Lincoln looked at Chris. Shimmering. Slithering at the edge of the stage. This wasn’t a good idea.
Coming here. Look at him, Lincoln thought. She’s his. That beautiful girl. That girl I think about when I’m not thinking about anything else. When I can’t think about anything else. Look at him. That magical girl. That light. His. The women in the room, the women around Lincoln, were swaying along with Chris’s guitar, reaching out to him with open palms. All these girls who weren’t the girl. All these girls who weren’t the only girl who mattered. Lincoln imagined himself pushing his way through them to get to Chris. Imagined how heavy his fist would fall on Chris’s delicate face.
“This song is just as good as ‘Stairway,’” Justin said emotionally. He and Dena were standing right in front of Lincoln, close enough that he felt like he was standing behind them in a class photo. Dena wasn’t watching Chris. She was watching Justin. Lincoln noticed Justin’s hand on Dena’s waist, his fingers just under her shirt, in the small of her back.
And then Lincoln stopped noticing anything at all.
THEY WERE HELPING him up stairs.
“We should have just left him in the car,” Justin said.
“It’s freezing outside,” Dena said.
“Would’ve woken him up. Jesus Christ, it’s like dragging a horse.”
“One more flight.”
“I can walk,” Lincoln said, finding his tongue. He tried to support himself and jerked forward.
“Let’s leave him here,” Justin said.
“Just a few more steps, Lincoln,” Dena said.
They helped him stagger through Justin’s doorway. He hit his head on the jamb.
“That’s for making me miss the encore,” Justin said, “you fucking giant.”
“I can walk,” Lincoln said. He couldn’t. They dropped him on the armchair. Over it. Dena was trying to make him drink water.
“Am I going to die?” he asked.
“I hope so,” Justin said.
LINCOLN WOKE UP again some time before dawn and staggered through a bedroom to find the bathroom.
He fell back on the recliner face-first and pushed it all the way back, almost flat. His feet still hung off the end. The back of the chair smelled like hair gel and cigarettes. Everything smelled like cigarettes.
He opened his eyes. The sun was up now. Justin was sitting on the arm of the chair, smoking a cigarette and using the chair’s built-in ashtray.
“He’s awake,” Justin called to the kitchen. Lincoln groaned. “Dena was worried about you,” Justin said, turning on the TV. “You sleep like a dead person.”
“What?”
“You don’t breathe,” Justin said.
“Yes, I do.”
“Not visibly,” Dena said, handing him something red to drink.
“What is this?”
“Vodka and V-8” she said. “With A1.”
“Not A1,” Justin said. “Worcestershire.”
“No, thank you,” Lincoln said.
“You should drink something,” Justin said. “You’re dehydrated.”
“Did I pass out last night?”
“Kind of,” Dena said. “One minute you were standing up. And the next minute, you were lying down on the bar. Like you were resting your head. I haven’t seen anybody drink that much since college.”
“I never drank that much in college.”
“Which explains why you’re so bush-league,” Justin said. “Honestly. A man of your size. It’s embarrassing.”
“I’m really sorry,” Lincoln said to Dena.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Do you want some eggs or something?”
“Just some water.” He crawled out of the chair, and Justin immediately slid into his place. The world hadn’t ended. Not even just in the Central Time Zone. SportsCenter was on. Dena followed Lincoln into the kitchen. She was wearing a T-shirt and patterned scrubs. More teeth. She handed him a glass of tap water.
“Did you chase it away?” she asked.
“What?”
“Whatever was making you want to drink that much.”
He closed his eyes. Beth. “No,” he said, “but I might be done trying.”
LINCOLN DRANK NEARLY a gallon of water before he left Justin’s apartment. He stopped at the gym before he went home, thinking maybe it would make him feel better. Superior Bodies didn’t close on holidays—it was even open a half day on Christmas—and plenty of people were already there, kick- starting their New Year’s resolutions. Lincoln had to wait in line for a treadmill. He didn’t feel sick anymore, not exactly. Just haggard and morose. He couldn’t help but think about Beth, but thinking about her was like thinking himself into a corner. Like realizing toward the end of a logic puzzle that you’d made a mistake early on, and that there’s no way to reach the solution without starting over.