Page 47 of Movers and Fakers

Just you, I almost say, but stop myself. No sense in ending our call with her calling me ridiculous. She’ll have plenty of opportunities to do that later, I’m sure.

“No, I’m all good.”

“Okay, then I’ll see you at five fifteen. And Hayes?”

The gentle way she says my name makes my brain trip over itself.

“Hm?” I manage.

“Thank you.” The words are lined with sincerity, and I feel like I finally did something right with my life.

“No problem,” I rasp.

She murmurs a goodbye, and we hang up. I finish putting away the majority of my shopping cart’s contents while replaying our conversation—mainly, her laugh—over and over. As I’m finishing up my returns, my gaze snags on something pink. It’s a small ceramic box in the shape of a heart, with a miniature ballerina on top. I pick it up and open it. The inside is lined with velvet, probably meant to protect jewelry.

Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s pink or has a ballerina on top. But it feels like Aurora. I’m contemplating getting it when Forrest rounds the corner. He’s carrying two cases of protein bars, with three canisters of powder stacked on top.

“Can I get these?” he asks.

I tip my head toward the basket. “Put ’em in. Don’t crush any of my stuff, though.”

He sets them down carefully. Training at Haymakers is probably the most important thing to Forrest, and I know affording the proper fuel isn’t always easy for him. He works a part-time job, but he shouldn’t have to spend that money on protein powder or food. I’d rather him be a kid for as long as he can. Do dumb stuff with his money and regret it later like all teenagers do.

“Is that all you want?” I ask him.

He scratches the back of his neck.

“It’s enough,” he answers.

“Not what I asked.”

He sighs. “I could use a few other things. They’re a good family, things are just … tight right now.”

I set the little box in the part of the cart where people usually set their kids, then gesture ahead of me.

“Come on, the quicker we get everything, the quicker we can go eat.”

His eyes light up at the mention of food. He rushes off in the direction of the grocery aisles, and I follow behind, feeling—not for the first time—like I don’t deserve the life I have.

Chapter twenty-three

Too Good

Aurora Driscoll

I tug the sleeves of my pink sweater over my palms and look at my family’s home through Hayes’s windshield.

“We could say you got sick.”

After a thirty-five-minute car ride, that’s the best excuse I’ve got. I’m not even sure it would work. Knowing my mom, she’d ask if she could bring him soup. Or have him stay in the guest bedroom until he gets better.

Hayes lets out a soft laugh. “Didn’t you say if we don’t see them now they’ll just show up on campus?”

I groan and lay my head back on the smooth leather headrest. Hayes’s car likely costs more than the house we’re parked in front of. I guess I don’t know for sure since I don’t know anything about cars, but the buttery seats, advanced technology, and soft purr of the engine suggest a mortgage-level price tag.

“Come on, Princess. It won’t be that bad.”

He presses a button. The driver-side door goes up instead of out, like something out of a sci-fi movie. According to Hayes, they’re called butterfly doors. I think they’re attention magnets and a guarantee that my family is going to have way too many questions about him.