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“Really? Just like that?” He motions to the salesman. “Could I see this one out of the case, please?”

The man smiles at me after placing it in front of us. “This would look great on you.”

My entire body bursts into flames, right there, on the spot. Spontaneous combustion. “Oh, it’s not for me,” I say with a nervous laugh. “His ex-girlfriend is publicly moving on, so I assume he’s gonna try to bribe some poor girl into dating him with this to make her jealous.”

“No, it’s—No. Thank you.” He inspects it under normal lighting. “Still this one?”

“It’s pretty, if you like that kind of thing.” Prettyexpensive. Holy shit, three hundred dollars for that? It’s so small and the chain is so thin. It’s gorgeous, still sparkling even though it’s not under super bright lights, but damn. Pretty sure Ocean’s Eightstole cheaper necklaces from the Met.

Holden clears his throat. “Do you, uh, do some kind of, like, payment plan–type thing? Like, could I make two or three payments at different times?”

“No, but if you’re eighteen, you can sign up for our credit card.” The salesman doesn’t even bother pretending Holden’s a real customer, placing the necklace back in the glass case before he says he’s done looking at it.

“Okay, thanks.” Holden takes a pamphlet on the credit card but doesn’t make a move to start applying. The salesman walks away and Holden takes a photo of the necklace.

I get it all on film. Or memory card. A financial struggle is something I can relate to—something so many people can relate to. And, sure, no one expects a teenager to be able to afford some million-dollar necklace, and he has a MacBook even if it’s nearly ten years old, a car—even if it’s a hand-me-down that’s been in accidents and has half a penis carved into the side. He’s well-off in many ways, but people watching my documentary will see what I show them. I can flesh out the fake heart of my documentary later—a Gen Z financial struggle that will hopefully counteract his perfect, or at least average, life—but for now, I can’t get distracted by this idea.

“Can we go outside now? I want some clips of you in front of the track.” I turn toward the exit but stop, my heart in my throat. “Oh my god. Hi, Corrine.”

Holden knocks into my arm, stopping at the sight of her. Maybe if I tell her he’s here looking at jewelry for her, it’ll soften the blow. Even if it’s a lie.

“Hi.” She stands awkwardly outside the confines of the store and flattens her uniform over her stomach, further reminding me that I bailed on my entire team to be here, not even filming what we’re supposed to be filming. An A+ Health bag dangles in her hand. “Are you two here together?”

I say no just as Holden says yes.

I glance at him, eyes wide, then to her. “Physically, but not, like,emotionally.”

“She wasn’t asking that,” Holden says in a quiet voice. “Hey.”

They exchange that weird head nod greeting and the space between us, maybe six feet, feels like an entire ocean. My heart hammers in my chest, sweat forms just about everywhere, and I see my life flash before my eyes, Corrine-less.

“I’m going to head outside while you two talk,” he says, moving swiftly past us.

I clear my throat. “Don’t you, uh, need to be getting to the game?”

“I was on my way, but I stopped here to get some vitamins.” She raises the bag, surveying me from head to toe. “For you, but you don’t look very sick.”

“I certainly feel it,” I say more to myself than her.

“That makes two of us, then.” She frowns, her mouth missing the usual red lipstick. She takes a moment to grind out her next question. “Are you two, like... dating?”

“No! God,no.” I take a deep breath and step forward. “I had told you my original documentary subject bailed. Holden happened to be in the contest, too, and he moved on to this next round, the one happening in a few minutes outside, and itjust seemed the most convenient? My documentary was already approved and I already did all this research on the contest... I... I’m sorry. I was going to tell you and then you were busy and I was, I don’t know, scared? There’s nothing going on besides the documentary, but I know we don’t really talk about your breakup, and I didn’t want to make things weird or harsh the vibe on the whole Logan thing....”

She crosses her arms. Corrine’s always preferred actions over words—hence the vitamins, the leather jacket, doing meal prep for an entire week after my grandma died—so I know it takes a lot for her to say, “It feels strange that you didn’t tell me. Like you have something to hide. I don’t know why you wouldn’t just tell me you needed to film today instead of lying.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Didn’t want to open up the floor for a conversation about this?”

“Not through texts, at least,” I mumble. “Would you have evenletme talk about this?”

Her mouth opens to respond to my slight jab, but then a loud announcement tone plays throughout the mall, startling the elderly couple walking by us with huge, boxy shopping bags.

“The Vice and Virtual Create Your Own (Virtual) Reality contest is beginning in ten minutes for anyone who wishes to watch. Please make your way to the parking lot outside the food court,” the Mall God says.

“I’m sorry. I have to—” I raise my camera with arms that weigh fifteen tons. “I have to go film.”

She nods, watching me hurry past her. “Saine? Please don’t lie again.”