Page 87 of Enzo

I’ve been so wrapped up in the optics for me, for the Knights, that I didn't even consider Molly being a teacher.

“It's spring break, so it’s not a problem.”

She pulls a thin, stringy strand of cheese off her pizza. It dangles from her fingers as she’s about to take a bite.

“I'm sorry you have to stay inside.” I feel bad about it, because it does feel like she’s being held here as a prisoner, even though this is purely for her safety.

“It could be worse. At least I can stare out of those big windows all day long. It’s okay,” she insists, perhaps sensing my guilt. She looks around. “I'll never forget this suite, even if I live to be one hundred years old.”

I watch her. This is fast becoming my favorite pastime, listening to Molly, watching her.

“Why this place?” she asks.

“No idea. Rio, my older brother, he booked it for me.”

“That was nice of him.”

“It was.”

I have to say, Rio sprang into action pretty fast, even though he gave me grief before that.

Molly sighs. “I could never afford to stay at a place like this, so I consider myself to be extremely lucky.”

She has a superpower and she probably doesn’t even realize it—she can take something limiting and make it be something great.

“Something like this would cost about two to five thousand dollars a night,” I tell her, because she's been curious about the price ever since we got here.

Her eyes grow bigger. She gasps. “Two to five Two thousand dollars for a few days?”

“For a night, I’m guessing.”

“You guessing?” She stares at me. “How can you stay in a place when you don’t know how much it costs?”

I don’t know how to answer that. She lifts her pizza slice to her mouth. “That’s a lot of money. That’s almost a month’s rent in some places.”

A flicker of embarrassment hits me. I’ve never had to worry about money, or a job, or about putting food on the table.

But Molly does.

“I don't care how rich or poor anyone is,” she says, when I’m silent. “I only care that people are nice. And even though Kiki told me to look out for one a rich guy, I had no intentions of doing that. I wanted to have the time of my life, and I did.”

I smile in spite of myself. “I’m glad you did.”

She tries to extricate threads of mozzarella from her fingers.

“One of the children drew a picture of me and a prince. It was so sweet. They think I went to a ball in a palace and met a prince.”

“You did go to a ball in a palace, that much is true,” I counter. “Although you didn't meet a prince.”

“I did meet a prince.” Soft, brown eyes stare back at me. “You’re like a prince, Enzo. You have impeccable manners, impeccable dress sense. You’re the type of prince most little girls dream about.”

Her words send an unexpected rush of something warm through my chest. I don’t know why they affect me so much, but suddenly, I’m curious to know if she’s talking about princes in general—or me.

“And you?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“I don’t believe in fairytales or princes.” She bites into her slice of pizza with gusto. I immediately remember the woman in the bright canary yellow dress eating canapés and drinking champagne.

But I'm curious about something.