I don't — [ have that kind of money, she nearly says, but she's stopped in her tracks by his offer. two hundred dollars for a plane ticket may be a reasonable price point for the rest of the world, but for daisy, that's an absurd luxury she'd never allow herself. not when the roof over her head or the food in her pantry weren't guaranteed, not when she couldn't be sure some emergency wouldn't befall her in between then and now.
but she doesn't know how to explain that to him. she doesn't know how to say, i used to be homeless on the street for two years and then i bought a van and i lived off the money i could make driving people around as an unregistered taxi and whatever i could steal to resell at a pawn shop. she doesn't know how to explain that his expectations of safety come from a place she never knew, an expectation that there was always a more reasonable solution or a more comfortable one, even if it meant stretching a little to get there.
and she doesn't know that he wants to know all of that about her, anyway. why would he? she might be grown up enough now to dress herself in clothes that fit, she may have pocketed enough money in between semesters to buy an imported knockoff smartphone, but she wasn't comfortable. not the way her roommate or her fellow students or her professors were, anyway.
but that's not his fault, and she doesn't want to ruin her chance to talk to him by yelling at him for something he doesn't understand. not tonight. not when she misses him so much it feels like a piece of her's been cut out and taken away, a feeling that she keeps telling herself is way too strong for what's only been a few weeks of casual meetings and rushed sex in offices and back rooms.
no, it's too much. to feel, to explain. she can only blow out a breath, a click and a rustle of fabric echoing the closing and pushing away of her laptop, and lean up against the wall behind her bed, head thumping gently against the chipped paint. ]
That's the only way I could have gone. [ okay, she could have burned her budget for the month, but that's stupid. ] I want to, I do, I just —
no subject
but she doesn't know how to explain that to him. she doesn't know how to say, i used to be homeless on the street for two years and then i bought a van and i lived off the money i could make driving people around as an unregistered taxi and whatever i could steal to resell at a pawn shop. she doesn't know how to explain that his expectations of safety come from a place she never knew, an expectation that there was always a more reasonable solution or a more comfortable one, even if it meant stretching a little to get there.
and she doesn't know that he wants to know all of that about her, anyway. why would he? she might be grown up enough now to dress herself in clothes that fit, she may have pocketed enough money in between semesters to buy an imported knockoff smartphone, but she wasn't comfortable. not the way her roommate or her fellow students or her professors were, anyway.
but that's not his fault, and she doesn't want to ruin her chance to talk to him by yelling at him for something he doesn't understand. not tonight. not when she misses him so much it feels like a piece of her's been cut out and taken away, a feeling that she keeps telling herself is way too strong for what's only been a few weeks of casual meetings and rushed sex in offices and back rooms.
no, it's too much. to feel, to explain. she can only blow out a breath, a click and a rustle of fabric echoing the closing and pushing away of her laptop, and lean up against the wall behind her bed, head thumping gently against the chipped paint. ]
That's the only way I could have gone. [ okay, she could have burned her budget for the month, but that's stupid. ] I want to, I do, I just —
[ god. ]
I can't repay you for that.