Because if I said “student loans” out loud, I knew what he’d say, and I wasn’t ready for it.
Frank picked up his fork slowly.
“You’re right,” he said.
That word hit me harder than any speech.
“You’re right,” he repeated. “Everything costs too much.”
I blinked.
I’d been ready for a fight. I’d been ready for his favorite line—times were hard, we were harder.
Instead, he said, “You want to know what I don’t like?”
“What?” I asked.
He took a bite of egg, chewed, swallowed.
“I don’t like how you talk like you’re helpless,” he said.
My jaw tightened.
“I’m not helpless,” I said.
“You act like it,” he said. “You act like the world is a wave and you’re just a piece of driftwood.”
“I’m tired,” I snapped. “I’m exhausted.”
He nodded once, like he understood that part more than I thought.
“Then stop buying things that pretend to fix tired,” he said.
There it was. The Frank philosophy.
I pushed my plate away, suddenly not hungry again.
“You know what I hate?” I said.
Frank raised his eyebrows.
“I hate that you’re right,” I said. “And I hate that it makes me feel… ashamed.”
Frank leaned back, and for a second he looked older than he did last night.