Chapter 3 The Drive Home

CALEB

The press conference lasted forty-five minutes.

Mia answered every question like she'd rehearsed for months. She laughed at my jokes. She touched my arm when I talked. She looked at me like I was someone worth looking at.

It was terrifying.

Because none of it was real.

But my heart didn't know that.

"So, are you going to the draft with him?" a reporter asked.

Mia tilted her head. Pretended to think about it.

"If he asks nicely."

I squeezed her shoulder. "I'm asking."

"Then yes." She smiled at the camera. "Someone has to keep him out of trouble."

The reporters ate it up.

Derek gave me a thumbs up from the side of the room.

Mia's hand found mine under the table. It was cold. Her fingers were shaking.

She was nervous.

I didn't think she got nervous.

I squeezed her hand once. She didn't squeeze back. But she didn't pull away either.

After the cameras turned off, she dropped my hand like it was on fire.

"Don't," she said before I could speak.

"Don't what?"

"Don't say that was good. Don't say we make a good team. Don't say anything that makes this feel like more than what it is."

I put my hands up. "I was just going to ask if you wanted food."

She blinked. "Food?"

"The hotel has a buffet. You look like you haven't eaten today."

"How do you know what I look like?"

Because I'd been watching her for three years.

I didn't say that.

"Lucky guess," I said.

She stared at me for a long second. Then her stomach growled.

"Fine," she said. "But I'm not sitting with you."

"You have to. We're dating, remember?"

"We're fake dating."

"Same thing in public."

She glared at me. But she followed me to the buffet.

She piled food onto her plate like she'd never seen food before.

Three sandwiches. Two bags of chips. A brownie. An apple. Another brownie.

"Hungry?" I asked.

"I have three jobs, Kessler. I don't have time to eat."

Three jobs.

I knew she worked. I didn't know it was that bad.

"You could have asked for more money," I said quietly.

She stopped chewing. Looked at me like I just insulted her mother.

"I'm not a charity case."

"I didn't say you were."

"You didn't have to." She grabbed her plate. "I'm eating in the car. Text me when you need me for the next fake thing."

She walked away.

I watched her go.

Eli appeared next to me. "Smooth."

"Shut up."

"You told her she looks hungry. That's like telling a wolf it looks meaty."

"I was trying to be nice."

Eli laughed. "You don't know how to be nice, Caleb. You know how to be charming. There's a difference."

"What's the difference?"

"Charming gets you what you want. Nice costs you something." He walked toward the door. "Figure out which one you're trying to be."

I found Mia in the parking lot.

She was sitting in her car — a beat-up Honda with a cracked windshield — eating a sandwich with the door open.

She saw me coming and sighed.

"What now?"

"I'm driving you home."

"No."

"It'll look bad if we leave separately. Reporters are still here."

She looked around. She saw a van with a logo on the side. Local news.

"Fine," she said. "But you're not coming inside."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

She grabbed her bag and walked to my truck. I opened the passenger door for her. She climbed in without thanking me.

I got in the driver's seat.

The truck smelled like her now. Something clean. Soap and mint.

"Put your seatbelt on," I said.

"You're not my dad."

"You're in my truck. My rules."

She clicked her seatbelt. Hard.

I started the engine.

The drive was silent.

Not the comfortable kind. The kind where both people were thinking too much.

I snuck a look at her. She was staring out the window. Her reflection in the glass looked tired.

"How's your mom?" I asked.

She stiffened. "How do you know about my mom?"

"The contract. You put her medical bills in the notes."

"Those were private."

"You put them in a contract I had to sign."

She was quiet for a block. Then: "She's okay. Some days are better than others."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You didn't give her cancer."

"No. But I did break your laptop."

She turned to look at me. Really look at me.

"Are you apologizing?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Three years late."

"I know."

She stared at me for another long second. Then she looked back out the window.

"Apology not accepted."

"That's fair."

"But noted."

I didn't know what that meant. But I didn't push.

I pulled up to her apartment building. It was small. The paint was peeling. There was a broken step at the entrance.

"Thanks for the ride," she said.

"Mia."

She stopped with her hand on the door handle.

"The press conference. You were good. Really good."

"I know."

"That's not —" I ran a hand through my hair. "I'm not saying it to be charming. I'm saying it because it's true."

She looked at me over her shoulder.

"Was that supposed to cost you something?"

"What?"

"Eli said nice costs something. Was that supposed to hurt?"

I didn't answer.

She got out of the truck.

Then she leaned back through the window.

"For the record, Kessler — you're not as good at pretending as you think you are either."

She walked inside.

I sat in the truck for five minutes before I remembered how to drive.