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)
It didn’t rise to the level of shell shock, but the stress had made its impression. I stuck it out for years before I finally gave up. I called the manager in a crying fit, interrupting him at family dinner.
“I quit!” I had sobbed.
“Aly, you can’t quit,” he said forcefully as if I were one of his children throwing a tantrum. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
I never went back. They called me several times before deciding I was serious and held on to my last paycheck longer than they should have. When it became obvious that I wasn’t coming to get it, they mailed it to my old apartment. Then I came into a little bit of money when my grandmother died, so I lived off that for a while.
When I finally pulled myself together, I chose something that was the direct opposite of my failed job. At the lumberyard, I didn’t deal with the customers too much—at least not face to face. I had to make the occasional call about an overdue bill, and I was the point of contact for any questions suppliers had. But answering the phones wasn’t the same as being trapped in a restaurant unable to get away.
I had always been a light sleeper. Even when I was a child, I would wake at the slightest sound. Now it was a rare night that I slept even six or seven hours. Most of the time, I could coax two or three out of my thousand-dollar mattress, but anything more was just unobtainable.
I didn’t have the money for a therapist, but I had done some internet sleuthing. Prolonged stress could create unhealthy sleep cycles that were hard to break. Back when I had been working in Greenwood, I didn’t get a wink. I spent the whole night worried about the next day. I tried over-the-counter pills, but even they couldn’t guarantee me a restful night. I’d end up getting the same two or three hours and spend the next seventeen in a fog.
I tried lavender baths and scented candles on the off chance that aromatherapy might work. I tried meditation, even downloading one of the more popular apps. It walked me through guided imagery where I was supposed to imagine my “safe space.” It said I should pick a place where I felt comfortable and relaxed. I was already sitting in my backyard, so I had that covered. The soothing voice took me right up to the edge of sleep but left me hanging.
I tried classical music and the sounds of rain or the tide lapping on the beach. I tried yoga and going for walks after dinner. I bought the most expensive mattress at the department store and paid for them to ship it to my cabin. Once I had even tried drinking myself into a stupor, and my reward had been an entire night of the spins punctuated by vomiting fits. None of it helped.
I had resigned myself to a life without sleep.
I opened the reading app on my phone and picked up my current book. It was a cowboy romance, featuring the kind of man who didn’t exist in real life. After reading only one paragraph, a descriptive one in which the leading man stepped through the door into his lover’s bedroom, I set it back down.
I was picturing Lincoln’s face on the heartthrob’s body. He threw open the door and I was waiting for him, curled up on the bed. His face was dark with desire, his eyes drawn straight toward me. I sat up, breathless with anticipation. He crossed the room in two long strides, his shirt blowing open in a wind that couldn’t exist indoors. His cowboy hat remained firmly planted atop his head.
I closed my eyes in embarrassment. There were so many things wrong with that fantasy. To begin with, Lincoln wasn’t a cowboy, and we weren’t lovers. I didn’t even know if I felt that way about him, though I supposed if there was no attraction, I wouldn’t be daydreaming about him.
What was wrong with me? He was just some guy I knew in high school. Hell, I hadn’t even known him in high school, so why was I fixated on him?
From the moment I had learned he was back in town, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I wondered where he was and what he was doing. I wondered how the last eight years had treated him—if he was injured spiritually as well as physically. And now here I was, practically making love to him in my mind.
If he knew what I was thinking about, I would have to leave town. I didn’t think I could stomach that much embarrassment. But nobody knew. Aside from asking a few questions, I hadn’t spoken about him at all. Maybe it was safe to daydream as long as I didn’t let it go anywhere.