Page 31 of Where We Found Our Home
“Hey, Linc?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m kind of tired now.”
“Then it’s time for you to go to sleep.”
“I’m really sorry I woke you up.”
“I told you you’ll never know if I was sleeping or not.” That earns me another chuckle.
“Good night, Linc.”
“Good night, Jim Bob.”
She chuckles again as she hangs up, and I let the memory of the sound lull me back to sleep.
Ciara
Ithought Lincoln Cole was sexy because he’s got the body of a god, saves lives for a living, is good with his niece, and makes me laugh.
Those reasons are still valid, but I was not prepared for the version of Lincoln that talks me back to sleep after I had a nightmare and convinced myself my worst nightmare had made it inside my apartment. That’s some romance novel level shit, and I am not equipped to deal with that. This session with Dr. Goodwin could not be coming at a better time.
“So how are you settling into your new city?”
“I’m good. Things are good.” I mindlessly wrap a braid around my index finger. When I finally realize I’m doing it, I pray Dr. Goodwin hasn’t noticed, but her eyes tell me she has.
“Have you been exploring the city? Meeting new people?”
“Against my better judgment, yes.”
“Why do you say against your better judgment?”
“Because why would I want to drag anyone into the drama that is my life?”
“Are you feeling unsafe there?”
I’ve actually felt safer here than I have for a long time. I know the reason for that is a certain six-foot-two firefighter. He has cast his shield around me, allowing my breaths to come easier. It’s a false sense of security though. He’s not indestructible, no matter if he seems that way. I shouldn’t ask so much of him. Especially when he’s not aware of the shitstorm swimming around me. “I mean, I’ve had feelings of being watched or like someone is in my apartment, but I’ve been careful and there doesn’t seem to be anything to it, so I think it’s leftover paranoia.”
She makes a note in that god-awful notebook. I hate that fucking notebook. It holds my darkest moments. My greatest fears. My biggest regrets. When we first started therapy, every time her pen would move toward that notebook, I’d clam up. Now I’m used to the rush of anxiety that flows through me every time she writes down another judgment. “And you still feel that not telling your friends and your mom about the threats Eddie made against them is the best decision?”
“Yes. If I had told them they would have done everything in their power to stop me from moving.”
“And why do you think moving was your only option?”
I’m so incredibly tired of reliving this. I grab my laptop and move from my living room to my bedroom. I need the comfort of my bed for this conversation. “He was everywhere. Everywhere I went, all I could see was his face. I had to leave for my own sanity. It just wasn’t home anymore. It was my own personal hell.”
“And the threats don’t play a factor?”
“Of course they do!” Ugh, she’s too good. All she does is ask a question with that tone and I’m spilling my guts. “He said he’d kill them all. He said if they tried to protect me, he’d tear them limb from limb to get to me. How could I stay after that? I will not have their deaths on my hands.”
She takes a pregnant pause before asking, “Do you feel you deserve to die, Ciara?”
I try to wipe my tear before it falls, but it’s too late. “No.”
She’s silent, and I know her game. She’s staying silent waiting for me to keep going, but I won’t do it.
“It’s not that I think I deserve to die.” Damn, I’m weak. “I just…I escaped death three times. I feel like I used up all my lifelines. Somewhere along the way I accepted the fact that I would die at his hands and that’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay but you know what I mean. I just would rather I be the only one he takes. I cannot accept the deaths of my loved ones because I brought this man into our lives.”
