Debt

"Don't worry about the cost," I said, though my belly was swirling with worry about it. But I would find a way. I always did. Besides, if it put him on the path to recovery, whatever it cost would likely be way cheaper than a life of continuing to bail him out.

"I guess Dover Clinic sounds fine," he said, shrugging and reaching for his cell. I watched and listened as he spoke to the woman, his face downcast, and I had to deep-breathe through the knowledge that he was ashamed because of the things I had said. I had shamed him. It was an awful feeling. Even if it was, maybe, necessary. "Okay great. See you then. Thanks. Bye now," he ended the call on a false-cheerful note, then finally looked back up at me. "I check-in in the morning."

"That's great. Dover is the one in..." I started, reaching for the sheet.

"Just outside Washington, D.C.," he told me with a nod.

"Okay. Um. I will have to ask Byron if I can..."

"Byron?" his voice cut me off, a little sharper than I was used to hearing it.

"St. James. My boss. Sort-of," I reminded him.

"You call him Byron?"

Oh.

I had just called him Byron. I never said his name aloud like that before, casually, almost intimately. It slid off my tongue like something familiar, like I had been saying it for years. "In my head, yeah," I covered, attempting a smile. "It would be weird to call him Mr. St. James in my head all the time."

There was a slight tap at the door that drew both of our attention as the door slid open. I felt a strange, trembling feeling in my belly that felt both like anticipation and relief. But Byron didn't step into the doorway, Aaron did. I swear my face must have fallen slightly because his head cocked and he gave me a small smile of his own before he turned his attention to my father. "Heya Mack. Did you guys make a decision?"

"Dover," he answered, standing slowly and buttoning his jacket. I stayed in my seat, not yet trusting my legs.

Aaron nodded. "Well, I am here to bring you out to your driver. He will take you back to your apartment to grab your things then drive you to D.C. You don't have to worry about anything."

"His driver?" I repeated, inwardly calculating how much that would cost.

"Byron insisted. It's in everyone's best interest. And the service is on payroll whether they work or not. So they'll be earning their keep for a change," Aaron smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

"Right, well, we should get a move on then," my father said, clapping once as he moved across the floor.

"Dad?" I croaked out when he didn't come to me, didn't even so much as turn back to me.

"Dear Prudence, you know I can't do the goodbyes," he said, shaking his head a little.

I swallowed hard. Knowing that was the truth didn't stop it from hurting. "Okay. Welcome home party then, okay?" I asked, forcing cheerful.

"Absolutely," he agreed, moving out into the hall with Aaron who closed the door to give me the privacy I obviously needed as I sank forward. My elbows went on the desk, my body arching over so I could rest my head in my hands.

It seemed like forever later when the door clicked open again. "I'm fine, Aaron," I snapped, not bothering to look over.

"It's not Aaron," Byron's voice called, making me jump slightly. "And what the fuck purpose does it serve to lie?"

"I'm not lying," I bristled, sniffling hard.

"Last time I checked, a woman sitting by herself crying for an hour is usually not fine." Had I not been sniffling so hard, I might have noticed his voice was getting closer. But I hadn't heard it. Then the next thing I knew, my chair was being twisted to the side suddenly, making my arms leave the desk and my back fly back against the chair. And then there Byron was, kneeling down beside me, dark eyes on my face that I knew was a wet, red, splotchy, awful mess. "How about the truth this time?"

"I... I broke him," I said, my voice wobbly.

"You didn't do anything to him. He did this. You were just calling him on it for a change. And by doing that, you got him help."

"I'm paying you back for the car service," I said, my pride somehow a much more easily expressed feeling.

"Fuck off," he said, making a sound that might have been a chuckle, but wasn't quite fully there.

"No, seriously. I am..."

"Prue, stop. Jesus Christ."

"I don't want to owe you anything."

"You don't owe me shit."

"It doesn't feel like that."

"Then that's on you, not me."

"Why do you have to be such an ass?"

"Why do you have to argue over every thing?" he countered. "It's a car service, not a fucking Porsche. If I say we're even, we're even."