About the summer job I lost.
And the fact that I just applied for shifts as a nighttime and weekend hostess because I already tutor in the afternoons.
About how my dad already needs more help than I can afford.
And the fact that frontotemporal dementia doesn’t care about bank balances.
About how I still try to show up as a caregiver in all my nonexistent free time.
And the fact that I quite literally have no idea how I'll manage when classes start up again this fall.
I hate laying all these burdens at my friend’s feet. Especially a friend who worries about me as much as Bridger does. Sounding weak and sad and desperate is my least favorite thing, but he’s here, and I have to tell someone.
Or else I’ll burst.
When I finish, on a hiccupy cough, his look of sympathy almost splits me down the middle. So I step out of his arms and push out a laugh.
“Anyway, I’ve heard great things about those middle-of-the-night, online gigs teaching English to students in Japan.”
“You can’t work harder than you already are,” he says, his voice gruff. “There has to be a better option.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.” I swallow against the lump in my throat. “I’ll just rub my magic lamp and let a genie grant my wish like Aladdin.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Maybe I can be your genie.”
“Oh, right!” This pulls a snort out of me. And honestly, I’m kind of grateful for the release. “I totally forgotyou’resitting on a giant pile of cash.”
He shifts his weight. “I am, though.”
“Lovely.” I manage a smirk. “If you’d told me sooner, I wouldn’t have turned in that application at Tequila Mockingbird.”
“I’m telling you now.”
“That you’re secretly wealthy?”
“Yes.” His mouth doesn’t quirk. Even a millimeter.
“Fantastic,” I deadpan.
“I never planned to tell anybody. But I trust you.”
I frown, too tired to keep joking. “Trust me with what, exactly?”
He takes a step closer. “You remember the anonymous donation Stony Peak got last fall … after the storm destroyed the theater?”
“Obviously.” That chunk of money saved the school. Dex got the new gym he’d been fighting for, and Sayla got her new theater. No compromise required. “But what does that have to do with anything?”
He exhales. One quick breath. “The money was mine.”
“Wait. What?” My stomach dips, and goosebumps travel up my spine. A trail of shivery breadcrumbs. “But that funding came from some random donor. Anonymously.”
“Yes.”
“So you’re saying?—”
“That was me.”
“Whoa.”