Chapter 3 The Rules

MIA

The rink was empty at six thirty, and I hated how much I liked it.

No whistles. No bus engines. Just the hum of the lights and the ice lying flat and white, like it hadn't done anything wrong yet.

Caleb sat on the home bench in a gray hoodie with two coffees beside him.

"Don't."

He looked at the cups. Then at me. Then he picked one up and drank it himself.

"Fine. Both mine."

I took the opposite bench. Ten feet between us. I had measured.

"We need rules."

"The contract has rules."

"The contract has rules for your father. I need some for me."

I pulled a napkin from my pocket, creased and stained with maple syrup from the diner. I had written on it during my break, pressing so hard the pen tore through at the corners.

I held it out. He didn't move.

"You come get it. I'm not crossing that line."

"What line?"

"The one in my head."

He almost smiled. Almost. He crossed the ten feet and took the napkin without touching my fingers. I noticed. I wished I hadn't.

One. No touching without warning.

Two. No real feelings. Ever.

Three. My mother stays out of this.

His thumb rubbed the syrup stain. "Define warning."

"You announce it. Out loud. With a verb."

"And on camera?"

"Quietly. In my ear. Like a hostage negotiator."

He read the second line twice. "It's a clause. Section eleven. You've read it."

"That's why it's on the list."

Something crossed his face. I couldn't name it. Then it was gone, and he was Caleb Kessler again, all easy shoulders and bored eyes.

"Rule three. Your mom."

"She stays out of it. No visits. No calls. No flowers. If she sees you on the news, she sees a boy I'm dating, and that's all she gets."

"She doesn't know."

"She has enough to carry."

He nodded slowly. He pulled a pen from his pocket, pressed the napkin against his knee, and signed the bottom.

Four seconds. I counted.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"You're not going to argue?"

He tilted his head. "Do you want me to?"

"Yes." The word cracked off the boards. "I want you to call rule one ridiculous. I want you to roll your eyes and tell me I'm dramatic. I want you to be the jerk I wrote three pages about."

He held the napkin out.

"I'll be a jerk on Thursday. Today I'm just signing."

I snatched it back. My hand was shaking, so I shoved it in my pocket and glared at the ice, because glaring at him wasn't working.

This was worse. A jerk I knew how to hate. A boy who agreed to everything was a trapdoor.

"I have one rule too."

"No."

"It's small."

"No."

He didn't wait for permission. "If you're ever in trouble, you tell me. Not Derek. Not my dad. Me."

"I'm not in trouble."

"You're one signature from a hundred grand in penalties."

"That's paperwork."

"Same thing in my house."

He said it lightly. His eyes weren't light. They sat on a spot above my shoulder, like he was watching someone else have this conversation.

I didn't answer. He didn't push. The quiet stretched between us, and for the first time in four years, it wasn't a fight.

The rink door banged open.

"There she is!"

The voice was bright and wrong. A man in a navy suit crossed the concrete with a phone in one hand and a garment bag over the other arm. Silver watch. Sharp part. He smiled with all of his teeth.

"Derek Hartley." He offered his hand.

I looked at it. I didn't take it.

"Mia Lin. But you know that."

"I do." The hand stayed out. The smile stayed up. "Caleb, you're early. Good. We have a lot to cover."

Caleb stood. "Mia has rules."

"Of course she does. We'll honor them. Within reason." Derek finally dropped his hand. "The contract is the contract."

"That's what scares me."

His laugh was short and practiced. He swung the garment bag onto the bench between us and unzipped it in one smooth pull.

A dress. Cream colored, long sleeves, a modest neckline, a belt the color of honey. It looked like something a girl wore to meet someone's grandmother.

"Wholesome. That's the brand. No hoodies on camera."

"The hoodie is not negotiable."

"The hoodie is negotiable between five and ten p.m. on weekends. We'll put it in writing."

I touched the fabric. I couldn't help it. It was softer than anything I owned.

Then I turned the tag over.

Size XS. Petite.

Not small. Not extra small. Petite. The exact word my mom used when she hemmed my pants, because I was five foot one and nothing ever fit.

I had never told anyone that. Not Caleb. Not Chloe. Not the school nurse.

"Where did you get my measurements?"

"Wardrobe handles that."

"I never gave anyone my measurements."

"Hmm."

Caleb had gone very still. His eyes flicked from Derek to the dress to the floor, and I knew that look. It was the look of a boy who had seen this before.

Derek zipped the bag halfway and leaned in, friendly as a doctor delivering news.

"Mr. Kessler has been planning this for a long time, Miss Lin. Try not to be surprised by how much he knows."

I looked at Caleb. He wouldn't look back.

The ice hummed under the lights. Somewhere behind the boards, a door clicked shut.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. One text, from a number I didn't know.

Ask him about September.