“That’s not what I meant and you know it. Yesterday, you were fine. Today, you’re falling apart. Something happened in between.”
“Maybe I just finally realized what everyone else already knows about you.”
“Or maybe something happened that has nothing to do with me, and you’re using our little confrontation this morning as an excuse to run away from whatever it is.”
Her face goes white. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I’m pressing now, following an instinct I don’t fully understand. “What happened yesterday, Hunter? What changed?”
“Stop.”
“What happened?”
“I said stop.”
“What are you running from?”
“I’M GOING BLIND!”
The words explode out of her like she’s been holding them under pressure, and the silence that follows is so complete I can hear the HVAC system humming in the walls.
She’s breathing hard, her chest rising and falling. Her hands are shaking.
“I’m going blind,” she repeats, quieter now but no less desolate. “Ninety days, maybe a little more, maybe a little less, and then it’s lights out forever. So excuse me if I don’t want to spend what’s left of my sight getting lectured about why bringing donuts in the morning is a crime against humanity.”
Silence.
More silence.
More grinding, chugging, awful silence.
“… Jesus Christ, Hunter.”
“Don’t.” She holds up a hand, and I can see tears budding at the corners of her eyes. “Don’t you dare look at me like that.”
“I’m not?—”
“Yes, you are, and don’t insult me by pretending to deny it, either. I can see it in your face.” She rubs at her eyes angrily. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. I don’t need your sympathy, Bastian. I need my dignity. That’s why I’m leaving. I have eighty-nine days left to see the world, and I’m not spending them being Bastian Hale’s punching bag or his charity case.”
“You’re not… ” I start, then stop. There’s no world in which finishing that sentence does either of us a bit of fucking good.
“So that’s that.” She moves toward the door. “I’m done. With this conversation, with this job, with all of it. Find someone else to be your ‘necessary resource.’”
“Thereisno one else.”
She pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “Then I guess you have a problem.”
“So do you. And I have your solution.” I notice her hand stays still, doesn’t turn. Not yet. “You need more than a million dollars. You need health insurance, don’t you? You need it a hell of a lot more than you need your pride.”
“I’ll… figure something else out.”
“Will you? On sixty-eight grand a year? Do you have any idea what vision loss treatment costs? Ongoing care?”
She flinches like I’ve slapped her. “That’s low, even for a miserable bastard like you.”
“It’s reality. And reality doesn’t care about your feelings.”
“Neither do you, apparently.”
