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I’m not sure I do, but I don’t argue with him. I don’t need this psych evaluation to last longer than a few minutes.
“I need to finish working on the Ford,” I mutter, diverting as always.
“Jared.” He full names me, which stops my movement toward the door. He always calls me J or J-Dog—never Jared.
Slowly, I turn back to him. “What?”
“It’s okay to be happy.”
I swallow back the lump developing in my throat and nod.
“You’re allowed to be happy,” he repeats.
“Yeah, I know.”
I push through the door before that lump becomes so big I can’t breathe past it and head back into the workshop. Recovering the wrench I threw, I head back to the car I’m working on and, for a few moments, I’m lost in the engine and what I’m doing. Then, my eyes lift and slide toward the antiques store, toward Nia.
Damn.
