Casey sat up in bed. She looked at the statement in my hand. Twenty seven charges highlighted in yellow. Gas stations, sure. But also a grocery store in her hometown three hours away. A nail salon. A hotel for two nights in Nashville over Labor Day. A bar tab.
Two thousand four hundred dollars.
I told her the fraud department at my bank had opened a case that morning. They would be calling her to ask one question. Did she have my permission for every charge?
She knew the answer. So did I. So did our other roommate, Jess, who was standing in the hallway holding her coffee.
Eight months of being the one who weaponizes money, and the only weapon in that apartment was my own card in her wallet.
Casey started crying. She said she was going to pay it all back. She said she just needed time.
I said the bank would decide how much time.
But the first thing I did that morning was not about Casey at all. I drove back to the pharmacy. The pharmacist, a man named Mr. Nguyen, had seen my face when the card declined. He had already called my doctor and checked on a patient assistance program from the manufacturer. By the time I got back, he had a month of insulin ready for me at no charge. He said nobody should ever walk out of his store without it.
I sat in my car in the parking lot and cried for ten minutes. Then I went home.
Casey told the bank the truth when they called. That she used my card without permission for most of those charges. The bank reversed every one of them. My account was back in good standing by the end of the month.
Casey moved out in November. She went home to live with her parents for a while. She did not say much when she left.
In February, a check came in the mail. Four hundred dollars. With a note in her handwriting. It said she had a new job at a dental office and she was going to pay me back every penny she cost me, not just the charges the bank reversed, but the late fees and the stress. She said she knew she could not pay back the stress.
The checks kept coming. Every month. The last one came in August, with a longer note. She said she had been in debt since college and was too ashamed to tell anybody. She said she used my card because it was easier than admitting she was drowning. She said she was sorry about the insulin most of all. She did not know. She should have known.
Jess and I found a new roommate in the spring, a quiet nursing student named Alice. She pays her rent on the first of every month. She labels her food. She does not borrow anything.
Once, she asked to use my card for groceries because her bank app was down. Then she laughed and said never mind, she had cash.
I laughed too. I did not tell her why.