“Just two minutes,” he said, his voice quiet and completely free of the sharp edge he had carried for the last six months. “I talked to the landlord’s office yesterday afternoon.”
My hand went completely still on my index finger.
“They said you were three hundred dollars short on the rent,” he said, looking down at his coffee mug. “I know things have been incredibly tight since the split.”
He reached across the table, his fingers stopping just short of my order pad.
“I want to help you with the rent balance,” he said.
I sat down on the very edge of the opposite bench, my apron strings pressing into my lower back.
This was the man who had emptied our joint account three weeks ago, leaving me with twelve dollars in my purse and no way to pay the bills.
“Why would you do that?” I asked.
“Because we spent six years together,” he said, his tone gentle as he looked at me. “I don’t want to see you on the street, Cara.”
