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“Fine,” I say. “It’s great.”

“There you go.” He looks pleased, like he personally negotiated this emotional progress.

I point my spoon at him. “Don’t be smug. You’re eating gummy bears in dairy.”

“It’s called joy.”

“It’s called a cry for help.”

He laughs.

“How’s the payment plan?” I ask.

His smile fades a little. “It’s fine.”

“Nate.”

He looks away. “I paid this month.”

“With what?”

“My money.”

“What money?”

“I’ve been doing extra shifts.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I am resting. Between shifts.”

“That’s not resting.”

“I can handle it.”

I put the spoon down.

He sees my face and sighs. “Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re doing the look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m about to solve your life and you are going to hate how efficiently I do it’ look.”

I pick the spoon back up just to have something in my hand. “I just don’t want you making it worse,” I say.

“I’m not.”

“You always say that.”

“And you always act like I’m one bill away from exploding.”

“You kind of were.”

He goes quiet. I regret it immediately. His shoulders shift inward, almost nothing, but I see it.