Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Mr. Matthews had nodded. There had been a lot unsaid, but I could tell by the way he didn’t open up that he had suffered many sleepless nights. It seemed as if Lincoln was continuing his tradition of walling himself off. All through high school, he had been an outsider, and after, he had just run away. He had run farther than I could have imagined—to the desert on the opposite side of the world.
Now he was back, and I was bursting with questions. Had he told his father? Did Porter know? If Porter did or didn’t know, was that any of my business? In a town this small, everyone seemed to be in everyone else’s life, and gossip was the common language. I couldn’t tell if I was out of bounds saying something, and yet, if I didn’t speak and the family was unaware, was I doing them a disservice?
I decided to tell Porter to see his reaction. “I just heard something interesting.”
He paused on his way to the stairs, giving me a polite but unconcerned glance.
I drew in a breath and continued. “Lincoln Matthews is back in town.”
Porter’s eyes went wide, and his clipboard slowly lowered to his side. “When? How did you hear?”
“Mary Beth texted me. She passed him on Main Street. She said he was walking with a cane.”
“Okay,” Porter said. I could see him doing calculations in his head. What did this mean for Gina? For the baby? For Gina’s dad? “Thanks.” He continued his journey to the second floor, leaving me alone once again. I began typing, hearing his footfalls on the stairs. A moment later, the footsteps retraced themselves, and Porter reappeared in the front office. “Are you coming to dinner on Thursday?”
We had a standing dinner date on Thursdays, Porter, Gina, the baby, and me. They had kind of adopted me, seeing as I didn’t have a family or a relationship of my own. After high school and recovering from his downward spiral, Porter became more social than ever. Four years sober and he was practically having guests over every day. I knew he had a close group of friends, some of which had moved to Singer’s Ridge recently. I was happy to be included, and I considered him to be almost more of a friend than a boss. Gina was kind as well, and we had a lot more in common now than we ever had before.
“Of course,” I answered.
“We’ll talk then,” Porter said. “Thanks for telling me.”
I smiled. Whatever I was thinking about Lincoln being back in town, I couldn’t imagine the emotions it was dragging up for Porter. The last time we had all seen Lincoln, we were just a bunch of kids and their mom had recently died. Now Porter was engaged to the guy’s sister and filling in for him as far as his dad was concerned too.
It was none of my business but seeing as how I spent eight hours a day at the lumberyard and one evening a week with my boss and his family, I couldn’t escape feeling concerned. I wondered about all the hurt feelings and remembered the pain I had seen on Lincoln’s father’s face when I had asked him about his son.
Porter and Gina were happy, but would this mess things up? And at the very back of my mind, in a spot I hadn’t visited since high school, I wondered if Lincoln would remember a girl who stole glances at him in third period chemistry.
3
LINCOLN
Ididn’t usually sleep. The previous night was no different, but instead of lying in a hospital bed, pretending to sleep for hours, I stayed up on the sofa and channel surfed. It was a relief and a terror at the same time. I had to do something to occupy the early morning hours, which allowed me to drift off for an hour or so.
When six o’clock rolled around, I stood up, stretched, and wandered over to my kitchen to get some breakfast. I hadn’t been to the grocery store. I supposed I would have to go soon and dreaded the idea. There would be people everywhere, people I knew and who would recognize me. They would stop and stare or try to strike up polite conversations if they were brave. I didn’t want any of that.
I opened the cabinets to see if there was anything inside and was pleased to find half a tin of coffee and some filters. I pulled them out, set them down on the counter, and plugged in the coffeemaker. It was a tiny little machine, with only enough space in the pot for three cups. Still, three cups were enough for one person, and I went to work filling it up. Such a mundane task, but it felt good.
In the hospital, I didn’t have to fend for myself where coffee was concerned. They had everything available and would bring it to you like clockwork—breakfast at seven, lunch at noon, and dinner at six. Breakfast featured one cup of horrible coffee, one cup of watery orange juice, one scrambled egg, one English muffin, and a single serving of yogurt. Before that, over in Afghanistan, if you could get breakfast, it was most often oatmeal or half-cooked scrambled eggs. I was going to enjoy my homebrewed coffee without all the unappetizing accompaniments.