Page 14 of You Owe Me

“Still pretending his heart condition doesn’t exist?”

“Every day. I keep reminding him he’s not invincible. And every day, he disagrees.”

Bostic chuckles. “That sounds like Maverick.” He shoves two fries into his mouth. “You still hiding chia seeds in his smoothies?”

“Absolutely. And he knows it.” I shake my head, smiling. “He doesn’t even pretend anymore. Just gives me this look like I’ve violated some sacred trust.”

“Which you probably have.”

I snort. “Don’t care. If I can keep his arteries from staging a mutiny, I’ll take the side-eye.”

What I don’t say is that it terrifies me how cavalier Maverick is about his health. Like if he just refuses to acknowledge it, it won’t catch up with him. And I get it, I do. Control is his coping mechanism. But I’ve read every article, every clinical study, every worst-case scenario with a highlighter in one hand and a racing heart in the other. I’ve memorized the symptoms I’m supposed to watch for. I sleep with one ear open. I check his watch more than he does.

But I also know that if I press too hard, he’ll shut down. Or worse, he’ll smile that cold, practiced smile and give me nothing at all.

So I sneak the kale and cover it in parmesan. That’s love, right?

Bostic watches me for a moment, like he sees all the things I’m not saying, then gives a small nod. “He’s getting there. He’s letting you in more.”

I pause mid-sip and nod. “Yeah. Not all at once, but… more than before.”

And that’s the truth. It’s not dramatic. Not some sweeping gesture or grand declaration. It’s smaller than that. Quieter.

“He’ll actually tell me now when his heart rate is high.”

Boss nods. “Big steps for a guy who used to talk like every sentence cost him five bucks.”

“Seriously.” I laugh. “I think he’d rather write a dissertation on fiscal strategy than say a word about his condition.”

“He ever talk to you about the other stuff?”

He means the IOUs.

“Not really,” I say, flicking a napkin across the table. “I know it happens. I know there’s a system. I’ve seen the cards and the IOUs. But he still keeps it all pretty locked down.”

Because of course, he does. It’s his way of staying safe. The IOUs, the favors, the back-pocket leverage—it’s all armor. A way to be important without ever being vulnerable. And I’m not stupid. I know he’s done things he’s not proud of. I know some of those cards probably come with weight he doesn’t talk about. But I also know he’s trying. And not just for himself.

“He always has.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “But lately, he doesn’t shut me out as fast. Sometimes he’ll sit next to me while I’m studying and not even pretend to be doing something else. Just… be there.”

And goodness gracious, that means more than I can even explain. Because Maverick isn’t a “just be there” kind of person. He’s a fix-it, calculate-it, power-through-it person. Sitting with someone in silence? That’s not nothing. That’s everything.

Bostic nods slowly. He’s known Maverick longer than I have. Probably remembers the version of him who wouldn’t let anyone close enough to know his middle name, let alone his heart rate.

I pick up my milkshake again, stir the last of it around with my straw, and glance at the melted edges.

And then, before I can convince myself not to, I say it.

“Carter Mills threatened him.”

Bostic stills.

Not a dramatic pause. Not a startled jolt. Just this quiet, charged stillness that settles over him like smoke.

He sets his fry down with purpose and leans forward, arms braced against the edge of the table. “What happened?”

Bostic knows this school inside and out. He graduated from Havemeyer back when the dorms still had carpet and the deans still cared about dress codes. Now he sits on the university’sboard, which means when he asks like that, it’s not just personal. It’s informed.

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