He rocks back in his chair, crossing his arms. Then he shakes his head. “You know? I really don’t know.”
I splutter out a laugh. “Seriously? I figured if anyone would, it’d be you. You obviously had a clearer picture of him than I ever did.”
His shoulder lifts and falls again. “You were a kid. It’s normal for you to be self-focused at that age.”
“And at seventeen, you were such an adult?”
“Compared to a twelve-year-old? A hundred percent, yes. No question. Weren’t you more of an adult at seventeen than at twelve?”
“Well, yeah.” I shrug. “I’d been basically in charge of myself for five years at that point. I had a lot more freedom and also responsibility than my friends did at that age.” Wrinkling my nose, I reconsider that statement. “Well, maybe not as much by seventeen, though their parents still checked on them more than mine checked on me.”
The muscle in Jason’s jaw starts flexing rhythmically, and I know I need to change the subject. Every time I talk about growing up after Hunter died, he gets pissed, and then he apologizes. And if I have to hear him apologize for going off and living his life one more time …
Clearing my throat, I shake my head. “Anyway, point taken. Kids are selfish little shits, and I was no better.”
He laughs. “That’s not what I meant.”
Grinning, I shrug again. “If you say so.”
The waitress comes by again, clearing our plates. “Oh, you two are so adorable,” she gushes. “I’ll be right back with the champagne and dessert.”
Jason watches me squirm in my seat as she leaves. “I can correct her,” he offers. “Let her know we aren’t engaged.”
From the look on his face, I can tell he doesn’t really like that idea. And the fact he’s offering to do it anyway just to ease my discomfort makes me like him even more. Not that I didn’t like him already. But that’s part of why agreeing to his hare-brained scheme is difficult. I don’t want to take advantage of him. And I don’t want to be a pity project.
Although … I’m not sure I can afford to turn him down, pity project or no. Iampitiful. And at this point, even if I were ready to give up and try for a standard job, I wouldn’t be able to do it. I don’t have a car, and that’s a necessity around here. There’s nothing in walking distance, and with fall around the corner, a bike isn’t realistic either.
I can still ask my parents for help, though … And as much as I’d rather not—largely because I genuinely don’t know how they’ll react—I want to exhaust all my options before taking Jason up on his offer. Plus, I have questions about logistics. And I have gigs booked. What about those?
And I’ll need to give Whitney notice that I’m leaving …
I’m sure he wouldn’t have a problem with just throwing money at all of those issues, but …
It’s a lot. The money. The logistics. The whole concept.
Even if he has plenty of money—and Iknowthat he does, intellectually—it’s hard for that to feel real. He’s Jason, after all. The guy who lived a few blocks over in a house just like ours. Who went to our school, and while his parents have a nicer house now, it’s still just the nicer end of normal. Not a palace or anything. So the idea that he has access to literal millions of dollars and wants to spend it to helpmefeels insane.
Our waitress returns with champagne and the dessert, setting a plate in the middle of the table with two forks. “Congratulations,” she murmurs, and I guess I should at least be glad that she didn’t bang a fork on a glass and get the attention of the entire restaurant at any point, though we were getting looks and smiles from the tables closest to us when she started gushing at the beginning of dinner.
Picking up the fork, I freeze with it dangling over the torte, looking at Jason with wide eyes. “Wait. If I eat this, does that count as accepting your proposal?”
His eyes crinkle as he grins, cutting a large bite with his fork and stuffing it in his mouth. He chews and swallows before answering, which is both nice that he doesn’t talk with his mouth full, but also annoying because I’m left hanging. “Do you want it to mean that?”
When I narrow my eyes, he laughs and shakes his head. “No. It just means you’re a normal human who wants a delicious dessert.”
“But I feel like I’m accepting it under false pretenses,” I whisper.
He chuckles, getting another bite. “You could just say yes. Then you wouldn’t have a guilty conscience.”
My eyes narrow again. “I thought you were giving me time.”
Eyes wide, he holds up his hands in surrender. “I am. I’m just making a suggestion for how to deal with your guilt. What you do is entirely your call. You have three choices at this point—eat the dessert without agreeing and deal with your guilt over accepting it under false pretenses, don’t eat it”—he points at it with his fork—“and it’s fucking delicious so you’d really be missing out, or say yes and then there’s no false pretenses to worry about.”
I’m about to open my mouth and tell him that being a smug bastard doesn’t win him any points when he leans in and lowers his voice, “For what it’s worth, I vote you should eat it. We’ll figure out the rest later. I promise.”
Studying him, I note the sincerity in his face despite the fact that he’s still grinning like this is a hilarious joke. I guess I am being a little ridiculous.
Sighing, I take a bite, and his grin grows wider, though he doesn’t say anything. Not until he picks up his flute of champagne, holding it aloft in the universal gesture of a toast.
