“So is Indy short for something? Was your mom a die-hard Indiana Jones fan?”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s short for Indigo. I think she just liked the color. I don’t know. She died when I was two, so I never got the chance to ask her.”
“Damn.” Dylan shook his head. “You got the shittiest luck I’ve ever heard of.”
I snorted. “Tell me about it.”
“Still, it’s a cool name.”
I shrugged and dragged my fork through the puddle of bacon grease, smearing it into what was left of my eggs. Then I spread it toward my ketchup-y potatoes.
“Do you think if we got your transportation figured out, you could catch up on your course load?”
I shook my head. “Not this semester. I’m too far behind. I was hoping to get a deferral so I could hold on to my scholarship, but I haven’t been able to get to the university since my car was repo-ed. I’ve been meaning to call my advisor, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“You’re there on a scholarship?”
I hitched a shoulder. “It’s not a full ride or anything, but my tuition is covered.” I sighed and whispered, “or was covered. It’ll probably get canceled since I’ve been MIA.”
“Not on my watch.” A steely look came into Dylan’s eyes. “We’ll add it to the list. Clothes, belongings, school, vehicle, job, apartment. Anything I’m forgetting?”
I shook my head wordlessly.
That list might as well be a mile long with my inability to do anything about it. It was exhausting to even think about, let alone tackle.
“All right.” Dylan clapped his hands softly. “You done there?”
I looked down at my plate and my stomach rolled at the thought of eating any more. I nodded, staring at the glob of ketchup on the side of the plate.
“Great.” Dylan grabbed my plate and scraped his bacon fat onto it. The sound jolted me into action.
“I should do that. You went to all the trouble of cooking for us.” I grabbed the utensils on the table and moved to grab my still full cup of coffee.
“Nah, you’re a guest.” He pulled the silverware out of my hands. “Sit. Drink your coffee. Relax.” He took a pile of dishes to the sink and loaded the dishwasher.
I stared in disbelief for a second. I couldn’t remember a time in my entire life I’d seen a man do dishes. Grandpa had always called it women’s work, and Dad swore he’d get around to it eventually. We would’ve grown a new species of mold if I waited for him to do it. Blech.
But Dylan moved around the kitchen like he was used to doing for himself. It was so weird.
“So is the property management onsite at your apartment, or do we need to go to a building downtown?”
I shook my head slightly. “I don’t really know. There isn’t an office in the building, but there’s a super who lives on the first floor.”
“Sounds like a good place to start. You ready?”
“For uh, what?”
“To go get your stuff.”
“But I don’t have enough to cover the back rent. Dad, uh, my dad was a few months behind apparently.”
Dylan gave me a determined look. “We don’t need enough to cover whatever months you’re behind. We just need enough to grease a palm and get inside.”
My mind raced as I mentally calculated what was left in my measly checking account.
“You’re thinking too much.” Dylan tapped the countertop in front of him then pushed away. “In my experience, that always leads to trouble. Come on. We’ll figure it out as we go.”
Somehow, his little speech didn’t fill me with confidence. ‘Figure it out as we go’ is how I ended up in this situation in the first place.
