“What’ll it be? Are we going out or am I making a call?” I knew the money was nothing to him. Some clothes, a laptop—it was pocket change. And I knew that if our roles were reversed—if I was famous and outrageously wealthy and he was a refugee of his flooded apartment—I’d haunt the shit out of him until he let me help. I’d be so fucking mad if he tried to put on a brave, self-sufficient face about it. And that was why I stopped fighting him. Why I didn’t pull out my pride and let it be the only thing keeping me warm while I suffered. “I guess you can call them.” “That’s my girl,” he said, a
...more
