“Notes?” he finishes, dry, a three-degree tilt of his head. “Relax. I’m not stealing your secrets. I’m helping.”
“I didn’t ask for help.”
He holds that gaze, steady. “No. You didn’t.”
And that’s the entire problem, right there: I don’t ask. Not for help, not for time, not for a goddamn extra napkin. He’s offering, and I said yes, which means the ground is already shifting under me. I grind my teeth and slide the deck across the table anyway, like I’m doing it to prove a point, like I have something to prove.
“Fine,” I say. “One hour. That’s it.”
His expression softens like I just gave him permission to breathe. “Deal.”
He flips the first card. “Define assets.”
I answer automatically. “Resources owned by a business expected to provide future economic benefit.”
“Good.” He doesn’t even look impressed. Just flips the next one. “Accounts payable.”
“Short-term liabilities. Money owed to suppliers.”
“Accrual basis accounting.”
“Recognize revenue and expenses when earned or incurred, not when cash changes hands.”
He nods. No judgment, no commentary. Every time I answer, he just tosses the card onto the growing pile like it’s nothing. Like it’s easy.
For ten minutes, I am a machine. I am steel. I am the version of myself that gets shit done. But as the cards keep coming, the cracks start to show — they always do. There’s nothing in the world more honest than the way your brain just blanks, flatlines, when you hit the stuff you never wanted to learn while sitting across from the man your heart never could forget.
He says, “Adjusting entry for supplies used.”
I open my mouth and nothing comes out. Not a single word. There’s a clock above the counter shaped like a melting Salvador Dali painting. I stare at it, but the answer doesn’t float down from the ceiling.
He waits. Doesn’t rescue me, doesn’t fill the silence with pity or encouragement.
My cheeks heat up. I can feel my fingers drumming on the tabletop like a Morse code SOS. I mutter, “Supplies expense…” trying to shake loose the rest.
He leans back slightly. “You know it. Slow down.”
That word —slow down— scrapes over something inside me.
I snap, reflexive. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
His gaze doesn’t flinch. “Molly.”
Don’t say my name like that. Like you get to act like we’re more familiar than we really are. You were everything to me, once, but that once was a long time ago.
I straighten. “Don’t even start.”
He holds up a hand. Not defensive. Just… calm. “Okay. I’m not here to push you.”
“Good.”
He taps the card gently. “Try again. Supplies expense is debited. What’s credited?”
I swallow the bite in my throat because he’s not wrong and I hate that I need this.
“Supplies,” I say. “Credit supplies.”
He nods, like that’s all he was waiting for. “Good. Easy.”
