Page 9 of The Potter

“What do you want me to do with it?” He closes his fingers into a fist, ensuring my little buddy doesn’t flop back onto the ground.

“Put him in the sink or a cup—anything that will hold water,” I beg. “Just, please, don’t let him die.”

He groans, probably because he can’t believe he’s saving a stranger’s goldfish, and stands, throwing his shoulder into the door. Unlike when I did it, the door flies open, and I’m comforted by the sound of running water a few moments later.

“Looks like the fish will make it,” he says, appearing in the doorway, his shirt dotted with water. He eyes me with concern. “How long are you here for?”

I scoot to the side and lean against the frame, making room for him to pass. “Don’t know,” I tell him, watching as he gathers the rest of my bags from the ground and sets them inside the door.

“You mean you’re considering staying in this shithole longer than one night?” He shakes his head and chuckles, but it sounds more sarcastic than anything.

“Where are your parents?” I probe.

Turning, he heads into my room and strips off the sheets in one swoop, gathering them under his arm. “Where areyourparents?” he finally replies.

I give him a flat look. “I’m serious. What are you doing out here alone?”

Those chestnut-tinted locks move with the shake of his head. “You don’t belong here, but since I’m not in the mood to answer the cops’ questions when you disappear, I’m going to help you.”

“How generous,” I mutter, and it makes him smile.

“I take Cash App and Venmo if you’re feelingreallygenerous later.” He grins, and, in that moment, he looks every bit the teenager he is. “Can you get up?”

Testing the muscles, I stretch, only sensing the familiar ache I’m accustomed to. “Yeah, I think so.”

He extends his hand, and I eye it warily. “You can take my hand, or you can struggle and fall again. Your choice.”

This boy is going to be something else when he gets older.

“You’re kind of bossy, you know?” Deciding that I could do worse than this teenager, I place my hand in his.

“And you’re kind of stubborn.” He pulls me up and holds on until I’m steady. “You good?”

I nod. “What are you doing with my sheets?”

“Not letting you sleep on them, that’s for sure.”

“What does that mean?”

He pulls the door closed with one hand and gives me the key. “It means we’re going to the laundromat.”

After stopping for supplies at my neighbor’s room, where I didn’t see any signs of a parent, my new friend and I walk two blocks to the laundromat, where we’re currently waiting on my sheets and his shirt to dry.

“You never told me your name.”

The teenager, who prefers sitting on an old dryer, looks up from the magazine in his hand. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters.” I try to mask my disappointment in his words. “I thought since you helped me—”

“Look, it’s not a big deal. I help everyone.”

His tense posture and constant frown make his statement a little hard to believe, but before I can tell him that, my phone rings. “I need to take this,” I tell him.

He waves me off like he’s relieved he doesn’t have to speak to me any longer. I don’t let it bother me. I know he has a mushy center underneath all the leather and frowns.

“Hey, Kristen,” I answer, opting to forego the hello. Kristen doesn’t care. She’s been my agent and good friend for six years and works for the largest talent agency in California.

“Halle! I’ve gotbignews!” Kristen’s eccentric squeals make me smile. “Maddox has a new movie coming at the end of next year. There are three available main roles. Auditions are in five months.” She sucks in a breath and continues, “I talked to the bastard and told him you were finally getting surgery and would be ready for this next one!”

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