“I am so, so sorry,” I whispered, tears finally welling in my eyes. “I’ll pay you back. I’ll get a second job, I’ll sell my car, I’ll do whatever it takes. This is my fault.”
“No,” he said, and his voice was firm, cutting through my panic. “Sarah, this is not your fault. Do you understand me? This is not on you.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked, my voice small.
“First, I want you to drive away from that house,” he said. “Go back to your apartment. Lock the door. Don’t answer any calls from them.”
“Okay,” I agreed immediately.
“Second,” he continued, “I’m going to handle this. I need you to promise me you won’t get involved. Let me take care of my family.”
The way he said ‘my family’ sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn’t a term of endearment. It was a statement of responsibility.
“But the money…” I started.
“Don’t you worry about the money, Sarah,” he said, and for the first time, I heard a hint of something other than kindness in his voice. It was a cold, hard edge, like steel. “The money is the least of my concerns.”
I did as he asked. I started my car and pulled out of the driveway without a second glance. In my rearview mirror, I could see the kitchen light on, the silhouettes of my family probably enjoying their expensive takeout, laughing at how they’d finally put me in my place.
I spent the next day and a half in a state of nervous agitation. I turned my phone off, unable to face the inevitable barrage of angry calls and texts.
On Sunday afternoon, my phone, which I’d finally turned back on, buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
“It’s done. Coffee tomorrow? My treat. – Rob”
Monday morning, I met him at our usual spot. He was sitting in a booth by the window, wearing his typical faded jeans and a simple flannel shirt. He looked exactly the same, but something in his eyes had shifted. He seemed more solid, more present.
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