Silence.
“Explain why it was funny.”
He didn’t.
Instead he said, “I need that car for the shop.”
“Then you should have made the payments.”
“You know business has been slow.”
“You also knew the cure period was running out.”
Another silence.
That one mattered.
“How do you know about that?” he asked.
“The notice came to me this morning.”
“I was going to handle it.”
“When?”
He started talking faster.
Orders had been slow.
A supplier had raised prices.
He was waiting on a client.
He had expected money from somewhere.
He thought he still had more time.
Every sentence sounded familiar.
I had heard versions of them for years.
Then he said the one thing he shouldn’t have said.
“You have money.
This doesn’t even hurt you.”
I looked through the doorway at Kendall.
She was fitting the damaged pieces of the box together, testing whether the lid could be repaired.
“You’re right,” I said.
“It doesn’t hurt me.”
Gage exhaled, almost relieved.
“Good.
Then call them off.”
“No.”
His relief vanished.
“What?”
“The fact that I can afford to rescue you doesn’t mean you’re entitled to be rescued.”
The tow mechanism lifted the BMW.
Gage started shouting at the driver.
I ended the call.
Ten minutes later, my mother arrived at my apartment.
She didn’t knock politely.
She hammered on the door.
“Open this door!”
Kendall looked toward me.
“Do you want to go to your room?” I asked.
She considered it.
Then shook her head.
“No.”
I opened the door.
My mother walked in holding her phone like evidence in a trial.
My father was right behind her.
Neither asked about Kendall’s cheek.
My mother went straight to the canceled transfer.
“The rent is due in three days.”
“I know.”
“You canceled it.”
“Yes.”
