On the terrace behind the house, Haley sits on the edge of a slate table and smokes not one, but two cigarettes. I'm in a chair, like a normal person, watching him toss the stub of his cigarette into the outdoor fireplace, which looks like it's been used approximately never. Haley's considering a third "painkiller" when the glass double doors open.

A middle-aged woman with pinned up hair the color of walnuts appears. Her pantsuit and golden jewelry tell me she's no staff member. I haven't actually seen any cleaners or gardeners or whatever, but I can't imagine the Sinclairs do everything themselves. For one thing, they have . . . I don't even know how many rooms, and for another, I feel like it's obvious. The I-should-be-wearing-something-nicer feeling intensifies as the woman meets my gaze. My jeans are full of holes. Some are intentional. Some are not. Most of them are not.

"Hey, Mom," Haley says, jumping off the table and landing on a pair of white sneakers that look like they've been used only slightly more than never. "We just took Missile out for a walk. This is Gus, by the way."

I give Haley's mother my best smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Augustus Reed?" she asks.

"Yes?" I say, glancing at Haley.

She nods and walks over to offer me a hand.

There are not many people who make me feel small, but Mrs. Sinclair manages well. Her eyes are the same color as Haley's, green on the outside and brown on the inside, but they lack that ever-present mirth and curiosity his have. The only thing more severe than her gaze is her handshake.

"Diane," she says. "Will you be staying for dinner?"

"Oh, uh . . . sure. I'll text my uncle."

"Any requests? Allergies?"

"No. I'm not picky."

With another nod, she turns to Haley and snatches the pack of cigarettes out of his grasp. He sputters and throws up his hands.

"Mom," he says.

"Enough," she orders.

"I only had two."

"This past hour, surely. If you're so under-stimulated, you have a friend here who requires entertainment." She turns to me. "Have you been to the game room yet?"

"Dad's pride and joy," Haley mutters.

I shake my head. "I haven't."

"Follow me."

☽〇☾

We play billiards, which does well to make Haley forget about anything shapeshifter or mythical related. I'm awful at it, but so is Haley: he can't tell any of the balls apart. He keeps saying, "That one's green, right?" and I say, "No, that's blue," but because I can't stop laughing, he doesn't believe a word I say. So we stop paying attention to how many points the balls are worth. We shoot as many balls into the pockets as we can, cheering with every one as if we are the players and the crowd.

After about three rounds of this, Haley's phone chirps, and he takes me to the dining room. As we walk, he regales me with the knowledge that family dinners are an everyday thing in the Sinclair residence, courtesy of Diane, who would have been a famous cook in another life. Haley thinks she should quit her job and do it. I can't imagine you can just quit being CEO of Sinclair Enterprises. The reminder puts the nerves back in my stomach, but the fact that I've been invited to dinner at all, even though she clearly knows who I am, is enough to keep them at bay.

That is, until we walk in. My smile instantly disappears at the sight of the ensemble around the shiny table under a twinkling chandelier. It's not Haley's mother that does it, or his father, or the young woman on the opposite side of the table. It's the guy sitting next to her.

"Oh, hey, Sam," Haley says.

Sam Harding/not-Davy Harding doesn't look at him.

It's me he's staring at, doing that same squinty-eyed look as yesterday. And this morning, for that matter. It's strange to think it's only been half a day since he and his twin so kindly offered to pummel me in the restroom. It seems to take everything in him to force a smile onto his face and say, "Good evening."

I hold out an arm to stop Haley from walking ahead, and he frowns at me. I raise a brow. It takes him less than two seconds to turn to Sam with a vaguely offended expression.

Oblivious to this, Diane says, "I hope you like mushroom risotto."

Having never had risotto in my life, I say, "Sure."

We take our places at the dinner table, Haley by his father, me by his sister, who looks like an exact copy of Haley, except older, and her dark hair is long enough to reach her middle. She smiles at me and introduces herself to me as George.

I wonder if Haley's parents are giving their sons typically feminine names and their daughters typically masculine names on purpose or if George is short for something, like Georgina, or Georgette. She doesn't tell me. I make a mental note to ask what their third sibling is called later. I know there's one more.

After all the necessary introductions, we start eating.

All things considered, it goes well. The risotto tastes amazing. None of the Sinclairs seem to regard me with scorn. Only Sam Harding, whom George is apparently dating. I give her my condolences. Not out loud, of course, though Sam acts like I did. He handles his silverware with the same amount of care he'd extend to me if he got the chance. George leans over to ask if he's okay. He waves her off and continues stabbing his food, which is really quite impressive considering he's using a spoon.

"So when did you two become friends?"

I'm so distracted by Sam it takes me a moment to realize James Sinclair is talking about me and his son.

"We ran into each other last Friday," Haley says, not mentioning any graffiti, or the police, or him turning into a woman and me turning into a bear. We merely ran into each other, as you do. "Turns out we have a lot in common."

Sam huffs/snorts.

Haley ignores him, and George sends him another concerned look.

"Such as?" James asks.

"Movies, mostly," Haley says.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Everyone likes movies."

Haley's lips tighten, then stretch into a smile. "Do you know The Hard Turn?"

I try not to laugh.

"Uh . . . no?"

Haley shrugs. "Well, you're missing out."

"What am I missing out on?" Sam asks, looking between him and me.

"Oh!" Haley's eyes grow wide and his hands fly up. "Cinematic genius, dude. Gus knows what I'm talking about."

If low-budget special effects, oversaturated filters, and bad angles are considered cinematic genius, The Hard Turn should win awards. Last weekend, we trashed the indie horror movie for twenty minutes straight. It takes some willpower not to laugh as I hear Haley's voice in my head again, saying, "If somebody's talking, you should film their head, not their ass!"

"Yeah, it's amazing," I say. "You don't even know what you're looking at."

Haley disguises a laugh as an exclamation of awe. "Right? Out of this world."

Sam's mouth opens and closes a few times.

If I had to guess, I'd say he suspects we're bullshitting, but he's not sure how to point it out without insulting Haley's taste in case he's wrong. Maybe I'm giving him too much credit, though. Maybe he does believe us and he just doesn't want to address the elephant in the room.

He puts his spoon down, defeated, and says, "I'll have to watch it, then."

"Absolutely."

Haley and I continue recommending shitty movies to Sam, watching him get more and more snappy with each suggestion, until we can think of no more.

Which is when Diane thinks we need to get back to getting to know me. "So, Gus, how are you finding Larkwood?"

"Oh, uh . . ."

"Don't worry," Haley says, clearly used to abrupt tonal shifts. "She won't be personally offended if you're not a fan."

I smile. "It's fine. It's smaller than I'm used to, though."

"You're from St. Richard, right?" Diane asks.

"Yeah."

"Why did you come here?"

This question doesn't come from Diane. It's Sam.

I should have seen it coming, but I still freeze. Six weeks—almost seven now—I've managed to avoid it. Now I can't, and he knows it.

Take your pick, I want to say. You've heard the stories, Sam. I even told you one myself. It's easier to let people believe the lies than to admit I'm one family member short of a complete loner. No parents, no siblings, no grandparents, no cousins or nephews or nieces. Just one uncle, who doesn't have anyone, either. The last time he went on a date was more than five years ago, but it's not his fault it never works out. When you're a mechanic with a house that's barely big enough for two people, and you're only interested in men, Larkwood is an awful place to find love.

The point is that there's only one thing worse than being poor: it's being poor and alone. If I lost Kurt . . . Well, I could blow all the money my mom saved up for university on buying a place, if I can't get Kurt's house, but I'd never be able to finish school. I'd be forced to work in corner stores and gas stations for the rest of my life.

I guess it isn't really a secret. It's not like there's no way to find out. Haley did. And I don't want to lie to Haley's family. Chances are, they already know.

But George, savior of the night, has had enough.

"Sam, what is your problem?" she snaps.

"What?" he says. "I'm just asking a question."

"Don't bullshit me."

James picks up a napkin and hides behind it as he wipes his mouth.

"Does no one think it's super weird that Haley befriended Gus Reed, of all people? I mean, look at him." He gestures at me. "Did you steal those clothes from a homeless guy or did you actually pay for them?"

"Sam!" George exclaims.

"Oh, come on. Everyone was thinking it. You just love Haley too much to say something about it, but this is bad. Sorry, dude, but someone had to say it." He's not talking to me now, of course. His eyes are almost sad as he looks at Haley. Sad, like Haley is a snail, and I'm the foot that crushed him. "You need to cut him out before he ruins you."

Silence settles over the dinner table.

Diane looks at Haley, who is something of a statue. His hazel eyes are on Sam, but he's looking through him. He doesn't say anything, and Diane takes that as her cue.

"Get out," she says.

Sam smiles and looks at me.

"She's talking to you, idiot," George hisses, standing up to drag him out of his chair, arms flailing, spoons flying. I'm surprised she manages considering she's about half his size. He only sputters protests; he makes no real effort to stop his girlfriend.

Once he's gone, she sits back down and says in a small voice, "Sorry about that."

"You should break up with him," Haley says. "Gus said he and a few of my other friends threatened to beat him up if they saw him with me again."

George drops her face into her hands with a sigh.

Diane purses her lips. "Well, I never liked that boy."

"Mom, I know!" she cries.

"I never said anything."

"Your eyes did!"

"Anyway," James says.

"Gus, let me be frank with you," Diane says. Her tone makes it impossible not to look at her, so I do. There's an uneasy smile on her face—I'm the snail now. "It should come as no surprise to you that I find your presence here . . . unusual, but my children are old enough to make their own decisions. I have no reason to question why Haley considers you a friend."

James clears his throat. "What she's saying is that we won't send you away unless you've done something to offend us, and your social status is not offensive. In fact, you've done nothing to offend us."

"Unlike Sam."

"Unlike Sam," he repeats after his wife.

George bursts into tears.

☽〇☾

"I feel really bad for your sister," I admit when Haley's driving me home.

"She'll get over it," he says, not uncaringly, but simply with more knowledge than I possess. "She's got poor taste in men, so she's had a lot of practice. Open the glovebox."

"God," I mutter, reaching forward. "What do you need?"

"Cigarettes."

I hand him one, and he puts it between his lips.

"Your mom didn't seem happy about your addiction," I say, even as I grab a lighter for him. "Does she know? That you're a shapeshifter, I mean."

He presses the button to let his window down before he lets the smoke out. "I don't think she'd be any happier if she did. She'd flip her shit if she knew I was doing drugs, too. But they work so much better, man. I do try to limit myself. Don't wanna get addicted to that." He laughs. "She should be happy I chose a slow death over a quick death."

I shake my head. "There's got to be a better way."

He shrugs and takes another drag. "Do you want one, by the way?"

"Ask me again on Friday."

"Friday?"

"Cheat day."

He raises a brow at this.

"When I lived in St. Richard, I allowed myself to have a smoke with my friends on Fridays during lunch break so I could get through the day easier," I explain. "Friday is the day I turn into a bear. Works with my schedule."

He nods. "I'll remember that."

After a moment, I ask, "What do you think Sam will do?"

"I don't know. Tell Davy, probably."

"Can't wait."

"They're idiots," he scoffs.

"Why do you keep them around, then?"

He shrugs. "As obnoxious as they can be, they're not all bad. They're not bad people. Not really. They're just obsessed with proving their worth. And those threats—they're just trying to protect me. Going about it completely the wrong way, obviously, but yeah . . . they're idiots."

I nod.

"I'm gonna talk to them."

"Well, good luck with that."

"You don't believe in me?" he says, mock-affronted.

"I don't believe in them."

"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."

☽〇☾