Page 113 of Hot Shot

“If you have any inclination to get outside, Remy asked if we wanted to go on a hike tomorrow morning. I think he said at seven, but that can’t be right. He’s never woken up early on purpose in his life.”

The sharp pluck of anxiety precedes the threat of another coin being taken. “No. I want to sleep in.”

He watches me, but I don’t meet his eyes because I know he canseeme, at least partly, and I don’t want to talk about it.

“All right. Maybe we can go look at cars. That piece of shit belongs in the junkyard,” he jokes.

“I can’t,” I answer, trying not to snap. “I have no credit, Wilder.”

A pause. “How’s that?”

“Because I was an authorized user on Davis’s cards and accounts. Nothing has ever in my name. So when he took me off months ago, my credit tanked—I have no credit of my own. I’ve already looked.” I gather the folders back into their stack but they slide off each other again. Annoyed, I start to stack them again with enough force that they snap against each other, this time alternating the spines.

“You’ve gotta get a new car, Cass. You can’t drive a hundred miles without something new breaking on it.”

This time, I do snap. “I know. But what am I supposed to do? I don’t want to pay crazy interest or get stuck with a payment I can’t afford if I’m on my own again.”

I don’t intend to suggest we won’t stay together, but he feels the undertone all the same. I’m too pissy to apologize. When the folders fall again, I make a frustrated noise and shove them back in the bag.

“I can help. Maybe I just buy a second car for myself and you can use it when you want. I’ve been wanting a Jeep anyway. It’s a good excuse?—”

“No.”

His frown is concerned and a little confused. Maybe he can’t really see me after all. “I mean, I can cosign, or put you on my cards if you want, but I didn’t think?—”

“Ohmygod, Wilder,” I groan, my head rolling back to glare at the ceiling. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. I don’t need your help!”

“But you just said?—”

I’m off my stool, every muscle in my body tight, my voice strained as I approach him. “You cannot save me. You cannot throw money at it or fix it for me. You cannot just swoop in and erase my problems so you feel better.” Tears cling to my lashes, and I’m not sure I can stop them this time. “I know you’re trying to be sweet. I know you’re trying to make me happy. But this is exactly what left me with nothing in the end. This is whathedid. And I’m not doing that again.”

Realization dawns on him, his face falling with some mixture of horror and regret and apology. He steps close, pulls me into his arms, holds me to his chest with his hand cupping my nape.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to?—”

Tears roll down my cheeks, soaking the front of his shirt. “I know.”

“No, Cass. No—I mean it. I’m sorry. I’ll fix the truck. I’ll fix it a million times if that’s what you want. Whatever you want.”

I nod, and a sob skips out of me, followed by a couple more. And then I’m just blubbering for a minute in the circle of his arms. It feels good to let it go. I don’t have to think about anything for that moment. And he just holds me and rocks me a little and kisses the top of my head and strokes my back.

I finally compose myself enough to let him go. My fingers ache from clenching the back of his shirt, and I flex them, surprised that I didn’t even know I was doing it.

“I’m sorry,” I say with my stuffy nose accent in full effect. I pull a tissue from the box. “It was a rough week.”

But he’s shaking his head. “No. You’re not apologizing for anything. You didn’t do a single thing wrong. How did I not see that you were stressed? How did I not know?”

“You weren’t here,” I try to joke, but it falls flat. “It’s okay. I just underestimated how much time everything was going to take. I’m so far behind. I have all these papers to grade,” I say, my face pinching again as more tears fall. “And I have to work on my lesson plans but there’s just no time. I feel like I’m failing.” My throat closes to everything but tears. It takes me a second to speak again. “We haven’t had a decent meal since Monday. I have this mountain of shit to do. The house is a wreck. Cricket is getting bullied and I can’t stop it. The stupid truck is broken down and I can’t get a new one. It’s j-just a lot.”

Wilder wraps me up in his arms before I start to bawl again, his voice tight.

“Jesus, Cass. I am so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry I left you here all week on your own to handle everything—it’s so much. It was so much, babe.”

“It’s o-okay.”

“Stop. Stop it. It’snotokay. I put this on you. All your stress, it’s because ofmychoices. BecauseIdragged you into it. And then I left you holding the bag.” He leans back to look at me, his fingers softly sweeping tears from my cheeks. “You did all of that. You handled so much, and you never asked for help. I’d be so pissed at me. Are you so pissed at me?”

I shake my head, my chin wobbly.

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