Butterfly, email or text me ASAP.
I’d rather have you working for me than at the bar.
MD
At the bottom are his email address and number.
I place one of the hundred-dollar bills inside the savings jar, then reach into my purse and place the rest in my wallet. Three hundred eighty-three dollars, plus his tip, isn’t bad for a slow night.
But maybe it’s time to move on, and Matt is a great option, isn’t he?
How smart is it to work for a hot guy? And what am I going to do? I refuse to work in the entertainment industry. Never again.
And can I work around him? I’m attracted to him.
Bad idea, Thea.
For now, it doesn’t matter. I have a full day of work.
Like heading to the bank to deposit my check and tips, then down to St. Peter & Paul, a small Catholic church where I volunteer my time to counsel foster children. It’s a program run by the deacon’s wife, where we help the children adapt to their new or temporary homes.
The hours help me with the counseling license I’m working toward. Only one hundred and seventy-five more hours of supervised experience and my test, and then I can get the state certification. Then I can search for a real job as a therapist.
Of course, I have to pray someone will take me in their practice with my background. I pull my coat from the rack, fix my wavy hair into a quick messy bun, and leave my apartment. As I lock the door, I read the reminder I posted last night.
Thea:
Don’t forget to mail the orders.
You have to mail them today.
T.
P.S. Make it a great day!
At least I have time to go to the post office while running the other errands. I storm inside, pick up the packages from the dining table, shove them into my tote bag, and continue with what I was doing.
The lack of sleep and all the stress puts ideas in my head. What’s the point of working so hard when I’ll probably fail? I can run away, but my past and who I was will come and find me.
I stop right outside the door, on top of the stairs.One day at a time, Thea. Just get through today.
That’s the only way to survive, the only way to continue.
My luck is going to change. I’ll get a break. A big break that will guarantee some happiness and less loneliness. But for now, I’m thankful for what I’ve done so far. I grab onto the tote bag as if it’s a lifeline. It has dreams, hopes, and love. A future that someday will grow.
Yes, I’ll make it.
At least I’ll make it till tonight and hope tomorrow is day 1,849 of being sober. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I open the metal door and find Reed with a supplier.
“Morning, Reed,” I say, kissing his cheek. “See you later tonight.”
“Morning, T. If you can come by earlier, we have to adjust this week’s schedule,” he says, waving at me.
Adjust schedules? That doesn’t sound right. The pit of my stomach churns but I remind myself that I can adapt to change. It’s going to be a good day.
It’s the worst.
I said it earlier, and I’ll repeat it again.