Free Infinite Risk by Ann Aguirre Page A

the stop nearest to Madame Q’s House of Style to find Kian already waiting. His cheeks were red flagged with cold, and he was pacing with a backpack stuffed so full that it seemed like one good shove would topple him. When he spotted me, his face brightened with a smile that was relief and delight commingled.
    â€œReady for some shopping?” I asked.
    â€œTo unload these clothes anyway.”
    The thrift shop was open until six, so we had a good two hours to browse. But first Mrs. Quick inspected Kian’s clothes, muttering in delight. “My God, this is vintage, all vintage.”
    Holy shit, did that mean they never bought him anything, just dug into the attic and gave him stuff his uncle wore in high school? Well, no wonder he looked like a perpetual fashion victim in outfits from the seventies nowhere near his size.
    â€œIs that good?” he wanted to know.
    â€œNot for you,” I mumbled.
    â€œIt means a better trade-in value,” she replied.
    Kian blinked. “It does? Why?”
    Mrs. Quick went into a long explanation involving hard-to-find styles and cosplay and hipsters who didn’t want vintage look , but I tuned out long before she came to the end of it. The upshot was that Kian ended up with forty-five dollars in store credit as opposed to my pitiful $2.50, as I’d only brought one T-shirt to trade. I suspected the owner was being kind too.
    I went nuts picking out stuff for him to try on: black jeans, faded jeans, gray cargo pants, striped button-up, oversize hoodie, T-shirts so quirky they were cool. In the end, he took everything I suggested and still had five dollars left over. To my surprise, he led me to the outerwear section instead of telling Mrs. Quick he was ready to check out.
    â€œI’m getting you a present,” he said firmly. “Don’t argue.”
    I didn’t. After browsing a little, I chose a matching hat, gloves, and scarf in dove gray. They were so gently used I couldn’t tell anyone else had ever owned them, and when I lifted the set to my cheek, it was whisper soft. Perfect. It was priced at $7.39, which meant we could afford it if I kicked in my measly $2.50.
    â€œAll set?” Mrs. Quick asked as we came over.
    Kian nodded. “If you could, ring everything together and combine our credits, please.”
    â€œNot a problem.”
    She added everything up, confirming that we had eleven cents left. “I don’t give out cash on credit purchases, though.”
    â€œIt’s fine. Leave it on our account.” Kian grinned like we’d opened a store charge card together or something. “I have more vintage to swap, so we’ll be back.”
    â€œI’m looking forward to it,” she said. “In fact, I’m about to call a buyer I’m fairly sure will be interested in some of your shirts. You’d make good money if you sold on consignment.”
    He shrugged. “I’m not worried about that. You’re helping me a lot already. Is it okay if I use the changing room?”
    â€œOf course,” Mrs. Quick said.
    When he came out, he had on the gray cargo pants and blue hoodie. “Better?”
    â€œIt only matters how you feel.” But he did look handsome. The casual fit of clothing purchased in his size lent his thin frame a gangly grace.
    His answering smile made his eyes shine like the green waters of a deep forest glade, glimmering with flashes of sunlight. “When you’re around, I feel like anything is possible.”
    My heart turned over, and I fell a little in love with this Kian, who was not—and never would be—mine.

 
    OF CONTRADICTIONS AND DARK WISHES
    Outside, I put on the hat, wriggled my fingers into the gloves—the tiny kind that seemed like they’d never fit human hands—and wrapped up in the scarf. Despite still not having a proper coat, I instantly felt warmer. Kian watched, not quite smiling, but I could tell he was glad. At