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This woman is caring with the biggest heart out of anyone I’ve ever known. When Kimmie died, it nearly broke me in half to watch Carla have to go through that kind of loss. I’m used to it. I lose people all the time. Shit, I lost myself for a decade. Reggie saved my life. Carla reminds me a lot of him. I often wonder if he sent her to me. Not sure if it’s possible, but it’s a nice notion.
I don’t believe in destiny. Not anymore. I took control of my life and changed my course. Things don’t happen to you because they’re part of a plan. That’s a victim mentality. Yes, sometimes things happen because of luck. You win the lottery, or you drive over a nail and pop your tire. Shit happens.
But most of the time? Things happen because you let them. I spent a long time letting myself think that I didn’t deserve the love of a good woman. I let the shitty people in my life brainwash me into thinking I wasn’t worth a damn.
But that’s not true.
It took me a while (and a whole lot of therapy) to believe I could be worthy of someone like Carla.
Now I know.
And now I have to tell her.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Carla
“Sorry! I’m sorry. I hit snooze one too many times.”
Roger arches a brow. “You’re only five minutes later than usual, which means you’re still five minutes early for your shift.”
I blow a strand of hair out of my face. “Well, I like to be on time.”
“Why were you sleeping at three in the afternoon anyway?”
“Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Ah, to be young.” Roger ruffles my hair as he walks to the door. “Wait until you have kids.”
I ignore the stabbing pain in my stomach. “’Bye, Rog. Enjoy your weekend.”
I smooth down my hair and straighten up the desk. Love Roger and all, but he doesn’t put anything back where it belongs. Stapler, folders, envelopes, pens. Normally, this makes me laugh. But today? It’s another log tossed into my fire.
I don’t even know why I’m so angry. Is it the fact that TJ got himself into a dangerous situation last night? He could’ve been killed. What he did was reckless. Fighting is better than shooting heroin, I suppose, though that’s not a very comforting thought.
Part of me is mad at myself. Every time I think I’m getting somewhere with TJ, he slams the door in my face. One step forward, two steps back. First he’s hot, then he’s cold.
I’m going to need a neck brace after all this whiplash.
Maybe the question is: Why do I care so much?
These thoughts continue to assault my mind for the duration of my shift.
TJ’s my boss. Why does it matter what he does in his spare time? If he wants to get beaten to a bloody pulp, so be it. It’s not my job to help him with his personal life. Maybe I need to—
“What are you doing?”
A horror movie-worthy scream rips from my throat. “Jesus Christ, TJ! Why are you sneaking up on me like that?”
His lips twitch. “I didn’t know I was sneaking up on you. Walked right in your line of vision. Said hi. Thought you saw me.”
“Don’t laugh. You scared the crap out of me.”
“I’m sorry. Didn’t realize you were so hard at work.” His eyes drop to the stack of papers in my hand. “Think you’re good on the staples.”
I glance down. The papers I’m holding have a good fifty staples holding them together.
“Stapling is a good way to get out your aggression,” I say.
