Mimeomia

19 | noblesse oblige

CHAPTER NINETEEN

NOBLESSE OBLIGE

( — the moral obligation of those of high birth, powerful social position, etc., to act with honor, kindliness, generosity, etc.. )

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

          MICHAELA WATCHES LINCOLN CAREFULLY POUR HER A GLASS OF RED WINE WHILE WAITING FOR HER TO SPEAK. It clearly shows how much he has changed throughout the years, as he could barely open a bottle of champagne when they were still together, but now he does it quite effortlessly, without spilling the drink.

          He moves slowly, as if they had all the time in the world, and Michaela finds herself watching him in awe, crossing her arms over the couch and seeing him through the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. He tells her he has cut back on the wine, as it wasn't doing him any good and left him even deeper in his writer's block, but she has found out the drink has the exact opposite effect on her.

          In the short term, at least. We all know how drowsy people get when they drink, much like we know Michaela's history with alcoholic beverages. Still, she only drinks wine on special occasions, like Christmas, family reunions, and any events where all she wants to do is go back to bed. This is one of those events, because she's a mature woman who clearly knows how to properly deal with her problems.

          (Said no one ever, but let's keep it at that.)

          When Lincoln returns to the living room, carrying the crystal glass as carefully as if it were a baby, Michaela wishes she wasn't thinking about the parents they could have been. She hopes they wouldn't be like hers, always so distant, even when they're all sitting at the same table. Her parents are good parents, despite all their flaws and mistakes, but she'd like her own children to have more parental support than she did.

          "Here you go," he says, in a low voice, as he hands her the cup. She starts by holding it with both hands, treating it as if it was her laptop, her most prized possession, but quickly shifts it to her left hand.

          She doesn't trust anyone to the point of holding a cup with her right hand. Her college memories are still too fresh and, if she closes her eyes, she can almost hear the chants of her classmates insisting for her to drink everything in her cup in one go because she had been holding it with her right hand and that's the way things work when you're at college. Yale is no exception, even if it's part of the Ivy League.

          "Thank you," Michaela mutters, twirling the cup before timidly sipping the wine. The off-dry taste lingers in her tongue, briefly dehydrating her mouth with just one sip, and she doesn't even want to think about the reason he has been buying Italian wine if he's supposedly been working so damn hard on the book. "What do you want to talk about?"

          Lincoln throws her a sad smile, running a hand through his hair to brush it back, and her heart sinks. That damn smile. "I'm not sure. It feels as though we've run out of things to say after all this time, doesn't it?" One of his arms is swung over the pillows of the couch when he sits in front of her, with a leg beneath him, but the other one is draped around his stomach. If one of them moves a single inch, they'll touch—Michaela doesn't want to be the first to give in. "It sucks that things have reached this point."

          "You tell me." She stirs on her seat, but moves back almost imperceptibly, just enough to give her enough freedom. She and her skirt and cashmere sweater feel strangely out of place in an apartment she once used to call home. Lincoln, on the other hand, feels like the rightful owner of this place and everything about him, sitting on this couch in front of her, feels like coming home—his hair, more brown than red when the light hits it, pulled back into its usual bun, reminds her of Christmas. "I just . . . don't really know what to say. It's been a long time."