I took the meat, and we sat in silence, chewing on cold rabbit.
"For what it's worth," Mitch said eventually, "if your landlord kicks you out over this, he's a dick."
"Oh, he's a dick, all right."
Mitch frowned. "So why stay there?"
"Because it's cheap. The house belongs to my best friend Harper, but her husband Tommy has been hinting for ages that he wants me out. Not paying rent will be the last straw."
He rubbed his palms down his jeans, as if he was trying to wipe away the conversation. "You won't lose your job. So, he can't kick you out."
The certainty in his voice grated on me. He had no idea what I was facing when I went home.
I squinted at him, then followed his gaze out to the wavering heat over the land. His land. "This property is owned by your family, right?"
He stilled, his hands going motionless on his thighs. A beat passed. Then he nodded, slowly and deliberately, as if he realized exactly where I was going with that statement.
"So, I'm guessing you've never had to worry about losing your job."
His expression hardened, maybe warning me not to go there.
But I was too hot, too exhausted, and too pissed off to care. "Must be nice to have that kind of job security. And I bet you don't pay rent either, do you?"
His silence said everything.
"No comment?" I pressed.
His jaw tightened, and I recognized that look. Another wall was going up. Another door was slamming shut. I flicked my hand dismissively. "Forget it."
The silence stretched between us. Yet, I felt his eyes on me, burning into the side of my face, but I refused to look at him.
"You don't know me, Charlie." His voice was low, controlled. Dangerous.
"No, I don't. How can I, when you don't even answer basic questions like what happened to your mom?"
He shot me a look that could've sparked a fire.
I glared back, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
He dragged his gaze away and stared straight ahead. "Mom took off when I was sixteen." His voice was flat, unemotional. "She left my siblings and me with our asshole father to run this land."
The breath left my lungs. "Oh, God. I'm sorry."
He turned those green eyes on me, and the sorrow churning in them made my chest ache. "What are you sorry for exactly?"
"Ha-ha." I huffed. "I'm sorry your mom did that. But I'm also sorry for pushing you to answer. It's none of my business."
He heaved a sigh, opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head and fixed his eyes on the horizon once more.
I plucked a twig from the ground and stabbed it at the dirt. "Sorry for my outburst, too. It wasn't really about you."
"I get it. You've had a hell of a day and night."
I wanted to argue, but he was right. "It's just … I've worked my ass off for years, and now everything's gone to shit, and I don't know how to stop it."
“Sometimes, shit falls apart. You can’t undo it. You can’t forget it. Sometimes you don’t even get an explanation that makes it hurt less. All you can do is keep breathing, wait for the dust to settle, and trust that you’ll still be standing when it does.”
My shoulders slumped. “That’s depressing.”