I read it, then glance at him, he looks away, and continues eating his food. How does he manage all that? When does he have time for himself or to study for college?
I look at him, really look, and the answer to the exhaustion written across his face becomes clearer. I wonder how long he’s been keeping up this pace, how many nights he’s dragged himself home to collapse into bed, only to wake up and do it all over again.
I keep my tone leveled, “How much do you make?”
This time, he stiffens, his jaw tenses, his eye flickering back to me. There is hesitation in his eyes. I know he’s fighting something inside, whether he should tell me or not. But I think something about the way I look at him made him scribble an answer.
Well, if you add both jobs’ pay, the tips, and extra shifts I take most of the time… I make about $5,000 a month after tax, but I pay off a $3,000 monthly debt. So you see why I can’t quit?
My brows knit together. “Monthly debt? For what?”
He shakes his head, a stubborn, final shake, the kind that tells me he won’t open that door no matter how hard I push.Ashley had once mentioned that he sends money to his mother every month. So is it his mother he owes?
I let it go, for now. “Quit both jobs.”
His head snaps toward me.
“You’ll come here instead,” I continue smoothly. “We’ll have ASL lessons. Three hours a day. Monday to Friday. Five to eight pm. Except Thursdays—you’ve got class in the evening. Weekends, you rest.”
He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, his wide eyes searching my face for the punchline.
“Are you even listening to yourself?” he asks finally, incredulous, and this time with his voice. I almost laugh at how shocked he sounds.
“Five thousand will be wired into your account every Friday,” I add evenly, “Your pay. For tutoring me.”
His lips part. His eyes, those big, doe-brown eyes, are blown wide, almost panicked.
I push my chair back, rising. “Since you’re not objecting, I’ll take that as an agreement.”
“Wait.” His voice cracks, trembling with disbelief. “I don’t… I don’t understand. Please, make me understand.”
That plea halts me in place. Slowly, I meet his gaze. He’s staring up at me, his confusion naked, his eyes shimmering with something raw like confusion, hesitation, maybe even fear.
“I am not doing this out of pity, Lucas.” My voice is rough, deliberate. “I don’t tolerate people around me running themselves into the ground. If I want you as my ASL tutor, then I want all your attention. I want you rested. Focused. Not dragging your half-dead body from one miserable job to the next.”
His lips tremble as he swallows, then he blurts out, louder this time, like it costs him something, “And what if you get sick of me?”
The words hang in the air, sharp and desperate.
“What if you don’t want to learn anymore? What if you… What if you decide I’m not worth it? You think either job will take me back after I just disappear?”
I step closer, my tone dropping, iron steady. “They say it takes months. Years. To learn. That means you’re stuck with me until my ASL is perfect. And, Lucas—” I lean in just enough, my voice dipping into something dark, unyielding, “I don’t get sick of things I want.”
His throat works as he swallows again. Those lips part slightly, and for a moment, I want to groan at how undone he looks. Soft, vulnerable, confused, and still so damn tempting.
“Monday,” I say, finality laced in steel. “We start Monday.”
He must hear it in my voice, the dangerous edge, the hard promise, or maybe he sees it in my eyes, because he nods. It’s stiff, wary, but it’s there.
The tension in him hasn’t eased, but beneath it, I see something else now. Wariness, yes. But also surrender.
I don’t care. He’ll get used to it.
He’ll get used to me.
TWELVE
LUCAS
