Ryan began talking about his regional sales targets, using terms like client conversion and vertical alignment while his eyes darted to the black folder. He adjusted his watch strap twice.
“The bank sent another notice about the Oak Street house,” Diane said, interrupting him.
“We can discuss that later, Mom,” Ryan said, shifting his weight in the booth. “Emily handles the logistics.”
I reached for my red leather purse on the floor beside my chair. The leather was scuffed near the brass buckle, but the strap was strong.
Inside, my personal checkbook sat in its plastic sleeve, next to a printed ledger showing four years of payments. Every month, exactly one thousand four hundred sixty dollars went from my savings account to her lender.
I pulled out my credit card and dropped it onto the black folder.
Diane looked away, her eyes fixing on the large ferns hanging from the cafe ceiling. She did not say thank you, nor did she acknowledge the plastic card.
“We need to make sure the payment cleared,” Ryan said, leaning forward. “The grace period ends on the fifteenth.”
“It cleared,” I said.
“Are you sure?” Diane asked. “Because the last time I checked my mail, there was a letter with red writing on the front.”
“I paid it on the first of the month, Mother,” I said.
“Well, they keep sending those letters,” Diane said, her fingers catching on a loose thread near the cuff of her cardigan. “It makes me feel like I am living on borrowed time.”
George shifted in his seat, his shoulder brushing mine. “Emily has never missed a payment.”
“I am not talking to you, George,” Diane said.
“He is just stating a fact, Mom,” Ryan said, though he kept his eyes on his sports watch. “But we do need to make sure the pipeline remains secure.”
