Page 52 of Always Knew It Was You

She refuses to explain to me what they’re for. And by the time, I realize what she’s doing it’s already too late.

“There’s a food bank around the corner, walking distance,” she says when we step out of the store, with both arms full of grocery bags. She has a smile that shines brighter than the moon. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CARLY

Micah grows quiet as we head to the food bank, carrying several bags of canned beans, corn, and a bunch of other goodies. They only cost a few hundred dollars and I’ll donate the rest of the money I got from the pawnshop in the morning before we leave. But I want to do this tonight, and don’t want to be dissuaded.

Even with Micah accompanying me silently, his disapproval thick in the air.

I’m not sure why he’s not saying anything. I thought he would try harder to argue against what I’m doing now or claim that I shouldn’t be doing it in a dress that cost thousands of dollars. I thought he would at least mention the risk of getting robbed. It’s something I thought about myself, but the food bank is close enough that I’m not super worried. Besides, we seem to be in a safe neighborhood.

Still, I expected Micah to argue. But he remains thoughtfully quiet instead, and quietly judgmental.

Finally, I can’t tolerate the silence anymore, so I turn around to find that he’s watching me as he walks, his perusing expression highlighted by the moon.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.” But there’s a mocking smile at the corner of his lips, revealing that his “nothing” isn’t nothing.

“Just say it,” I say. “You think I’m stupid for doing this, don’t you?”

“Not stupid. Just unexpectedly naive.”

I glare at him. I’m grown enough to understand that naive is just a nice word for stupid. Either way, I don’t appreciate it.

“What do you have against charity anyway?” I ask.

“I have nothing against charity. Last I checked, you were the one who said that charities only use their money to pad their CEO’s pocket.”

I blush at the reminder. “Uh-huh. And I was wrong.”

I researched it last night after he went to sleep and found that he was right. A lot of charities did use most of their donations directly to help the needy. I just assumed they didn’t because of what I heard my mother say. She used to denigrate NGOs in the past, particularly every time our church hosted its annual charity drive. Whenever I suggested we ask them for help, my mother would say, “Charities aren’t for us. They just use people like us to collect more money to give to their big bosses.”

And I just took what she said at face value after watching them turn her away a few times. That’s my fault for believing my mother, a well-known liar. I should have known that if a charity didn’t want to help her, then she probably did something to deserve it.

Last night, I also extensively researched Last Hope Food Bank, where we’re headed right now. They’re very open online posting on their website how much they receive in donations and also giving a detailed breakdown of exactly what that money is used for. Everything I’ve read about them, including reviews, suggests that they’re one of the better food banks in the city. Luckily, they also have a repository outside their office, where we can leave the canned food and anyone in need can access it twenty-four-seven.

But on the way there, we happen upon groups of people sleeping on the streets, curled into walls to fit underneath the building’s awning. Sympathy twinges in my heart. One of them meets my eyes and I pause, then squat and lower some cans of beans for him. I don’t say anything else, and he simply nods as I leave.

Another thing I used to hate about asking for help was the stares I got. I hated the pitying look that people used to give me, how it robbed me of dignity. So I don’t stop and gawk and I don’t wait for any acknowledgement. I just place the cans and go.

As I move, I place more cans along the way. Some of the sleeping are awoken by the clatter and jerk back from me, and others just stare off. A few mutter out a thanks as I walk away. The response doesn’t matter. I keep the same routine until I’ve given everyone at least half a dozen cans of food.

“You keep that up, you’re not going to have enough by the time we get to the food bank,” Micah says as we turn the corner. He says it in a wry tone and once again, his total detachment irritates me.

He makes no secret that he doesn’t care about any of this, and thinks what I’m doing is stupid. But of course, he doesn’t. He’s probably never had to beg or visit a food bank in his life.

I resolve to ignore him at first, but eventually, as we get close to our destination, my indignation builds until I can’t hold it back.

“I don’t know what your problem is,” I finally say turning on him.

He raises an eyebrow. “My problem?”

“Yeah. Aren’t rich people supposed to at least pretend to be nice and care about the less fortunate? Did you see that party we were just at? The gift bags? The hosts spent more on hors d’oeuvres than some people might make their entire lives.”

“And that’s supposed to be my fault?”

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