Yes.
And it’s shit insurance.
As well as her wages, with how much work she throws into her classes and students.
“If you trust me in six months, I’d like to help with that.”
I openly gape at him because my father’s medications, his doctor visits, and specialists would be astronomical if it weren’t for my mother’s insurance.
Not that she doesn’t fork out thousands, but it’s better than not having it at all.
“Why would you want—” Bronte hands me the plate he just made, but I’m not prompted to take it. “You forgot pancakes.”
“I didn’t,” he retorts lightly. “I just ran out of room.”
He did.
So, I take the plate and the fork and sit quietly for a moment.
How in the world did I get someone like him in my life? At a charity event, someone I couldn’t believe was insinuating that he was into me, whom I persuaded. Someone who was wrong and never showed any interest in helping my family, not that I would ever ask Bobby to.
“Bronte, you’re giving me a complex.”
“Am I?” he asks nonchalantly, stabbing two pancakes with a fork before grabbing a knife to butter them. “I can think of something you can give me in return.”
“Like?”
“Giving me time.”
My brows clench together at the simple yet complicated trade deal because time is something that’s extremely rare sometimes.
“We haven’t gotten past New Year’s yet,” I remind him.
He shrugs. “If you divorce me, it still doesn’t mean I’ll abandon you.”
Geezus Christ.
For the love of God and everything holy with all the Latter-Day Saints and angels and whatever else.
How?
Justhow?
I’ve given him nothing, and he wants to give me everything.
Okay, besides my body and being on this trip.
And marrying him.
But I was tricked into that-ish. For a minute, anyway.
“I think you need to look up the definition of divorce,” I hedge evenly. “It’s not all that.”
“And I’m not Bobby. Nor anything you can define in the dictionary.”
I know that.
I really do.
