Page 143 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

“It often does,” Ms. Thorn says gently.

I frown. “Yeah.”

“Sometimes, it asks us to give up fear.”

Silence fills the space between us. Not awkward. Comfortable. The kind of silence only libraries seem to understand.

I look around, trying to hold every familiar detail at once.

The shelves.

The tables.

The windows where afternoon light always seemed just a little warmer.

“This place was my safe harbor,” I say.

“I should hope so.”

I laugh softly. “I don’t know who I’d be without it.”

Ms. Thorn sighs. “You don’t have to. You’ve known for a while. You just finally believe her.”

“Her?”

“The girl you’ve been becoming.”

“What if I come back?”

She raises an eyebrow. “I really hope you do.”

“No,” I laugh through the sting behind my eyes. “I mean… what if California doesn’t feel like home?”

Ms. Thorn walks around the desk and stands in front of me.

She pulls me into a hug. “My dear…” She squeezes my shoulders gently before stepping back. “Leaving a place doesn’t erase what it gave you. You carry that into whatever you build next.”

I swallow hard. “And I think…”

“It’s time you start writing yours,” she finishes.

Sunlight spills over the floor, stretching all the way to the entrance.

For years, I’ve walked through these doors looking for stories that might help me understand my life.

Today, I think I’m ready to go live one.

“I think it’s time I went to California,” I tell Ms. Thorn.

She smiles. “I think so, too.”

***

Three weeks later… after graduation, tearful goodbyes, and more cardboard boxes than I knew I owned…

California is louder than Willow Creek.

The traffic.