And I am dumbstruck, because who the hell just processes, accepts, and moves on that fucking fast? My mom has been gone for thirteen years, it’s been over a decade since my dad married Krista, years since her abuse of me ended, sans one night almost two years ago when I thought she was someone else, and I haven’t processed, accepted, or moved on from anything.
“Are you sure you’re okay? It’s okay if you’re not. I wouldn’t be.”
“Nope. I’m fine. Really. I came to terms with my dad’s abandonment years ago. Phoebe stealing from me hurts, but I’m not surprised. She would never ask me for it. All these years, and she’s never taken from that account since she stopped using it. I’m sure she was just desperate, but I suppose I need to get a private account, huh? I hope she doesn’t take what you’ve put in there.”
I stare at her like she has three heads, wondering how she just did that. How did she compartmentalize so quickly? This girl who can’t get past how anything between us would affect our sisters just brushed all the shit about her family off like it was nothing.
Because this was done to her. It’s about her feelings. Anything between us is about others and their feelings.
My gaze softens, and I lean over the console, taking her face in my hand, pressing my amazement against her lips, because that’s the only way to explain her.
“Not that I’m complaining, but what was that for?” she asks, smiling widely.
“That was for you and because of you.” I brush my thumb over her lips and sigh.
Her brows pitch, eyes swirling as something rolls through them. “Wait? Is that why my apartment was broken into? Does he owe people money again?”
For a breath, I consider lying, but only a breath. “Yes, he owes people money again. A lot of it. More than last time. But I don’t know if they’re who broke into the apartment. They were…thorough.”
“Meaning?”
“You already know the answer. No prints, they wore hoods, and somehow knew the code to get in, not only to the building but the apartment. Speaking of, did you have all that changed?”
“Yeah.” She shakes her head. “What could they have even been after?” But she’s not asking me. “I’m telling you, lately, I cannot catch a break.” She shrugs. “Now, what about the loan?”
“God, woman. Can’t you just let something good happen?” I chuckle.
“Yes. I absolutely can. But I still want an answer.”
“So, because technically you were defaulted, I was able to buy the loan.” It seems all the fucking psychotic, obsessive, possessive shit my brother did is one hundred percent genetic, right down to buying their place of residence behind their backs. “The bank won’t harass you anymore.”
“But they said they were extending the terms for a year.”
My head does a little see-saw. “I told them to say that, but the truth is, there are no terms.” She starts to ask more questions, so I hold my hand up to stop her. “I wasn’t sure how you would handle the news. Obviously, I wasn’t concerned enough not todo it. It seems this…” I chew my cheek as I try to work out what I want to say before giving up. “Whatever the hell it is that makes a man want to swoop in and fix everything—”
“A savior complex,” she cuts me off with a grin.
“No.” I absolutely reject that theory because I’m nobody’s hero. Nobody’s savior. And I will never be. Half the time, I’m the one who needs saving, even if I won’t let it happen. “I told you I’m not a hero. It’s an obsessive need not to see you suffer. Anyway, in case you threw a fit like some women do and insisted on paying it, I told them to set the terms for a year. But if you can’t pay, no one will be pounding on the door to evict you. If you never give me back a dime, I won’t miss it.”
“So, you own my apartment now?”
“Yes.” No point in beating around the bush, right?
“And I’ll be paying you back?”
“Or you won’t. That’s up to you. I won’t argue with what you decide.”
“What if I want to sell it? How would that work?”
“How would you want it to work?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to sell, but half of it is Phoebe’s, according to Nana’s will. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
“I don’t have the answer to that, so why don’t we shelf it for now? You have plenty of time to figure it out, but this restaurant closes in an hour.”
When she looks around, finally realizing where we are, her head falls back with a bark of laughter. “How did you know?”
I return her grin. “You work at a Michelin Star restaurant, but the night I was there, I caught you standing behind the bar, pretending you weren’t devouring a burger and fries from a bag.”
