Page 24 of He Has Charm (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“So you admit there’s an issue and it’s not that you’re underpaid. It’s that you have extraordinary expenses. Tell me,” I repeat because I’m stubborn by nature.
“Oh my god. You’re not going to leave this alone until I tell you, are you?”
I shake my head and work hard not to let my mouth twitch even a little.
“Fine. But it’s still none of your business.” She pauses a beat and studies the harbor view outside our window as she speaks in a low voice like she’s revealing a horrible secret. “I need to send two grand a month home to my mom to help her with her mortgage and household expenses or she’ll be on the street.”
“What the fuck? On the street? What’s that all about?” A familiar sense of outrage at the unfairness of life grips me. “I know how family can be expensive and how important it is for everyone to be whole. My family is like that. One person’s problem is everyone’s problem, especially the financial ones.”
“Your family is lucky to have you to lean on. You cover everything.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You have a generous streak visible from outer space,” she says. Then she shuts up and looks away again.
“How would you know about my generosity?” I take precautions to make sure my charitable work is all anonymous. It works best all around that way. No need for children’s hospitals to worry about their benefactor being a porn star for instance, even an accidental one, if no one knows who the benefactor is.
“I know all about your theoretically anonymous charitable donations and other expenses.” She waves around her half-eaten roll as she speaks. “Including how you paid for your sisters’ weddings and your mom’s new house. I have privileged access to all the accounts and information held by the Jett agency—but don’t worry. I would never say a word to anyone.”
“Shit. I guess you would know. You must be Ham’s right-hand man—I mean woman.”
She nods.
“So it’s only fair that you tell me about your finances since you now all about mine,” I say. “What happened to your mom to put her on the verge of being homeless if you don’t cover her mortgage?”
“My dad… recently passed.”
“I’m sorry—”
She snorts. “Me too. You have no idea.” There’s less sorrow than frustration in her voice. But she doesn’t expand on her answer as she picks at her salad. I finish the last of the pasta and take the extra piece of bread lying untouched on her plate.
“Eat the spumoni before it melts completely and finish your story.”
“What makes you think I want dessert?”
“I know you do. I can see it in your face, that sparkle in your eye when your glance grazes over it, stopping for a half a beat like a stutter, a distraction you can’t stop.”
She raises her middle finger at me and scoops a spoonful into her mouth.
“Finish your story,” I repeat, wiping my mouth. No dog ever held onto their bone more tightly than I do.
“Story is finished.”
“No it’s not. I know it isn’t, the same way I knew you wanted that spumoni.” She laughs for a beat but then gives me a wary look, so I explain. “There’s some baggage about your father. I can tell by the way you referred to him, the tone of your voice, a hint of displeasure, like maybe he didn’t leave your mother taken care of when he passed?”
“Understatement of the year.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” She shakes her head, folds her arms across her chest and just when I think she’s shutting down, she talks. But she keeps her voice as detached as if she’s reading the dictionary and her expression firmly back in all-business mode.
“My father left my mom and younger brother with no money. With a second mortgage on the house and with serious debt.” She stops, her eyes gleaming, full of fierce challenge in her otherwise passive face.
“Let me guess. Gambling debt?”
She nods, then stands. “You want to know the worst part?” I don’t say a thing because the empty despair in her voice catches me by the heart and squeezes. “We never even knew he gambled.”
She turns away, trying to cover the crack of vulnerability.
