Page 42 of Texting Mr. Stranger

“Emily’s calling the plumber,” Mom says from behind me.

I turn with the bills still in my hand. Mom’s gaze moves to them. Her eyes open wide when she sees how many there are. She rushes across the room, her shirt soaked with water, reaching out for the bills with trembling hands.

“Bella …”

“He’s a wealthy man,” I say defensively.

“What’s his job again?”

“Investment.” My tone sounds weak as niggling thoughts whisper at me. His Italian name, easy confidence, the darkness I sometimes see in his intense eyes … “He’s a CEO.”

“A CEO who pays this amount of money in cash?”

“Well, we need a plumber. What do you want me to do?”

“Be careful?—”

“This is paying your tuition,” I say, quickly leaving the room.

My tone has come out a little too harsh. I shouldn’t feel the need to defend him so fiercely, but I can’t help it. Emily paces up and down as she speaks on the phone. She holds it to her chest, whispering, “It’s going to be at least three hundred bucks.”

“It’s fine. Just call him out. By the time the superintendent gets here, the whole apartment will be flooded.”

As the plumber works in the kitchen, we sit around the coffee table. Mom takes a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving me. I can hear the cogs turning in her head as she tries to figure out what I might’ve done to get this cash. It’s like I can see the ugly ideas flitting through her mind.

Mom cleans up the living room table once the plumber finishes and I’ve paid him. After, as the three of us begin our days properly, I can sense there’s a lot she wants to say. She takes her chance just as I’m leaving for the restaurant.

“Bella,” she says, touching my hand to stop me from power walking out the door.

“Yeah?”

“I just want you to know …” She frowns, almost like she doesn’t want to say this. Even if I’m the one supporting her now, she’s my mom, my rock. She always has been. “Although I want to finish my college course, I’d drop out instantly if you were?—”

“I’m late, Mom.”

“Let me finish,” she says quickly. “If you were doing things you’re not proud of or anything that put you in danger.”

“Like what?” I say. “I’m giving his sister violin lessons. That’s it.”

“What about last night?” She lowers her gaze for a moment but then makes a point of looking at me sternly. “You snuck out.”

“I didn’tsneakanywhere,” I counter. “I went out to …”

“To see him?”

“Are you saying I’m a hooker or something? That he’s paying me for sex?”

“No, I didn’t say that!” she protests.

“Then what exactly are you saying?” I counter.

“Do you really think I can’t tell when you’re not honest with me?”

“You know everything I know,” I say, pulling away and making for the door.

During the bus ride to work, I try to get Mom’s words out of my head. I can’t count the number of times I check my phone, waiting for a text that never comes. I’m unsure what I want him to say, butsomethingwould be nice. Again and again, I try to remind myself he’s just a student’s brother, nothing more, but it feels hollow.

When I finally reach work, I try to plaster my customer-service expression on my face, all smiles, as if my personal life doesn’t exist. As I reach the door, a cold, strong hand curls around my wrist and aggressively tugs me toward the alleyway.

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