in my gut on that fateful night over a year ago lingered, and I braced myself for the information.

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