Page 105 of Safety Net
"Then sleep," I agreed.
CHAPTER THIRTY
CELESTE
There'd been nothing I could do to fix what happened, so I'd gone to bed as soon as I got home from the party. I spent most of my time lying awake, replaying the whole night from beginning to end. Once my brain grew tired of that, I replayed the small moments, every tiny detail, until my stomach churned. I couldn't change anything, but that never stopped me from wondering if I could think my way into a better outcome. Force the past to rewrite itself, so I didn't walk away from Lincoln. So we didn't leave all these dangling threads between us that felt far more painful than him forgetting to do what he said he would.
In the morning, I avoided my phone, embarrassed at how I reacted. During the little sleep I did manage to get, I dreamt of a far kinder way to have responded. Even though I had every right to feel emotional and frustrated, I jumped from point A to Z. A jump from disappointment to break-up consideration wasn't fair. Lincoln had made a mistake. That wasn't unforgivable. I didn't want him to feel like he had to reach perfection or risk our relationship ending.
When I finally checked my phone in the afternoon, my heart sank straight into my stomach. No messages from him. No messages from anyone.
It could mean nothing. A coincidence. And yet, I wondered if he was angry with me. Maybe everyone was furious with me because maybe Lincoln had told them about how I walked away, how I didn't let him defend himself. And perhaps they thought I was horrible for it. Maybe I was horrible.
No.
Breathe. You're safe. You haven't done a thing to warrant such a reaction.
I repeated the mantra until the weight on my chest began to loosen. There was nothing from last night that would make my friends (and yes, I could claim them all as my friends) think I was horrible. They wouldn't write me off. And even if Lincoln was upset with me, he didn't hate me. I hadn't earned something as strong and cold as hate.
I got ready for the playhouse, self-soothing with constant repeating of my mantra and my makeup routine. My theme was pink, the soft color that brought me comfort. The pink silk dress I wore clung to my skin and paired well with an oversized white cardigan.
On the car ride over, I stopped wondering why no one had contacted me and decided to make the first move. Naomi answered on the first ring.
"I was just about to call you." She was out of breath. A door creaking open and closing blocked out what she said next.
Despite my success in calming myself down, I found my lingering bits of anxiety melt out of me when she spoke.
"Are you on your way?" I asked, unable to mask the hope in my voice.
"I am," she said. "Just about to hop into the car. Is Lincoln with you?"
I frowned. "No. Why? Is he not at the house?"
"No one heard him come home last night."
I forgot the nerves and embarrassment, exchanging them for worry. "Has anyone heard from him at all?"
"Yeah, he talked to Finn," she quickly assured. "And Finn told us not to worry."
My shoulders sagged as I drove into the playhouse parking lot. "Good. I…I left him at the party last night, and he was pretty drunk. I was upset. It was a whole thing."
"I know," she said. "Finn told us that too…. I think Lincoln spent the night at the playhouse."
"What?" I got out of the car, looking up at the marquee.An Original by Celeste Ablehad been put up. I smiled up at it. This was happening.
"He told us he wanted to get all the set pieces last night," Naomi explained. "He wouldn't accept anyone's help. If he managed to get inside the playhouse, he's probably still there."
The comment made me walk faster. My aunt was already at the front desk, settled into her seat, and sorting through printouts for this month's events.
As soon as she saw me, she waved me over with a look of concern darkening her eyes.
"I have to go," I told Naomi.
"Let me know if you find him," she said quickly. "And good luck! It's going to be amazing. I love you!"
"Thank you," I said. "Love you too."
"We're all ready.” My aunt shoved a stack of flyers into my hands.
