As they had done for the past two weeks, Eloa walked Yrial to her apartment, and as they had done for the past two weeks, Yrial stopped him at the doors.
“Thanks for walking me home,” she said to him. “I can find my way from here.”
“What are you afraid of?” he asked her.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then why don’t you let me come up with you?”
Her face clouded and she looked at the ground. “I’m glad you like me, Eloa. I’m glad that you’d like to see my place, meet my family.” She looked into his eyes and placed her hand on his shoulder. “There will come a time, but it’s not now.”
“What? You think I’ll judge you because of where you live? I already know this isn’t the best part of town. You think I’ll stop liking you because you’re poor?”
Emotions played out across her face, but she did not answer.
“Me and my mom, we’re not rich, either. We even had to move out of our apartment building and into a smaller place. We’re not too proud. Besides,” he added, looking away, “being rich doesn’t get you anywhere anymore.”
“Eloa,” she said finally, her eyes studying his face, “we’re not poor.” She started to say something else, but stopped herself, refusing to meet his gaze. When she spoke next, it was in a whisper, and Eloa strained to hear it. “We’re beyond poor,” she said. “We’re living in poverty. Everything that my mother and father make, they put it toward my schooling.”
She raised her eyebrows then, and cautiously brought her eyes up to seek any reaction on his face. Her mouth was drawn, and she looked like a cat surprised in an alley, watching closely for signs of hostility, ready to dart away at the slightest movement.
“Oh.” That was all he could think to say. Then, “I’m sorry, Yrial. I didn’t know.”