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“It smells good. I’m starving.”
“James.”
“What?” He wraps his arms around me, bending to kiss my neck. “This is a good thing, honey. We’ll get set up in our new place and put the rest away in the trust. Besides, the check is just for show, the money is already in the account.”
I pull back to look at him. “When were you going to, I don’t know, mention the fact they were going to give you this money?”
“I thought you’d be excited.”
“I am.” My stomach pinches in on itself. I set the check down carefully, even if it doesn’t matter, and turn to the stove, putting spaghetti into the pot of water I have going and giving the sauce a stir. Perhaps a tad too aggressively, because sauce splatters everywhere. I wipe it away from my cheek. “It’s just... that’s a lot of money.”
“I know. It’s great. Even if something horrible happens and I don’t play—”
I make a soft noise. “Don’t talk like that.”
“It’s not going to happen. But we’re set, princess. I wanted to surprise you. When Jessica gave me the news, I couldn’t believe it either.”
“Bullshit,” I say. James has never had an issue knowing what he’s worth. I admire that confidence, but I haven’t quite been able to emulate it yet. Even with our plans for the future solidifying day by day, it’s hard to really imagine that I’m going to have a career in the field I want. A future like the kind I dreamed.
His expression falters at the clipped tone of my voice.
“Are you really mad?” he asks.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cooper slip out of the room. I almost call for him to stay, but that would be cowardly. I know we already annoy him when things are good and we can’t keep our hands off each other; I can’t beg him to stick around for our fights, too.
I give the pasta a stir. We have about nine minutes until it’s ready, and pasta isn’t the sort of thing you can let go unattended and still expect to taste the same. Nine minutes to blow up before we need to simmer back down.
“No,” I say. I swallow the lump in my throat. “I just don’t want you to surprise me. What’s next? Did you already buy us a house?”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“You did this.”
“Beckett,” he starts.
I bite my lip. Sometimes he’ll call me Beckett in bed if he’s feeling serious. Usually, he doesn’t bother with it when we’re arguing. Instead of deferential, it feels like a reprimand, like a parent calling their child by their full name.
“What?” I snap. “We’ve spoken about this before, and you went and did it anyway.”
“I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you.”
“But you did!” I try to keep my voice down, but it rises anyway, sounding crude in the small kitchen. I roughly wipe at the corners of my eyes. “James, we’ve talked about this. I don’t need you to keep saving me.”
Here’s the problem with that: he did save me. I don’t regret it, but sometimes it feels embarrassing, knowing my boyfriend stole me away from a life where I felt trapped. If he had his way, he’d take care of me without expecting anything in return forever.It’s what he does, it’s who he is—yet if we’re going to build a life together, he can’t do this over and over without me giving him anything back. He says my support is enough, but what’s support in the face of the most concrete thing of all, money? Whatever job I get, it’s not going to hold a candle to his. I promised I’d come with him to Philadelphia, but I didn’t consider what that truly meant until I saw the check on the counter.
It’s too much. Too much money. Too many implications.
“Is this about the diner?”
“No.”
“Because I’ve apologized for that about a million times.”
“I know.”
“And this is for both of us.” He gestures between us. “You think I didn’t tell my agent to get the best contract possible for both of us? For our futures? I thought we agreed we were moving forward together. I’m not saving you; I’m just helping.”
“We are.”
