Six Months Of You

LENA

"Be my girlfriend."

The bow slipped from my fingers and hit the floor.

Landon Cross stood in the doorway of my practice room like he belonged there, one shoulder against the frame, green eyes steady on mine. He was still in his varsity jacket. Brown hair falling across his forehead the way it always did in every athletics photo the school posted without his permission, or maybe with it, I had never decided which.

I had spoken maybe twelve words to this boy in three years. None of them were kind.

I picked up the bow. "Wrong room."

"It's the right room." He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Not aggressive. Just deliberate, the way someone moves when they have already decided how a conversation ends. He reached into his jacket and placed a folded document on my music stand. "Read that."

I read it because I needed to understand what I was dealing with.

Typed. Clean margins. Terms of Agreement across the top like a school project submission. Six months of fake dating. Public appearances. His varsity jacket at home games. My presence at select school events. Fifteen thousand dollars split into two payments. A confidentiality clause. No physical contact beyond what appearances required. And at the bottom, pressed harder than the rest of the text:

No real feelings. This is a transaction.

I read that line twice. Then I set the document down and looked at him. "No."

"You have forty seven dollars in your checking account."

My grip on the bow tightened.

"Leo needs a second heart surgery." His voice stayed level. "Eighteen thousand after insurance. The deposit window closes Thursday or they lose the surgical slot. Your mother has called the hospital twice this week about payment arrangements." He paused. "There are no payment arrangements."

The practice room was very quiet.

Three years at Westbrook Academy on a full scholarship and I had learned to keep my face still under pressure. This floor smelled like rosin and old wood, the particular smell of ambition that did not come with a financial cushion. I had been managing the gap between my world and everyone else's since I was fourteen years old. I was not going to let him see it land.

"How do you know any of that," I asked.

"I looked into you."

"You went through my financial records."

"I know people." No apology. No hesitation. "Fifteen thousand covers most of the surgery. I can get you the rest. Leo gets the procedure. You finish the year. Six months from now we end it clean and you walk away with enough to breathe."

I studied him. The composed version of Landon Cross was what Westbrook got every day, but there was something underneath it right now. A tightness at his jaw. A stillness working slightly too hard. Whatever was driving this, it was not simple.

"Why do you need a fake girlfriend," I asked. "You could have a real one."

"I don't want a real one." Something shifted in his expression. "My father has been building a merger between his firm and another family's company for two years. Part of the arrangement involves who I end up connected to. If I show up with someone he didn't choose, someone outside his plans, it disrupts the timeline."

"Long enough for what."

"Long enough for me to find a way out that doesn't cost my mother her medical care."

His mother. I filed that next to everything else and kept going.

"Why me specifically," I asked. "There are other girls at this school outside your father's world."

He was quiet for a moment. "Last spring when the auditorium got reassigned and the orchestra had to relocate, everyone else complained or gave up. You moved to the east parking garage and played in the rain like it was the only thing that mattered." He met my eyes. "I need someone who doesn't fold."

I thought about Leo in the consultation room two weeks ago, making jokes about the hospital gown because he didn't want me to see how scared he was. I thought about my mother at midnight, writing down numbers that didn't add up. I thought about forty seven dollars.

"I need to think about it," I told him.

"Twenty four hours." He moved toward the door.

"Cross."

He stopped.

"If anything you know about my family gets used outside of this arrangement for any reason," I said, "I will make sure every person at this school understands exactly how you got me to agree. I don't care about your jersey."

He looked back at me over his shoulder. The composure was fully in place, but underneath it, for just one second, something that looked like relief.

"Fair," he said.

He left.

I sat alone with the document on my music stand and my grandfather's cello in my lap and the number eighteen thousand sitting in my chest like something I could not put down. I picked up my bow. I tried to play. My hands shook on the first note.

My phone rang. My mother. The hospital had called. The deposit window closed Thursday. She didn't know what to do.

I told her I was handling it. I hung up.

I picked up the contact card tucked inside the document fold.

I'll sign. But I have conditions.

His reply came in forty seconds.

Library. East wing. Tomorrow. Eight AM. Bring a pen.

I put the phone down. I picked up my bow and played Bach all the way through without stopping, every note in place, the way my grandfather taught me. The way that always sounded like a wall turning out to have a door in it.

Outside, Westbrook Academy continued being exactly what it had always been.

Inside, I had just decided to do the most dangerous thing I had ever done.

What I didn't know yet was that Landon Cross had already done something far more dangerous than I realized.

Something he was hoping I would never find out.