“I’m sure. I’m a big girl.”
Vivian places a hand on my shoulder. “Go on with your father,” she tells her son. “I’ll take Danielle inside and we’ll get her some food. You hungry, dear?” she asks me.
“A little.” I’m not, but I want Lincoln to go. He needs to, I think. “I’ll be inside when you get back.
He kisses my cheek, much to his mother’s amusement, and takes off down the stairs with his father.
“Do you like soup?” she asks.
I almost laugh. “Soup is great.”
Lincoln
THE WIND IS COOL AND steady as we step off the porch and away from the house. I let my father lead me. We amble down the driveway for a bit before he takes a detour off the asphalt and towards a little bench near the tree line.
My stomach knots and twists as I try to read his body language. He’s said nothing, indicated nothing, and it has me wanting to just ask him outright what he has to say. Because there’s something. There always is.
Looking towards the house as I take a seat next to my father, I wonder what Dani’s doing. If she’s okay. If she’s nervous or anxious. This kind of thing is new to her, and I have no clue how she’s feeling, and that adds majorly to the chaos inside me.
I want to be with her. My hand around her waist. My ears picking up her giggle, making sure she’s happy and comfortable.
“Lincoln?” Dad’s voice pulls me back to the cold, iron seat. His eyes are on me, but the fire I expected in them isn’t there. I breathe a sigh of relief.
He’s always treated me like the youngest boy in the family. True, I am, but I’m capable. I’ve never needed him, not like Barrett and Ford have. I’ve never asked him for a dime, for a job, or for anything more than a piece of advice and that was only when there was not one other person in the world that knew what I needed to know. Yet, he always seems like I’m hanging by a thread or on the cusp of destroying everything. Sure, I might have wrecked a couple of cars and got tossed from a game . . . or two. But I’m not whatever he thinks I am.
“How are you doing, Son?”
My head bobbles around. “Good. Fine. Everything is chugging along.”
“Therapy going well?”
“Sure.” I toe a rock with my sneaker. “I meet with the management when I get back about the assessment I did yesterday.”
He nods, taking in more than my words. He already knew this, but what he didn’t know is how I feel about it. I’m careful with him. I project what I want him to take away. The way he’s looking at me now has me nearly squirming. He’s putting together every cue I’m emitting.
“I talked to your agent about that briefly yesterday. What’s your plan, Lincoln?”
“For what?”
“For your career.” He blows out a breath, fixing his gaze on something across the lawn. “I’m assuming you want to re-sign in Tennessee.”
“Definitely,” I say without hesitation. “I love it there. They love me there. I’d love to be a franchise player for them.”
“Have you given any thought to being traded?”
The knot winds tighter. “Yeah.”
“And?”
“And I’ll have to go,” I nearly bark. When I see his eyes narrow, I relent. “I’m just worried, Dad. I’ve had this over my head for weeks now. I just need an answer so I can get comfortable. Does that make sense?”
His hand clamps on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It does. It’s hard to not know what the future holds. It causes a lot of stress.” His hand falls back to his lap. “That’s the hardest part of elections. You gear up for these things for months, even years sometimes, and have to wait it out. It’s not good for a man’s sanity,” he chuckles.
“How did you handle it?”
“Well . . .” He tosses around the words in his head before speaking. “To tell you the truth, it’s why I stopped campaigning. It’s why I took Landry Holdings to another level. The nerves couldn’t handle it anymore. And neither could your mama.”
“Mom can handle anything,” I laugh.