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“No,” I reply honestly. “But I don’t think I was before you. I guess I had to become one.”
He gives a soft grunt as he suddenly leans to the side, reaching for a drawer on the bedside table closest to him.
“Oh, no! Don’t,” I cry, tossing my laptop onto the plush bedding and scrambling to reach for the drawer. “I can get it. Just lie still, would you?!”
I’m too slow, though. Elio’s already grabbed whatever it was he wanted. I sit back down on the bed beside him as he whips open a chequebook. His eyebrows draw together with concentration as he uses a pen to scrawl with his non-dominant left hand. I watch him fill out the cheque with messy writing.
It’s a cheque from Elio Titone to Elio Titone, for the staggering sum of six million dollars.
He signs it with a scratch of ink, then hands it to me.
I frown down at it, unsure what he wants me to do with it.
“Now you give it back to me,” he says, his hand outstretched. I do so, my confusion only deepening when he places one edge of the rectangle of paper between his teeth, using that pressure to tear it in half. He takes the ragged-edged pieces, crumples them in his left hand, then throws them onto the bedside table.
“There,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Done.”
“What’s done? You just wrote a cheque from yourself to yourself and then ripped it up. Do I need to go get the doctor?” I eye him with suspicion, wondering if he really did take a blow to the head today that’s causing him not to think straight.
Elio rolls his eyes.
“It’s symbolic. I already told you that your debt is forgiven. But I thought that maybe you needed to actually witness something to mark the occasion. To show you that our relationship is no longer defined by money or by debt.”
“You’re the one who made it about money and debt in the first place!” I remind him stubbornly. “Or did you forget that part?”
“I don’t forget a fucking thing, Songbird,” he murmurs. “Not when it comes to you.”
I break eye contact, cheeks hot, then retreat to the safety of my laptop. But after a few seconds of staring blindly at the writing on the screen, I sigh.
“I don’t even know why I’m bothering to do this,” I grumble. “It’s not like I’m going to class tomorrow.”
“What do you mean, you’re not going to class tomorrow?” Elio asks so sharply I can’t stop my head from jerking up to look at him.
“Well I’m obviously not leaving you here like this,” I say, flopping my hand towards his bare, bruised torso. “I need to stay here and take care of you.”
“Like hell you do,” Elio growls. “I told you before that dropping out of school, or even just missing class, is absolutely not an option.”
I gawk at him, amazed that he’s insisting on something as routine as going to class when he’s literally bedbound by his injuries. But then again, that’s kind of been his MO this entire time. Do batshit crazy stuff, then try to trick me into thinking that it’s just normal, everyday life.
“You’re the one who made that comment about needing lots of tender, loving care when we were downstairs!” I sputter, anger rising. “What, you have somebody else around here to provide that while I’m gone?”
Amusement sparks behind Elio’s eyes, and it drives my outrage even higher. Damn him, damn him!
“Would that make you jealous?”
“What? No! God, you are infuriating!”
My fury seems to entertain him. His mouth stretches into a lazy, lopsided grin.
“The name’s Elio, actually. But you can call me God if you want.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“I don’t even know why I’m worried about you,” I huff. “Clearly, you’re fine if you can be such a… a…”
“A what?”
“A freaking arrogant idiot!”
