Page 39 of Angel
“Feels like it is,” I mutter. “Feels like if I were enough, if I were enough, this wouldn’t be happening.”
He turns to look at me then. Really look.
“You think being enough means not wantin’ something else?” he asks.
I don’t answer. Because the truth is ugly. Somewhere deep down, there’s a part of me that’s scared she wants a future I can’t guarantee, and one day, she’ll decide love isn’t enough to make up for it. And that terrifies me more than any war we’ve ever ridden into.
Joker leans back, studying the ceiling.
“You ever think maybe this ain’t about what you can give?” he says. “Maybe it’s about what she believes about herself.”
I clench my jaw.
“I know that,” I say. “Doesn’t mean I don’t feel like I should’ve handled it better.”
“You handled it human,” he replies. “That’s different.”
I don’t drink myself stupid. That would be easier. Instead, I pace the property like a guard dog with nothing left to guard, run drills in the gym until my arms shake, and clean my bike even though it doesn’t need it.
I even reorganize the storage room and rewrite security protocols that were fine to begin with. Anything to keep my hands busy, to keep my head from replaying her words.
I can’t be around you right now without feeling like I’m failing.
That one guts me. Because the last thing I ever wanted was for her to feel small around me. I’ve spent my whole life making sure the people I love feel safe. And somehow, in trying to protect her from the spiral, I made her feel judged instead.
Carrie corners me in the kitchen the next morning. She doesn’t hug me. Doesn’t scold. Just pours coffee and slides the mug across the counter like she knows exactly how shattered I am.
“She, okay?” she asks quietly.
“She’s takin’ space.”
Carrie nods. “That’s brave of her.”
“And of me?”
She meets my eyes.
“If you let her, have it without punishing her for it—yeah.”
That lands.
Harder than I expected.
“I want to text her every five minutes,” I admit. “Tell her I miss her. Tell her I’m sorry again. Tell her I’ll be better.”
Carrie’s mouth softens.
“And what did she ask for?”
“Space.”
“Then give her space,” she says gently. “Not silence. Space. There’s a difference.”
I nod slowly. “How do I do that without losin’ her?”
“You trust her,” Carrie says. “And you trust that loving you doesn’t disappear just because you’re not standing in front of her.”
She pauses, then adds quietly, “And you work on the part of you that thinks you’re only valuable if you can give her everything.”
