Page 37

The crystals on my bookshelf. The blanket folded over the couch. The pile of school supplies sitting on the dining table.

All the little pieces of a life I’m trying to build.

What is he thinking?

“Just give me a second,” I tell him.

I hurry into my bedroom and retrieve the envelope containing my tips from The Breakwater. Between Friday and Saturday night, I have more than enough cash, but the thought of handing most of it over still hurts slightly.

When I return, Dean is standing exactly where I left him.

“How much do I owe you?” I ask, opening the envelope.

“Two hundred,” he answers.

I pause. “Two hundred?”

“That’s right.”

I stare at him. “Dean, that can’t be right.”

His brows pull together. “Why not?”

“You towed my car into town, moved other jobs around, fixed it on a weekend and”—I point through the window—“she’s looking suspiciously clean.”

“The wash isn’t on the bill,” he explains.

“That’s exactly my point.”

“Two hundred is what you owe me,” Dean says simply.

“I really don’t mind paying more.”

“I know.”

I pull the cash from the envelope but don’t hand it over yet. “I don’t want to owe you anything.”

The words come out more sharply than I intend.

Dean’s expression changes. The hint of amusement disappears as he looks at me properly.

“You don’t,” he assures me.

“This is obviously worth more than two hundred dollars.”

“You’re paying for the repair,” he explains calmly. “That’s the whole transaction.”

“What about the tow?”

“I was already coming to get the car.”

“And the wash?”

“I told you. It needed it.”

I search his face for the part he isn’t saying. The expectation. The favor I’ll be asked to return later.

There’s nothing.