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My mouth drops open. “You drove me? All this way two or three times a week?”
“Yes.”
“But... but why? It’s not just the drive. It’s waiting an hour while I’m in there. Why did I let you?”
“You offered to get yourself to your appointments another way, but driving you is no trouble. I like getting out sometimes, and I don’t waste the hour doing nothing. I make calls and return emails. The arrangement worked fine for both of us.”
I’m still gaping at him, but he’s shrugged the issue off like it’s nothing.
It doesn’t feel like nothing to me. He took nearly three hours out of his afternoons two or three times a week. I simply can’t understand how I allowed it.
“If you don’t want me to drive you,” he says more quietly, almost subdued, “we can figure out something else.”
“Oh. Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe we can just play it by ear?” It feels like I somehow hurt his feelings, but I don’t understand why or how.
“That would be fine.” He clears his throat and gives his head a little shake like he wants to brush off the awkward topic the way I do. “Do you feel like a treat?”
“A treat?”
“A food-related treat?”
“Oh.” I blink, surprised but also rather excited. “I’m always up for a food-related treat.”
“Ice cream sound okay?”
“Ice cream sounds great.”
“Okay. Good.” He checks his blind spot before merging over into the next lane. After a minute, he moves into the far-left lane and then pulls into a turn lane at a light.
I’m quiet as he’s maneuvering through traffic, but when he’s waiting for the light to change, I ask, “By the way, they said I didn’t owe anything in Dr. Walters’s office when I asked.”
“You don’t. Your insurance covers counseling.”
“What insurance? Oh my goodness, I just realized all my hospital bills. Even with insurance, I probably owe—”
“It’s all taken care of,” he says, a bit stiffer than before.
“How is it taken care of?”
“When you started working for me, I got you a health insurance plan. It’s a good one, so it covers a lot. Anything it doesn’t comes to me, and I take care of it.”
“But—”
“But nothing. You work for me. It’s my responsibility to make sure you’re covered.”
“But not in everything! No employer does that. And I saw I had a new banking app on my phone, so I checked it and there’s way too much money in there for six months’ work. Did I get money some other way?”
He shakes his head. “Your dad’s assets were all frozen, and then you worked with the authorities to arrange for what he had to go toward reimbursing his victims. You’re free and clear legally, in case you were wondering. You cooperated with the FBI and the US attorney on your dad’s case, and they aren’t charging you with anything. But there’s no money left from your father.”
“I didn’t think there would be. But then what’s the money in my bank account?”
“That’s your salary from your job.”
“But it’s too much! Especially since you give me room and board and pay all my medical expenses and who knows what else.”
His shoulders are stiffer than ever. He’s not meeting my eyes. “You’ve brought your expertise to a difficult and time-consuming project. It’s not too much.”
Part of me still wants to argue, but he’s not entirely wrong. Skills and knowledge like mine are often undervalued, but I worked hard to gain them. And cataloging that library can’t possibly have been an easy job.
