Page 116 of The Moon Also Rises
Rami’s face falls for the briefest moment. “Yes, yes, I do, but I also want to… Oh, fuck.” He rubs a hand down his face and he suddenly looks tired.
“You just swore,” I say, my stomach lurching. “Now I know this is bad.”
“No,” Rami practically shouts over the kettle’s deepening roar. “It’s not bad. But I just… I have to confess something.”
“Okay,” I say and wait, breathing apparently now something I will do once I know what Rami wants to say.
“When I was getting this shirt, earlier, from your wardrobe, I also found something.”
Any air that was there rushes out of my lungs.
“I was trying to find out your shoe size because I wanted to buy you some shoes, like the ones I wore at the wedding because you said you really liked them and…”
I am frozen in my chair and I’m losing the ability to see clearly.
“You found them,” I say. My shoe box full of red-stamped envelopes and letters from creditors I owe tens of thousands of pounds to.
“I wasn’t prying,” Rami defends himself. When I don’t speak, he adds, “Okay, I suppose I was a bit, but not to find… that.”
“My debt,” I say and as if it was timing it perfectly, the kettle clicks off as it starts to boil.
“Yes,” Rami says.
As the shock keeps rushing through me, wave after wave of possible implications freezing me on the spot, there is a small enough part of me that is conscious enough to be grateful that Rami goes about making the tea in silence so I can try and find some clarity in the mental mess. When he brings the mugs over to my coffee table, I am surprised that he comes and sits next to me on the couch rather than have a bit more distance.
“It’s not a big deal,” he says.
I make a strangled noise. I’m still not breathing quite right. “Then why are we having a big sit-down chat about it?” I ask, sounding as flustered as I feel.
“Because I wanted to be honest about stumbling upon the shoebox.”
“Well, you’ve done that now so I guess you can go.” That is exactly what needs to happen. Rami needs to go so I can hopefully stop feeling the hot flames of shame lick their way up my body. Or at least feel them without an audience.
Rami leans forward as if to put himself in my line of sight because I’m very deliberately not looking at him.
“Jake, I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and I flinch at how it sounds, the potential figurative meaning in his words. But I can’t fall into that romantic notion. To think I was minutes away from telling him I wanted us to be in a relationship together. I should at least be grateful he came clean about what he found before I made an even bigger idiot of myself.
“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” I say sounding undeniably angry. “I can’t deny it, clearly. And I can’t even say it’s under control although I am paying it back, slowly, but it’s still not pretty.”
“You don’t need to explain yourself. I just want to know if I can help?”
“Help?” I spit out.
“Yes, like if talking about it would help…”
“It wouldn’t,” I say quickly and shoot him a quick look which I instantly regret because he’s sitting there all calm and collected, and my lilac linen mix shirt has never looked better.
“What does your therapist say about it?” Rami asks, reaching for his tea.
“Oh, God, I haven't told my therapist!” I say, appalled.
“You haven't?”
“Lord, no, she's far too busy dealing with my real problems, she doesn't have time and I, ironically, don't have enough money to pay her to help me with this almighty and ultimately inexplicable fuck-up.”
“It's not a fuck-up...” he says and his delicate tone snaps the last thread of patience I have for myself, for him, and for this conversation.
“Rami, I'm nearly forty years old. I have earned good money for the last ten or so years and I have nothing to show for it. In fact, all I have to show for my years lived is a mountain of debt. Not to mention how my mother left me a decent-sized inheritance that I burned through in less than a year. I am one massive fuck-up when it comes to money.”
