Page 52 of What About Us
His brows yank down over his eyes. “Why can’t I help? You help me all the time.”
I narrow my eyes at him, tilting my head and pressing my palms into the countertop to keep my hands from shaking. “No, I don’t.”
He runs a hand over his face and sighs. “My daughter and I are living in your house, using your water, your electricity, invading your space, and you don’t think that’s helping me?” He lays out four slices of bread before opening a drawer at his side and taking out a butter knife. “You watch her while I run, you pick her up from the ranch, bring her home, bathe and feed her. You even do her laundry, so I won’t have to. You basically volunteered to watch her while I work for Trevor.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, my hands fisting on the countertop. “That’s not the same.”
When I look back up, he levels me with his gaze. “No, you’re right; it’s not. It’smore.” He drops his eyes and dips the knife into the mayo jar.
“But it isn’t,” I insist. “It’s not money, it’s just time.”
Irritation creases his features, and he nearly rips the bread in two the way he’s haphazardly running the mayo across it. “Money doesn’t mean shit.”
I scoff and roll my eyes, banding my arms across my chest. “That’s because you’ve always had it.”
I know he’s not trying to be arrogant; he’s just being Hudson. Money has never mattered to him like it does me because he’s always had it. Even at a young age, his parents never struggled. Not like my mama and me.
He lets out a sigh and the butter knife he’s holding clangs to the counter. Bracing his hands on either side of the food, he shakes his head, then lifts his gaze to mine.
“Listen, I apologize for going behind your back to Erin, ok? I should have asked you first. But you and I both know you would have told me no. And we’d be right back here in a week or a month, when something like this happens again and you can’t get your meds.”
I drop his gaze and stare at the counter. I hate that he’s right. I hate that he did this out of the kindness of his heart and I’m throwing it back in his face. I know he means well, I do. But I hate that he’s always bailing me out.
I can’t even remember all the things he’s paid for over the years. Not so much when I was married, but just last winter, he gave me money for new tires because he didn’t like the idea of my driving on the half bald ones during the winter. He always buys the food when we order out, and he never fails to rent the movies we can’t stream for free. Three days ago, he paid the electricity bill I had hanging on the fridge. I was planning on paying it this weekend, but the generous jerk beat me to it. Yes, he’s living here for free, but still. It makes me feel so goddamn small and needy. Something I never want to be.
My mama taught me to take care of myself. I hate feeling like I can’t do it alone. But mostly, I hate it because it feels really fucking good to be taken care of by him. It scares the shit out of me how much I like it. It makes me want more with him. It makes me wanthim,and that can’t happen. I can’t risk what my life would look like if I lost him.
He sighs and his voice turns soft, taking on the same tender tone that he used when he helped me undress earlier. “I’ll look at the finances for the B&B, see if I can’t build in some insurance for you. It can be part of your salary.”
I shake my head once. He still doesn’t get it. Maybe he never will. “No.”
His voice loses that tenderness and turns frustrated when he says, “Jesus.” He shakes his head. “If this was any other job, you’d have health insurance.”
“Do you take a salary?” I asked, pointedly.
“You know I don’t. But—”
“Exactly. No, what we agreed on is sufficient.” I cross my arms over my chest. I am not budging on this.
“The fuck it is.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter because, even though the B&B is doing well, it’s not enough to pay for that. I already know it.”
“So, I’m just supposed to watch you suffer?”
I laugh then, and it’s a little hysterical. “I’m not suffering. Besides, it would still beyoupaying for it,” I tell him. “It isn’t your responsibility to pay for my insurance or my medication. You’re not my employer; you’re not my husband.”
Silence envelopes the kitchen as he watches me, that muscle ticking in his jaw again. Something wars on his face, and then melts away to determination. Then, he says something so crazy, so ridiculous, that I’m positive there is no way I heard him right.
“What if I were?”
I stare at him, the silence stretching into what feels like minutes. “What if you were, what?” I finally stutter out.
“Your husband.”
My mind spins in surprise and butterflies erupt in my stomach. As the seconds tick by, something that feels like relief mixed with hope blossoms in my chest, threatening to drown out the pain I feel at him for going behind my back. The thought of not having to worry about insulin anymore is like a physical uncoiling of relief in my belly. It’s a wash of warmth over my overstimulated, tired brain. It’s like something has clicked into place, and I have to admit I don’t hate the idea like I probably should, if for no other reason than not having to worry about my health.
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve nevernotworried about my health. It’s been a juggling act of highs and lows for nearly thirty years. The reprieve a marriage to Hudson would bring would be life-changing. Looking at him now, he’s so familiar, so safe. But why would he do this for me? Because we’re best friends? But what’s in it for him?
