Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 99949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
How many times had I done the same thing?
“Good. Busy,” I added. “I didn’t have time to finish my homework so I’ve gotta do it tonight.”
Lincoln grinned. “So are you telling me you do or don’t want my help studying?”
I laughed. “No comment,” I said since there was no good answer to that. The last time he’d helped me study it had somehow turned into strip studying. For every answer I’d gotten right, Lincoln lost a piece of clothing, and for every wrong answer, my clothes went flying. Needless to say, whatever the outcome was, we’d never managed to get through a single set of study questions.
I’d been hesitant to take some online college courses. Not because I’d been worried about failing them or anything, but I’d feared they’d take away my time with Lincoln, especially since I was also working part time at the library. The sudden and unexpected departure of Arthur Tomlinson had left an opening for a librarian. When the town had decided to turn the single full-time job into two part-time ones, Lincoln had urged me to apply. I hadn’t thought I’d even get a chance, especially since I only had a high school education and had no work history to speak of. But it was just another piece that I’d been given the choice to grab or not.
I’d grabbed it with both hands.
My coworker/boss was a retired schoolteacher who’d been teaching middle schoolers long before I was even born. She was one of the sweetest people I’d ever met and had encouraged me in so many little ways. When I’d suggested adding some LGBTQ books and other inclusive works of fiction and nonfiction, she’d been completely on board and had handed me the reins. With my family’s help, I’d organized a fundraiser to help raise money for the books since the library had a limited budget. Riley had been the one to suggest to my boss that I offer tutoring services through the library. That had been a little scarier piece for me to pick up because working in a relatively quiet library during the least busy hours was one thing, but teaching actual children actual stuff had been a whole other animal.
I loved every minute of it.
I loved watching that moment when the person I was working with had that “I’ve got it” expression. The whole thing had been a reminder of why I’d always dreamed of teaching.
A dream I’d given up on in my pre-Lincoln/Pelican Bay days.
I’d given a lot up before I’d found my way back home.
The reminder of why I’d asked Lincoln to meet me in our spot hit me hard as I thought about all the lies and secrets I’d been running from for so long. Therapy had proven it wasn’t as simple as wishing something away or forgetting it or pretending it didn’t happen. I’d had good and bad days with my therapy, with Lincoln, with everything, but I hadn’t tried or even wanted to run again. I was learning to tackle my issues one by one. There were times I still felt the urge to hurt myself rather than use my voice to express my pain. It’d been an eye-opener to learn I’d been using food as another coping mechanism. I hadn’t even been aware of it until my therapist had pointed out that one of the few things I’d had control over in my life after leaving The Tower was how much I did or didn’t eat. I’d always thought I was just a picky eater or I was naturally skinny, but the more I’d looked back, the more I’d realized she was right.
Coming to understand the reasons behind my actions was paramount in most of the things that came up in my therapy sessions or in problems I encountered within my relationship with Lincoln, but understanding and changing were two very different things. Habits that had protected me for so long but that I no longer needed to depend on couldn’t just be changed with a snap of my fingers. Even once the behaviors made sense and I understood their source, I found it hard to change. So much had been rooted in my subconscious that it was hard sometimes to unpack it all. But the one thing I’d learned that I held close whenever old fears or urges returned was to say something.
To Lincoln.
Or to any member of my new, very large family.
It was still okay that I wasn’t always okay.
One of the hardest things I’d had to deal with was when I’d found out that authorities in Oregon had shut down Father Abbott’s “church” after they’d received an anonymous tip about the place. Technically I was that anonymous tip, even though it had been sent via Cam, but only when I’d been in a place where I could mentally handle the fallout.