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And once again I looked like an idiot.
“I’m sick,” I say, pulling a container of soup from the shelf.
“Do you need anything?”
“What would I need?”
I feel a twinge of regret for my short tone when he looks away.
“Sorry. I know you can take care of yourself,” he mumbles, turning to leave.
“Tristan, wait.” I reach for his arm and pull him back.
His gaze meets mine, and the hurt confusion in his eyes is too much. His skin is so warm in my hand. I want to run my thumb over his wrist and never let go—which is why I release him immediately.
“Who was on the phone?” I ask in a softer voice.
He considers my offer of a truce before releasing a sigh. “The bank. I had an account back in high school and I was hoping to get access to it.”
“But you couldn’t?”
He shakes his head. “I was a minor when it was opened, so it’s in my parents’ name. They closed it years ago, apparently. I officially have nothing now. Gonna be hard to pay my fines and parole fee with nothing.”
Nothing. Growing up I thought I had nothing, but even at my worst, I had more than a couch that wasn’t mine and a few articles of clothing. With my mom off doing god knows what, sometimes for weeks at a time, and my dad passed out drunk or high in their room, I often had the rest of the trailer to myself. Technically, none of the dishes and furniture belonged to me, but it felt like I had my own adult playground as a kid. My friends loved to “play house,” and I got to play it for real. My grandparents tried their best, but it wasn’t until the Haverfords incorporated me into their family that I learned the difference between a house and a home.
“How much do you owe?” I ask.
I never even thought about the fines that went with his sentence. He has to deal with that too?
“Over eleven thousand,” he mumbles. “Plus, fifty a month for parole.”
“Geez. How the hell are you supposed to pay that?”
“No fucking clue,” he sighs out. “Kim is trying to help. She already made a small payment, but I think you know she’s not exactly rolling in it either.”
“What happens if you don’t pay it?”
“My PO could slap me with a technical violation.”
“Seriously?” I ask, my stomach dropping.
He shrugs. “Yeah, but I doubt he would. Brian seems pretty chill. He’s way more concerned about drugs and violence and shit. Still, I’m not too eager to test that theory.”
My heart rate picks up. Neither am I.
“Well, Kim said you got a job. That’s great,” I say, forcing a smile.
He returns a weak one. “Yeah, I start in a few hours.”
“Shelton’s is a nice place. We’ve eaten there before.”
“Yeah.”
I’m not sure what to say next and clear my throat. “I should, um, finish making my lunch.”
“Sure. Of course.” He straightens from the door. “I’ll leave you alone.”
His gaze locks on me long enough to hint at something more, but after a few tense seconds, he offers another tight smile and disappears.
