Page 52 of Every Promise Broken

“Whit just called the house phone. Said he couldn’t reach you on your cell.”

“It’s probably in my room. What did he need?”

She waves her hand out in front of her. “I guess some dog lost his lunch on Whit’s sweater, and he doesn’t have another. He asked if you could bring him one because his afternoon is packed and he can’t leave.”

I can see the sheer disgust on Whit’s face clear as day in my mind. For working in a profession where bodily fluids are a common occurrence, Whithatesvomit. It’s the one thing he can’t really do, and for it to get on his person…he’s probably ready to crawl out of his skin.

“Okay, I can do that.” Remembering her telling everyone at Will’s that she wants to get out of the house, I ask, “Do you want to come with me?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she replies with a grin.

“Let me run inside and grab him a sweater. Did he say which one he wanted?”

“He said any would do.”

“That’s very unlike him,” I murmur. “He must be desperate.”

“He sounded quite panicked.” She laughs softly as we make our way back inside.

“Alright, give me five minutes, and we can go.”

In my room, I head straight to the closet, finding a suitable choice. Whit has dozens of these cardigan sweaters, and yet, he’s still so picky about which ones he wears. Some aren’t baggy enough, and others aretoobaggy. Some days, he likes the ones that are longer, while others, he prefers more form fitting. Finding a dark blue one that I see him wear often, that I know will go with his scrubs, I pluck it off the hanger, and am about to call it good when something catches my eye.

Tossing the sweater on the bed behind me, I grab the manila folder off the top shelf. I don’t recognize it, so I’m assuming it’s Whit’s. Which probably means I should put it the hell down and walk away, but I don’t do that. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I open the folder up, sifting through what looks like loan documents.

Holy shit…Whit took out a second mortgage on his house. Why the fuck would he do that? Glancing at the date on the signature lines, it’s clear hejustdid this too… But why? I continue flipping through until I get toward the back, and that’s when I see it. The late notices.

He’s been late paying the mortgage on the vet clinic.

So he took out a loan on his house to pay for it?

Why would he do that? And why is he struggling so badly? As far as I knew, that clinic did quite well for itself. It always has.

Closing the folder, I toss it back up on the top shelf before scrubbing a hand over my mouth.Shit.This must be why Whit’s been so stressed out lately, the reason his nightmares seem to be back.

Why the hell wouldn’t he tell me? I could’ve helped him.

“Conrad!” Nana calls out, reminding me that we’re supposed to leave. “You about ready? What’s taking you so long?”

“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath as I grab the sweater off the bed. I rip open the door, finding her standing just on the other side. “Let’s go.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“There’s a couple shops on Main Street I’ve been wanting to check out,” she says as soon as we get on the road. “After we bring Whit his sweater, what do you say we do a little perusing?”

Yes, that’s exactly what I want to do with my afternoon…fucking shop.“Sure,” I reply instead.

Nana claps her hands. “Wonderful! It’ll be so fun.”

“I’m sure it will.”

The entire drive, I can’t stop thinking about that folder. About the stress Whit must be under. I have dozens of questions, but I can’t ask any of them. I shouldn’t have been snooping through his things in the first place. He’d probably have my throat if he found out. Not to mention, he’d probably refuse to tell me anything, even if I did ask. Whit has a tendency to be overly independent; he’s always been that way.

For years, he’s strived to make his father proud, and in wanting that, it’s almost like he fears that asking for help or showing any signs of distress make him appear weak. And I suppose I can understand that to an extent. But Whit is the furthest thing from a weak man.

As I’m pulling into a parking spot in front of the clinic, I’m wracking my brain about what I can do to help him. He’s clearly at his max with stress, and it’s wearing on him. He’s not sleeping properly, his nightmares are back, and he even looks exhausted now that I think about it. He shouldn’t have to weather this burden on his own. But I know Whit like the back of my hand, and I know without a shadow of a doubt, if I approach him about this in the wrong way, he’ll completely shut me out.

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