Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,14

to you later?”

“Sure.”

After I ate and cleaned up the kitchen, I went to my room and pulled out my computer. I still had time before heading to Get Ink’d and I really needed to check my emails, which I’d been neglecting since I got home last week. As soon as it pulled up, I saw a name that made me bite my lip. My college advisor.

Before I’d left school for the summer, I’d sat in his office and explained that I wasn’t sure about continuing my major, and that I was going to take the summer to think about whether I’d switch to something else.

The problem was, the more I’d learned about social work, the more I’d become certain it didn’t fully encompass what I’d dreamed of doing. It was definitely a degree I felt good about in the sense that I would be helping. But it was missing something that I couldn’t put my finger in.

Because of that, my looming graduation no longer excited me—instead, it filled me with dread, certain that I’d been wasting everyone’s time and money and feeling horrible for it. But I hadn’t told that to my advisor. Only that I needed time to think. I’d gotten the impression he’d been unhappy with me, that he didn’t agree with my decision, and the email on my screen confirmed it.

Channing,

Are you sure about not continuing your major? You’re due to graduate in the fall. If you change majors now, you’ll set yourself back by at least a year. Obviously this decision is up to you, but I’m going to wait until the last minute to make any changes. Please think hard and get back to me.

Professor Addison

I buried my face in my hands, scrubbing at tired eyes. Fuck. He wasn’t wrong. I’d been busting ass to graduate early. When I’d gone into my major, I’d had tunnel vision: I wanted to be a social worker, and I wanted to get there as fast as I could. But when actually graduating and becoming one became a close reality?

Fuck. I felt frozen. How in the hell was I supposed to be a good social worker? The hubris of an eighteen-year-old kid determined to make the world a better place had diminished. Now there was a voice in my head that was relentless and pressing: I wasn’t mature enough to be a social worker. I was too young. I didn’t know what I was doing. I might fuck up some kid’s life instead of save it. I might just be stuck in an office surrounded by files. I might stop caring.

I might fail.

The worst part about it was I couldn’t talk to Christian and Dane about it. Dane was the one who’d encouraged Chris to get me off the streets and got me my first job. He’d had a rough time as a kid, too, I knew, because we’d connected over our similar pasts. But he’d been so gung-ho, had such an unwavering exuberant faith in me, that I knew he wouldn’t understand my anxiety over this. And Christian?

He’d gone out on a limb for me. A big one. And I’d spent every moment of the past few years trying to prove that I was maturing, that he hadn’t made the wrong choice by taking me in and giving me a real chance at life. It made my stomach clench when I imagined his reaction to asking him for another year at college, that I’d changed my mind. I could almost picture how flaky I’d seem. Irresponsible. Especially since he was footing the bill of my education.

I knew I could just finish. I could get my degree, and if I needed to, go back to school for something else when I’d put in enough hours somewhere to really save up for it, do it on my own dime. But each time I thought about walking across the stage and taking a piece of paper that would be weighed with the hopes and expectations of everyone I knew, my knees felt like Jell-O.

The deadline to change was in August, so I had the summer to think about it. Which meant I did not need to think about it today. Instead, I could divert all my attention into my new (old) job. Yes, good, distraction. I threw myself into choosing the perfect outfit for my first day back—sexy enough that Reagan would have to notice me, but not enough to set off warning bells or teasing from the guys. After that,