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I war with myself. Brady had no right to call his stylist without asking me first. He had no right. But I need clothes that fit. I need clothes that are presentable. Clothes I feel confident in.
"You have all this money," I sigh, "and all this success. And I'm so happy for you."
"Then why is this hard?"
"You made something of yourself and I married a guy who had a traumatic work incident and lost a body part."
Brady tilts his head to the side. "Which body part?"
I inhale sharply. "His toe."
"I can't tell if you're being serious or not right now," Brady tries to hide a smile.
"I'm being serious," I cross my arms over my chest. "He hasn't worked since the accident and he's still waiting on disability or workman's comp. Maybe it's a settlement. I stopped paying attention when I realized all the responsibility fell on me. On my shoulders. I have nothing, Brady."
"It's OK to accept help," he whispers as his fingers caress my cheek. "Especially from people who have the help to offer."
"I don't want your money," I close my eyes. He should not be touching me. He should not be this close to me.
"I know," Brady drops his hand from my face. "That's why I don't mind helping."
Slowly, I pry my eyes open. "You've already given me a job, and a car. And you pay for my lunches. This is it. After this, you can't help me unless I ask you."
"Will you?"
"Ask you if I need help?"
"Yes?"
I lick my lips. "Maybe, but I don't need a savior, Brady."
"You're right. What you need is support," Brady shoves his hands into his pockets again. "And this isn't a free ride, Iz. It's a loan. One that doesn't have interest or a payback due date. I'm sorry Steve lost his toe. That must have been really hard for him."
"He'll be fine," I lift my chin.
"So, you'll at least try on some clothes?" Brady grins.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" I chew on the inside of my cheek.
"I already told you why," he answers.
"I don't buy that," I reply. "You don't hire your biggest regret. You don't give her a car and health insurance. And you don't pay your stylist to dress her."
Brady shrugs. "I don't know what to tell you."
"Tell me something honest," I say.
He stares at me, a million emotions flashing across his face.
"I have spent every day of the last nine years wondering what my life would have been like if I had been man enough to choose you. I have grown up a lot since I broke both our hearts," he confesses. "I just want to make sure you're alright now."
"That's not your job," I weakly argue.
"Ireallywant it to be."
"Next time," I clear my throat, "if you're struggling with something, I'd prefer you talk to me about it instead of making decisions about how to deal with it on your own."
"Most of the women I know would have been thrilled by the idea of a stylist dressing them," he tries to joke.
