Free This Much Is True by Katherine Owen Page B

to the sports world, Major League Baseball has been circling and assessing him for some time and may soon call upon Lincoln Presley—the superstar—to further explore and exploit his talent. A scholarship. Ten trophies. Five blue ribbons. Two reds. Four gold medals. I touch each one as if receiving benediction for doing so and trail my fingers over one of his winning medals. It hangs from a gold ribbon like a talisman. I slip it over my head.
    “You’ve collected a lot of trophies already, Lincoln Presley.”
    “It’s not about the trophies. It’s about winning. At least, that’s what my dad says.” He sounds apologetic as if he wishes things could be different.
    “We must be perfect for the parents.” He studies my face for a long moment. He gets this look of regret and slowly nods with some kind of shared recognition. “At least, we have to try,” I say with a little grimace.
    “Yes, we have to try,” he says back to me.
    It’s true that I shoulder perfection in every way possible for my parents now. They depend on me to be perfect. They need me to be perfect. I shudder all at once tired of the shackles and their expectations that I be the fun, smart, and accomplished daughter—that I be Holly for them. The burdens are heavy. The expectations are high. Yet, the grief threatens, and surges ever higher, poised to engulf all of me. Perfect. The only thing I’m just about perfect at is ballet. Someday everyone is bound to figure that out.
    I force myself to smile like Holly would and glance over at Linc because we share this quest to be perfect.
    He gets this sexy smile. I incline my head in acquiescence because I know where this is going. I’m ready for the respite from the pain I still carry, and I instinctively know Lincoln Presley can take it from me for a little while. He comes over and puts his arms around my neck and pulls me close. I breathe in his cologne while he trails his mouth along my neck again. He leans in and kisses me and lifts me up off the floor and then starts to hold my body above his, but I move out of his hands quickly and involuntarily moan at the instant pain.
    “Sorry,” I say, forcibly breaking the moment. “Normally that move would send me over the edge, but I broke three ribs three months ago and if I let you lift me like that I’ll be screaming for all the wrong reasons.” I shake my head in embarrassment and kind of laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to kill the mood like that.”
    “Let me see.” He moves to lift up my shirt and spies the heavy ace bandage wrapped tight around my mid-section. The black lace Wonderbra does little to camouflage the hideous beige bandage, and it’s decidedly so not sexy. “I’ve got this miracle salve that works wonders on aching muscles and broken ribs. I broke a rib a few years ago, miscalculating a steal for third.” He looks straight at me. “It hurt like hell for months, but this stuff works wonders, like I said.” He gets this thoughtful expression and then disappears into his bathroom. He soon returns and holds up this little green jar.
    “What is it? Or do I even want to know?”
    “No, probably not,” he says with a laugh. “But it works. Do they hurt right now?”
    I nod and bite at my lower lip. “Probably shouldn’t have shown off so much on the dance floor. They’re raging in protest right now. It’s hard to even breathe.”
    “And I thought that was my special kind of magic making it so hard for you to breathe.”
    I laugh a little. “You’re weird, Elvis,” I say airily. “You’re seriously weird.” He looks taken aback. I start to laugh again and realize that it actually feels strange to be laughing, to be curiously happy for no reason at all. I stop myself and look at him more intently. “No one’s ever called you weird before, have they?”
    “No.” He gets this little smile. “I’ve been called lots of things. With a name like Lincoln Presley, the imaginations of kids from seven on are pretty