FIFTY.
“Hey,” Dom whispers, hand on my elbow, stopping me from my spiral. I search his eyes for comfort, but he’s not a mind reader. He can tell I’m losing it, but not why.
He raises an eyebrow as I stay silent, invoice in my hand—an invoice I glance at again to make sure I’m seeing this correctly. I didn’t order enough for the camp. No, I ordered enough for the neighboring counties too.
“Okay,” I mutter. “I fucked up.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, whatever it is,” he says. I don’t have the mental capacity to spiral over him being so cool, calm, and collected right now, but it’s certainly a choice for him to pretend to be walking on a cloud while I’m unraveling.
I shove his shoulder. “We’re in spiraling mode right now, sir, and you are being very unsupportive.”
“I’m sorry. I was trying to lighten the mood.” He shakes his head. “Don’t seem to know how.” His demeanor changes back to the Dom of the first few days I met him—shoulders back, brows drawn together, turmoil in his eyes.
I reach for his face, taking it in my hand. “You’re doing fine. Sorry.” I take a deep breath, mimickinghim.
“Let me finish carrying the boxes in, and then we will figure it out,” he adds and leaves me with a courteous nod.
For the next twenty minutes, we fall into a rhythm. Dom lifts, carries, and sets down. I sort through the boxes and my bewilderment.
He silently fixes my terrible stacking system without uttering a word, staying close enough to touch. I pretend not to notice.
I pretend I’m not on the verge of losing it and breaking down in tears.
We continue our rhythm, him stacking each box carefully as I reorganize the supplies. The pile beside the worn easel I’ve been dying to use grows into something absurd—boxes of watercolor paper, giant tubs of paint, bundles of brushes, glitter that somehow leaked from one carton and now sparkles across the dark floor like an art supplies crime scene.
We’ve gotten everything out, and I’m standing in the middle, taking it all in, trying really hard not to panic. But headlights swing around the corner, a familiar truck pulling up in front of the shed, making my stomach drop before the engine even shuts off.
“No,” I whisper.
Dom straightens beside me. “What?”
I look out as the driver’s door slams.
No. No. No.
There’s no time to fix this before Lilly sees, and it’s my head.
Lilly storms across the pasture in her typical put-together fashion, her fury sharp enough to cut glass. Her eyes sweep over the boxes, the spilled supplies, then land directly on me.
And just like that, I don’t have to guess it. She will definitely kill me.
This is the straw that broke the camel’s back.
“What,” she says slowly, “is this?”
I stand up, brushing dust off my hands. “Art supplies. I told you they were being delivered today.” Deflection and delusion, Riley, deflection and delusion.
She offers a humorless laugh. “I can see that,Riley.”
Dom shifts subtly beside me, not stepping in but close enough so I feel him.
His presence saysI’m here.
Lilly points at the mountain of boxes. “I saw the invoice just now, and I knew there had to be an error, right? Because this is thousands of dollars. Thousands of dollars we do not have. You were supposed to take care of it, not put us into deeper debt.”
“I know, but it's for the camp.”
“For how many camps? Are we supplying other camps? This is ridiculous,” she snaps.
