Page 3 of Creeping Lily
I don’t tell him about Grandma Jo’s sickness, or the days I skipped school to hold her hair back, or the late nights that bled into mornings just to catch up. Those truths stay buried.
“That’s why you didn’t make it?”
I nod. His gaze drifts to the pool, voice quieter. “I really missed you, Lily bird.”
A splash shocks me awake,cool water misting my skin. I blink, squinting against the slant of the sun as it dips below the tree line.
“Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead.”
“You know, for a college student, you can be a real child,” I mutter, brushing droplets off my sundress. Lincoln surfaces, grinning, his dive having drenched me head to toe.
“Come on, Lily. Time’s wasting. Jump in.”
I peel off my sundress, revealing a floral one-piece with a halter top and boy shorts — vintage ’50s style. Modest, comfortable. Safe.
The water grips my skin as I wade in. Lincoln’s hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it back, watching me inch closer. Eight years of summers, and nothing’s really changed — he’s still my anchor here.
When I stop a few feet away, he closes the gap, grabbing me suddenly and hoisting me up before dropping me into the water with a splash.
“Welcome home, Lily bird,” he says.
It’s not home. Not really. I’ve never stayed longer than a summer, always as the housekeeper’s daughter — welcomed, but not the same. Lincoln is the senator’s son. His older brother, Bentley, is the golden boy already set on a political path. Their worlds are carved from marble; mine from concrete.
We’re floating on our backs, our fingers just brushing, when a shadow slices across the water. I gasp and sink under. Lincoln hauls me back up by the hand.
Bentley’s laugh hits my ears first, warm and deep. He looks different too. His dirty-blond hair sweeps to the side in a casual mess, his blue eyes bright but sharper than Lincoln’s. The Walker brothers are beautiful in different ways — one dark and steady, one golden and blazing.
Bentley holds out a towel. I climb out, and he wraps itaround me, tucking it snug at my neck before leaning down to kiss my forehead like he’s done every summer since I was little.
“Look at you, all grown up,” he says, chucking me under the chin.
His suit and polished shoes soak up the water dripping from me, but he doesn’t move, eyes holding mine until Lincoln claps him on the back.
“Glad you could make it, brother.”
2
LINCOLN
Bentley grabs a bottle from the shelf, pours amber liquid into a glass, and sets it on the bar. He slides it toward me with a flick of his wrist, the base gliding smooth across the polished wood. I catch it just before it tips over the edge.
It’s our game. Years of trying to one-up each other, seeing who can send a drink skimming without spilling a drop. It doesn’t matter that I don’t drink — it’s the catch that counts. Neither of us has missed yet.
“You know I don’t drink,” I say, lifting the glass to my nose. The sharp burn of alcohol makes my eyes water. Usually he pours me lemonade. This time, the smell tells me he’s not playing nice.
“Come on, brother.” His grin is quick, teeth flashing. “One last hurrah before you run back off to college.”
I set the glass down and spin it on the bar, the swirl of liquid catching the light. “You happy?”
His brow creases. “About what?”
“With your career choice. Doing law.”
He leans an elbow on the counter, studying me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I shrug, eyes dropping to the slow spin of the glass. “Because it wasn’t your choice.”
A smirk curves his mouth. “Getting cold feet there, Linc?”
