Free This Much Is True by Katherine Owen Page A

need reassurance. His light seems to chase away the shadows that have plagued me all these months. It’s true; the darkness actually diminishes within his illuminating presence.
    We enter a large great room. The walls are painted white with dark accents all around while high wood beams stretch across the ceiling in a crisscross pattern. There’s a large stone fireplace at one end that matches the exterior of the house and a kitchen is located at the other end. It’s charming. Cozy. I like it. It feels like a home. He hits a couple of switches, and lights come on and then automatically dim to a pre-programmed ambiance while the gas fireplace roars to life. Instant seduction scene.
    He leads me down a long hallway where we enter the master bedroom. The door latches behind him and I pretend not to notice the sudden intention for confinement. This is what I came for.
    I do a full circle in the center of his bedroom and look over at him somewhat quizzically, while he just stands there and manages to look a little unsure of himself.
    Surprisingly.
    “My place. I stay here. When I can.” He pauses. “I said that already. My aunt and uncle let me stay here. I’m at Stanford. My parents used to live here a long time ago, but they moved to L.A. and then…my dad still lives there.” He gets this twisted-up smile. “I’m not sure why I felt the need to explain all of that.” He shakes his head and gets this rueful smile. “There’s a restroom right there.” He points to another door to my left.
    My mind clicks with swift understanding at all he’s just said. “Lincoln Presley.” He nods. “You’re Charlie Masterson’s cousin? The baseball player?”
    He nods. What are the odds that I would run into the very guy Marla wanted me to meet? I kind of laugh; I’m somewhat awestruck by the guy’s attractiveness and my whimsical ability to recall his talent, even though I seriously hate baseball. One word I would use to describe it? Boring. I put this sudden clarity to realizing who he is down to the acute but overwhelming effects of the party punch. He gives me a definitive smile as I disappear into his bathroom.
    Minutes later, I emerge equipped with knowledge for his favorite cologne—Armani. His shaving preferences—a razor. “The art of shaving?” I tease.
    Linc laughs. “My college roommate got me hooked on that. It really does work.”
    I make a point of touching his face as I stroll past him to get a better look at his bookshelf. “Smooth.”
    The thrill of him begins to work its way through me. All at once, I’m thankful Marla picked out the black lace leggings with the red mini for me to wear. Thankful for my sister’s black leather boots—calfskin, silky soft, and practically reaching my thighs. Thankful, I shaved my legs and permanently borrowed my sister’s Dolce & Gabbana “The One” perfume and lightly sprayed it all over. The scent is now faint, but it’s still there. I’m thankful for it all because here is this baseball player from Stanford—Lincoln Presley—and he will expect these things. I wave my free hand toward his bedroom wall of self-achievement and look straight at him. “Famous.”
    He shrugs.
    Modest.
    His unassuming look almost undoes my bravado. I turn away and resume the impromptu tour of his room, examining his baseball trophies and covertly studying his photographs. Linc runs the bases. Linc makes the winning pitch. Linc holds a gold trophy high over his head. His winning smile flashes from all the photographs. All his achievements. Always the winner.
    I turn around and consciously assess the real one before me. He’s slightly built, surprisingly, but he’s tall and lean and incredibly attractive. In an attempt to still play it cool with him, I again study all the newspaper clippings someone has proudly framed of the guy. The headlines proclaim his fast ball is his specialty, and he holds the number-one spot as lead pitcher on athletic scholarship at Stanford. According