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“My debt?” I say. I’m not letting this go. “Maggie, we’re friends. We can do things for each other without being in each other’sdebt.”
Without turning to look at me, she says, “Well, I’m not even sure if you can afford this. Who knows how you get money or if your brothers are supporting you? Who is really going to be paying for this furniture, Declan?”
My heart is pounding now as I stare at the back of her head. She turns off the water and grabs a dishtowel. As she dries her hands, she turns to face me.
“So, I’m not wrong, am I? This is why this whole thing is ridiculous, Declan. Can you even support yourself – much less a baby? You’re just an overgrown man child anyway.”
I huff. “That’s how you view me. An overgrown man child?”
“Declan, you’re fun, but...”
“You don’t think I’m capable of being a dad. I’m not mature enough?” I spit out. I don’t understand why she’s being so cruel right now, but something has snapped inside me.
“I mean it was pretty immature of you to tell everyone I was pregnant just out of spite,” she fires back and then closes her mouth into a hard line.
I’m holding my face as still as ice as I step toward her. Our eyes are locked. She’s leaning against the counter, hands gripping either side.
“Fuck you, Maggie,” I say once I’m right in front of her. She flinches, not expecting me to fight back. “I’m not an overgrown man child. Idowork. I make my own money, and I have a lot of more of it than you do.”
She scoffs.
“Don’t believe me?” I grab her hand and say, “Follow me.”
She doesn’t say a word as I lead her into my apartment and back to my office. I always keep this door closed when she’s here. She’s never seen inside. I push open the door and she gasps, and then looks at me, confusion spread over her face.
“How?” She steps closer to the painting on the wall – her painting. I bought it last year, anonymously.
I shrug. “I bought it.”
Her head jerks back in surprise. “You? That was the most expensive paintings I’ve ever sold. It was tens of thousands of dollars.”
“I know. Like I said, I bought it. Me – not my brothers. Not from their money. My money.”
“Why? Were you just trying to give me money or...” Her voice trails off.
I cut in. “No I wasn’t trying to give you money. I bought it because I liked it, and I wanted it.”
She darts her eyes back to me. “Where did you get the money? It really wasn’t your brothers?”
I growl. “No, Maggie, I just told you. I earn my own money. Didn’t you hear me say that?”
Her eyes are darting from side to side like she’s trying to work something out in her mind. “But you never work.”
“That’s not true.”
“I’ve literally never seen you work.”
I shrug. “I’m efficient, and I find work boring to talk about, so I don’t. It’s not my whole identity like a lot of people.”
I’m breathing heavily.
“I work to live, not the other way around,” I say, before stepping back out of the office.
She just turns toward me, her eyes full of confusion. As we’re leaving the office, I notice her eyes fall on the other painting hanging on the wall. The one Elizabeth had her paint of my childhood home – our foster mother’s home – for Christmas one year. I don’t have a lot of prized possessions – this is one of them. I’ve never mentioned it to her. Her eyes flick away from it to another framed sketch on the wall. I stop breathing for a moment. I forgot it was there.
She freezes when she sees it and then blinks a few times before walking out of my office. I sigh looking at it – a sketch she did years ago. A silly drawing of two birds in a tree she made when I was staying with her after everything happened with Cole. It was the first lighthearted thing I’d seen her do in months. Compared to her other artwork, it’s nothing to look at, but it meant she was healing to me. I kept it without her knowing and I had it framed. I never meant for her to see that. I’m just going to pretend that didn’t happen.
I follow her out into the hallway and call, “It’s not supposed to be this fucking hard, Maggie. You’re making everything so much harder than it needs to be.”
