16. Karla
KARLA
TWO YEARS LATER
My alarm clock started its relentless beeping again, like it was personally offended that I dared to sleep. I threw an arm over my face and groaned. I’d already hit snooze three times—four, if we’re counting the time I slapped it off the nightstand entirely.
The room was still dim, curtains leaking in a thin stripe of early-morning sun that fell right across my eyes like nature’s own personal spotlight of shame.
My apartment smelled faintly of last night’s lavender candle and the cold coffee I forgot to finish.
Blindly patting around for my phone, I finally found it wedged under my pillow.
I squinted at the screen. Missed call from Janine, the adoption coordinator I was supposed to be helping this morning.
Crap.
I sat up slowly, stretching out the stiffness from last night’s terrible decision to fall asleep hunched over my laptop watching YouTube dog-training videos. (Try explaining to your therapist why you were crying about a golden retriever learning how to “shake.”)
I fired off a text:
Just getting up. I’ll be there in about an hour.
I grabbed yesterday’s jeans off the floor and yanked them on as I shuffled toward the bathroom.
Brush teeth—check.
Makeup—kind of check (more like “concealer and vibes”).
Hair tamed enough not to scare toddlers in public—check.
Dog-butt T-shirt that said Money can buy lots of things, but it doesn’t wiggle its butt every time you come home—double check.
My phone buzzed.
Janine: No worries. Just meet us at the park. Dogs are loaded up. We just need help setting up the tables and play areas.
Me: Perfect. See you there.
I took a breath and let it out slowly, the good kind of nerves zinging in my chest. Adoption days always hit different—soft, hopeful, bittersweet.
Watching all those dogs find their forever homes felt like divine therapy.
And even though losing Nike and Thor still carved a hollow place in me, being there made the ache feel a little less sharp.
Everyone kept telling me I should adopt again, that “time heals,” that “a new dog will help.” But I worked long hours, and I refused to bring a dog home unless I could give them the world. They deserved more than scraps of time and exhausted cuddles.
The second I stepped into Central Park, the morning hit me like pure caffeine.
Runners everywhere, cyclists weaving through the foot traffic, couples strolling like they were in a movie, kids shrieking with joy by the playground—and puppies barking like they were announcing their presidential campaigns.
“Karla!” Janine waved at me from the head table, already juggling a clipboard, a leash, and what looked like a bag of treats she was using as a stress ball.
She shoved a stack of paperwork into my hands the moment I reached her. “You’re booth eight today.” She pointed to the row of tents like she was presenting on Shark Tank. “Ready to get some dogs their forever homes?”
Her smile stretched from ear to ear, and the energy around us pulsed like its own heartbeat.
“You know it,” I said, already feeling my mood lift.
The husky booth was alive with chaos—playful lunges, yips, paw-pouncing, water bowls being flipped like miniature WWE smackdowns.
I knelt down, sorting through the paperwork and matching names with faces.
I’d learned early on that organized volunteers made for happy adopters… and less chaos for our staff.
A high-pitched howl echoed from the playpen. I looked over to see a brown-and-white fluff ball staring up at me with the confidence of a wolf pup who had just discovered her vocal cords.
“Ohhh, someone’s learning her grown-up voice,” I cooed, stepping into the pen.
She wiggled her whole body in response, tail whipping like a fuzzy metronome. I probably sounded insane baby-talking her in front of a whole crowd, but I had zero shame. These dogs were my soft spot.
After refilling water bowls and giving the pups a little playtime, I clipped the adoption paperwork to boards and laid out pens, brochures, and the info binder.
“Excuse me?” a voice called.
I looked up—and froze.
Two familiar faces. Two ghosts from another life.
“Myla… and… Brayden?” The names popped out before my brain caught up.
I looked from the beautiful girl smiling softly at me to the man walking up behind her—and holy hell.
Brayden Cox was even hotter than I remembered. No beard today, which was a tiny tragedy, but still unfairly attractive. Muscles broader. Smile warmer. Eyes softer. Definitely no longer the shattered, crying stranger I’d met in the ICU all those years ago.
He scratched the back of his neck, that shy gesture I remembered. “Karla?”
My face heated so fast I might’ve combusted. “You remembered.”
He laughed, turning to his sister. “How could I forget? Myla, this is one of your nurses from the ICU. She saved me the first night you were in there—took my number and made sure I stayed sane through everything.”
“Oh my god…” My heart actually squeezed.
I shook Myla’s hand, but it didn’t feel like enough.
She looked so healthy. So alive. So whole.
Emotion rushed through me, and before I could second-guess it, I stepped around the table and hugged her tight.
“You have no idea how amazing it is to see you doing so freaking well,” I said, pulling back with a watery laugh.
Then my gaze flicked to Brayden.
And my brain promptly short-circuited.
Good God. Those shoulders. That jawline. That smile.
It had been years since I felt that little spark of oh no, he’s cute about anyone. After James, dating felt like walking barefoot across a minefield. But something about Brayden hit differently—safe, warm, familiar, but still electrifying.
“So,” I asked, trying to act like my heart wasn’t having a panic attack, “what brings you two to the park today?”
Brayden rubbed the back of his neck again. “We’re here to get Myla a puppy. Do you work for the ASPCA now or something?”
I laughed and explained how I’d started volunteering regularly once I stopped working vampire shifts, then asked how they were doing—careful, gentle, genuinely curious.
“Yeah, it’s been a few years,” Brayden stammered, watching Myla kneel beside the playpen. “We’re doing great. Still working on getting back to normal.”
I filled another water bowl as one of the huskies pawed at it. “Same here. Nursing is… nursing. But not working nights anymore is a lifesaver.”
Brayden suddenly pulled out his phone, thumb brushing the screen. “You know… I still have your number. Maybe I could call you sometime? Take you out for coffee? I never properly thanked you for saving me that night.”
My heart practically launched itself out of my chest.
Keep it cool. KEEP. IT. COOL.
“You don’t owe me anything,” I said calmly. “But I’d love to hang out.”
Internally, I was doing triple backflips.
Before I could say anything else, Myla jogged back over, cradling the brown-and-cream fluff ball I’d been playing with earlier.
“I want her,” she said, eyes bright.
And that was it. Seven—the name Myla chose for the pup—was hers.
Paperwork filled, adoption fee paid, new life beginning.
“All right,” I said, folding the documents and slipping them into an envelope. “You guys are all set.”
Brayden took it from me, his fingers brushing mine—just enough to make my breath catch.
“Thank you,” he said, voice low, warm. “For everything.”
And for the first time in years, I thought—Maybe everything I survived… led me right here.