Take Care, Sara

always wanted to be something more, to have her name known for creating something out of nothing, and she had found that in her artwork. But that drive; that inner voice telling her anything ordinary was unacceptable; where had it come from? Why did some people have it and others not? Maybe it was something all artists felt and maybe that was why they were artists.
    “No. It’s not. For now it’s fine. I make good money. But…” He shrugged. “Do I want to be doing it for the rest of my life? No. I want to be able to walk when I’m in my fifties. I want to be able to keep my knees and hips and not have to have back surgery when I’m older. Construction work is hard on a body."
    Sara knew. He’d come home with his knees bothering him and his back aching more times than he hadn’t. Construction work made young men old.
    “Plus, there’s always the chance of falling off a roof.”
    She glanced at him. “Yeah. I know.”
    “Don’t even bring it up, Sara,” he warned, sipping from one of the cups he’d carried to the truck.
    “I didn’t. You did. That was horrible. I’d never seen him so scared.”
    You’d never seen him so scared except for the night of the car wreck, just before he lost consciousness. Then you never saw him look anything at all after that. Sara clamped her mouth shut, wishing there was a way to turn off her thoughts at will. Mindless, numb, unable to feel—what a reprieve that would be.
    “It’s not like I meant to fall off the roof. I slipped.”
    “You shouldn’t have been up there in the rain anyway. Duh you.” Sara remembered the phone call from his parents, the fear in his eyes, the dread that had filled her, and the dread that had stayed with her until they were at the hospital and she saw Lincoln was okay.
    “It was leaking,” he said, like that made it all tolerable.
    “Stupid man,” she said softly.
    Lincoln glanced at her, the faintest of smiles on his lips. “That I am.”
    “You’re lucky all you got was a sprained ankle and scraped up.”
    “I don’t need luck, Sara. I got skills.”
    “Clearly.” Her eyes met his again and she laughed, Lincoln laughing with her.
    They reached Fennimore. It was located on top of a hill, Fennimore Hill, as it was called by locals, and had a population under three thousand. It was a pretty, scenic town with a nice library Sara liked to frequent, or used to, when she read. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d lost herself in a story.
    “Coffee?” Lincoln asked as the truck went by Kwik Trip, his lips twitching.
    “I’ll pass.”
    The truck veered to the left by the Casey’s gas station, taking them in the direction of Dodgeville. Lincoln tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in tune to a ‘Nine Inch Nails’ song.
    “You never said what you want to do later.”
    “I know.”
    “So…are you going to tell me?”
    Lincoln grabbed a black baseball cap from the dash, repeatedly adjusting it on his head. “Nope.”
    Sara crossed her arms. “I don’t understand why you’re so elusive all the time lately.”
    “Especially today?”
    “Yes. Especially today.”
    “All in good time, Sara. The best things in life come to those who wait. Patience is a virtue. You—”
    “Lincoln.”
    “Yes?”
    “Shut up.”
    His deep laughter filled the cab of the truck, and something close to, or maybe even, happiness warmed Sara at the sound of it.
    ***
    Sara stared at the counter full of tins and other various containers of flavored popcorn. Lincoln had basically bought the small Montfort Rural Route 1 store out of stock. She could smell the butter and popcorn scent through the boxes.
    “Is it overwhelming?” he asked, popping some cheese popcorn into his mouth.
    “It’s…” Sara’s eyes watered. “It’s perfect. Thank you. I had fun today.”
    “Day’s not over.” Lincoln grabbed a paper towel from the holder on the counter and wiped his hands on it, tossing the used paper towel into the garbage. “Be right back.”
    Sara rubbed her face, a fresh wave of sadness hitting her in Lincoln’s absence. She didn’t even know why. It was a different kind of sadness from what she normally felt and Sara couldn’t determine the cause of it. Loneliness maybe; or the loss of warmth; the fading of light and the impending submergence back into darkness. 
    Lincoln carried in a pizza with a Papa Murphy’s label on it. He set it on the table. The pepperonis spelled out ‘Happy 28 Years, Sara’. Sara stared at