It takes him a long time to say, “I don’t know.”
I stare at him, confused.
He stares back, his eyes such a pale green in the light that, for a moment, he doesn’t even seem human. He says nothing more.
I take a deep breath. Try to be calm. “Okay,” I say. “Okay. But if we’re going to go back to the room, can I at least shower first? I’d really like to get all this sand and dried blood off my body.”
He nods. Still no emotion.
And now I’m really beginning to panic.
Warner
I’m pacing the length of the hall just outside of our room, impatiently waiting for Juliette to finish her shower. My mind is ravaged. Hysteria has been clawing at my insides for hours. I have no idea what she’ll say to me. How she’ll react to what I need to tell her. And I’m so horrified by what I’m about to do that I don’t even hear someone calling my name until they’ve touched me.
I spin around too fast, my reflexes faster than even my mind. I’ve got his hand pinched up at the wrist and wound behind his back and I’ve slammed him chest-first into the wall before I realize it’s Kent. Kent, who’s not fighting back, just laughing and telling me to let go of him.
I do.
I drop his arm. Stunned. Shake my head to clear it. I don’t remember to apologize.
“Are you okay?” someone else says to me.
It’s James. He’s still the size of a child, and for some reason this surprises me. I take a careful breath. My hands are shaking. I’ve never felt further from okay, and I’m too confused by my anxiety to remember to lie.
“No,” I say to him. I step backward, hitting the wall behind me and slumping to the floor. “No,” I say again, and this time I don’t know who I’m speaking to.
“Oh. Do you want to talk about it?” James is still blathering. I don’t understand why Kent won’t make him stop.
I shake my head.
But this only seems to encourage him. He sits down beside me. “Why not? I think you should talk about it,” he says.
“C’mon, buddy,” Kent finally says to him. “Maybe we should give Warner some privacy.”
James will not be convinced. He peers into my face. “Were you crying?”
“Why do you ask so many questions?” I snap, dropping my head in one hand.
“What happened to your hair?”
I look up at Kent, astounded. “Will you please retrieve him?”
“You shouldn’t answer questions with other questions,” James says to me, and puts a hand on my shoulder. I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Why are you touching me?”
“You look like you could use a hug,” he says. “Do you want a hug? Hugs always make me feel better when I’m sad.”
“No,” I say, fast and sharp. “I do not want a hug. And I’m not sad.”
Kent appears to be laughing. He stands a few feet away from us with his arms crossed, doing nothing to help the situation. I glare at him.
“Well you seem sad,” James says.
“Right now,” I say stiffly, “all I’m feeling is irritation.”
“Bet you feel better though, huh?” James smiles. Pats my arm. “See—I told you it helps to talk about it.”
I blink, surprised. Stare at him.
He’s not exactly correct in his theory, but oddly enough, I do feel better. Getting frustrated just now, with him—it helped clear my panic and focus my thoughts. My hands have steadied. I feel a little sharper.
“Well,” I say. “Thank you for being annoying.”
“Hey.” He frowns. He gets to his feet, dusts off his pants. “I’m not annoying.”
“You most certainly are annoying,” I tell him. “Especially for a child your size. Why haven’t you have learned to be quieter by now? When I was your age I only spoke when I was spoken to.”
James crosses his arms. “Wait a second—what do you mean, for a child my size? What’s wrong with my size?”
I squint at him. “How old are you? Nine?”
“I’m about to turn eleven!”
“You’re very small for eleven.”
And then he punches me. Hard. In the thigh.
“Owwwwwww,” he cries, overzealous in his exaggeration of the simple sound. He shakes out his fingers. Scowls at me. “Why does your leg feel like stone?”
“Next time,” I say, “you should try picking on someone your own size.”
He narrows his eyes at me.
“Don’t worry,” I say to him. “I’m sure you’ll get taller soon. I didn’t hit my growth spurt until I was about twelve or thirteen, and if you’re anything like me—”
Kent clears his throat, hard, and I catch myself.
“That is—if you’re anything like, ah, your brother, I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”
James looks back at Kent and smiles, the awkward punch apparently forgotten. “I really hope I’m like my brother,” James says, beaming now. “Adam is the best, isn’t he? I hope I’m just like him.”
I feel the smile break off my face. This little boy. He’s also mine, my brother, and he may never know it.
“Isn’t he?” James says, still smiling.
I startle. “Excuse me?”
“Adam,” he says. “Isn’t Adam the best? He’s the best big brother in the world.”
“Oh—yes,” I say to him, clearing the catch in my throat. “Yes, of course. Adam is, ah, the best. Or some approximation thereof. In any case, you’re very lucky to have him.”
Kent shoots me a look, but says nothing.
“I know,” James says, undeterred. “I got really lucky.”
I nod. Feel something twist in my gut. I get to my feet. “Yes, well, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Yep. Got it.” Kent nods. Waves good-bye. “We’ll see you around, yeah?”
“Certainly.”
“Bye!” James says as Kent tugs him down the hall. “Glad you’re feeling better!”
Somehow I feel worse.
I walk back into the bedroom not quite as panicked as before, but more somber, somehow. And I’m so distracted I almost don’t notice Juliette stepping out of the bathroom as I enter.
She’s wearing nothing but a towel.
Her cheeks are pink from the shower. Her eyes are big and bright as she smiles as me. She’s so beautiful. So unbelievably beautiful.
“I just have to grab some fresh clothes,” she says, still smiling. “Do you mind?”
I shake my head. I can only stare at her.
Somehow, my reaction is insufficient. She hesitates. Frowns as she looks at me. And then, finally, moves toward me.
I feel my lungs malfunction.
“Hey,” she says.
But all I can think about is what I have to say to her and how she might react. There’s a small, desperate hope in my heart that’s still trying to be optimistic about the outcome.
Maybe she’ll understand.
“Aaron?” She steps closer, closing the gap between us. “You said you wanted to talk to me, right?”
“Yes,” I say, whispering the word. “Yes.” I feel dazed.
“Can it wait?” she says. “Just long enough for me to change?”
I don’t know what comes over me.
Desperation. Desire. Fear.
Love.
It hits me with a painful force, the reminder. Of just how much I love her. God, I love all of her. Her impossibilities, her exasperations. I love how gentle she is with me when we’re alone. How soft and kind she can be in our quiet moments. How she never hesitates to defend me.
I love her.
And she’s standing in front of me now, a question in her eyes, and I can’t think of anything but how much I want her in my life, forever.
Still, I say nothing. I do nothing.
And she won’t walk away.
I realize, with a start, that she’s still waiting for an answer.
“Yes, of course,” I say quickly. “Of course it can wait.”
But
she’s trying to read my face. “What’s wrong?” she says.
I shake my head as I take her hand. Gently, so gently. She steps closer, and my hands close lightly over her bare shoulders. It’s a small, simple movement, but I feel it when her emotions change. She trembles suddenly as I touch her, my hands traveling down her arms, and her reaction trips my senses. It kills me, every time, it leaves me breathless every time she reacts to me, to my touch. To know that she feels something for me. That she wants me.
Maybe she’ll understand, I think. We’ve been through so much together. We’ve overcome so much. Maybe this, too, will be surmountable.
Maybe she’ll understand.
“Aaron?”
Blood rushes through my veins, hot and fast. Her skin is soft and smells of lavender and I pull back, just an inch. Just to look at her. I graze her bottom lip with my thumb before my hand slips behind her neck.
“Hi,” I say.
And she meets me here, in this moment, in an instant.
She kisses me without restraint, without hesitation, and wraps her arms around my neck and I’m overwhelmed, lost in a rush of emotion—
And the towel falls off her body.
Onto to the floor.
I step back, surprised, taking in the sight of her. My heart is pounding furiously in my chest. I can hardly remember what I was trying to do.
Then she steps forward, stands on tiptoe and reels me in, all warmth and heat and sweetness and I pull her against me, drugged by the feel of her, lost in the smooth expanse of her bare skin. I’m still fully clothed. She’s naked in my arms. And somehow that difference between us only makes this moment more surreal. She’s pushing me back gently, even as she continues to kiss me, even as she searches my body through this fabric and I fall backward onto the bed, gasping.
She climbs on top of me.
And I think I’ve lost my goddamned mind.
Juliette
This, I think, is the way to die.
I could drown in this moment and I’d never regret it. I could catch fire from this kiss and happily turn to ash. I could live here, die here, right here, against his hips, his lips. In the emotion in his eyes as he sinks into me, his heartbeats indistinguishable from mine.
This. Forever. This.
He kisses me again, his occasional gasps for air hot against my skin, and I taste him, his mouth, his neck, the hard line of his jaw and he fights back a groan, pulls away, pain and pleasure twining together as he moves deeper, harder, his muscles taught, his body rock solid against mine. He has one hand around the back of my neck, the other around the back of my thigh and he wraps us together, impossibly closer, overwhelming me with an extraordinary pleasure that feels like nothing I’ve ever known. It’s nameless. Unknowable, impossible to plan for. It’s different every time.
And there’s something wild and beautiful in him today, something I can’t explain in the way he touches me—the way his fingers linger along my shoulder blades, down the curve of my back—like I might evaporate at any moment, like this might be the first and last time we’ll ever touch.
I close my eyes.
Let go.
The lines of our bodies have merged. It’s wave after wave of ice and heat, melting and catching fire and it’s his mouth on my skin, his strong arms wrapping me up in love and warmth. I’m suspended in midair, underwater, in outer space, all at the same time and clocks are frozen, inhibitions are out the window and I’ve never felt so safe, so loved or so protected than I have here, in the private fusion of our bodies.
I lose track of time.
I lose track of my mind.
I only know I want this to last forever.
He’s saying something to me, running his hands down my body, and his words are soft and desperate, silky against my ear, but I can hardly hear him over the sound of my own heart beating against my chest. But I see it, when the muscles in his arms strain against his skin, as he fights to stay here, with me—
He gasps, out loud, squeezing his eyes shut as he reaches out, grabs a fistful of the bedsheets and I turn my face into his chest, trail my nose up the line of his neck and breathe him in and I’m pressed against him, every inch of my skin hot and raw with want and need and
“I love you,” I whisper
even as I feel my mind detach from my body
even as stars explode behind my eyes and heat floods my veins and I’m overcome, I’m stunned and overcome every time, every time
It’s a torrent of feeling, a simultaneous, ephemeral taste of death and bliss and my eyes close, white-hot heat flashes behind my eyelids and I have to fight the need to call out his name even as I feel us shatter together, destroyed and restored all at once and he gasps
He says, “Juliette—”
I love the sight of his naked body.
Especially in these quiet, vulnerable moments. These brackets of time stapled between dreams and reality are my favorite. There’s a sweetness in this hesitant consciousness—a careful, gentle return of form to function. I’ve found I love these minutes most for the delicate way in which they unfold. It’s tender.
Slow motion.
Time tying its shoes.
And Warner is so still, so soft. So unguarded. His face is smooth, his brow unfurrowed, his lips wondering whether to part. And the first seconds after he opens his eyes are the sweetest. Some days I’m lucky enough to look up before he does. Today I watch him stir. I watch him blink open his eyes and orient himself. But then, in the time it takes him to find me—the way his face lights up when he sees me staring—that part makes something inside of me sing. I know everything, everything that ever matters, just by the way he looks at me in that moment.
And today, something is different.
Today, when he opens his eyes he looks suddenly disoriented. He blinks and looks around, sitting up too fast like he might want to run and doesn’t remember how. Today, something is wrong.
And when I climb into his lap he stills.
And when I take his chin in my hands he turns away.
When I kiss him, softly, he closes his eyes and something inside him thaws, something unclenches in his bones, and when he opens his eyes again he looks terrified and I feel suddenly sick to my stomach.
Something is terribly, terribly wrong.
“What is it?” I say, my words scarcely making a sound. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head.
“Is it me?” My heart is pounding. “Did I do something?”
His eyes go wide. “No, no, Juliette—you’re perfect. You’re—God, you’re perfect,” he says. He grips the back of his head, looks at the ceiling.
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
So he meets my eyes. And I can’t help but marvel at how much I love his face, even now, even in his fear. He’s so classically handsome. So remarkably beautiful, even like this: his hair shorn, short and soft; his face unshaven, a silver-blond shadow contouring the already hard lines of his face. His eyes are an impossible shade of green. Bright. Blinking. And then—
Closed.
“I have to tell you something,” he says quietly. He’s looking down. He lifts a hand to touch me and his fingers trail down the side of my torso. Delicate. Terrified. “Something I should’ve told you earlier.”
“What do you mean?” I fall back. I ball up a section of the bedsheet and hold it tightly against my body, feeling suddenly vulnerable.
He hesitates for too long. Exhales. He drags his hand across his mouth, his chin, down the back of his neck—
“I have no idea where to start.”
Every instinct in my body is telling me to run. To shove cotton in my ears. To tell him to stop talking. But I can’t. I’m frozen.
And I’m scared.
“Start at the beginning,” I say, surprised I can even bring myself to speak. I’ve never seen him like this before. I can’t imagine what he has to say. He’s now clasping his hands together so tightly I worry he might break his own fingers
by accident.
And then, finally. Slowly.
He speaks.
“The Reestablishment,” he says, “went public with their campaigns when you were seven years old. I was nine. But they’d been meeting and planning for many years before that.”
“Okay.”
“The founders of the The Reestablishment,” he says, “were once military men and women turned defense contractors. And they were responsible, in part, for the rise of the military industrial complex that built the foundation of the de facto military states composing what is now The Reestablishment. They’d had their plans in place for a long time before this regime went live,” he says. “Their jobs had made it possible for them to have had access to weapons and technology no one had even heard of. They had extensive surveillance, fully equipped facilities, acres of private property, unlimited access to information—all for years before you were even born.”
My heart is pounding in my chest.
“They’d discovered Unnaturals—a term The Reestablishment uses to describe those with supernatural abilities—a few years later. You were about five years old,” he says, “when they made their first discovery.” He looks at the wall. “That’s when they started collecting, testing, and using people with abilities to expedite their goals in dominating the world.”
“This is all really interesting,” I say, “but I’m kind of freaking out right now and I need you to skip ahead to the part where you tell me what any of this has to do with me.”
“Sweetheart,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. “All of this has to do with you.”
“How?”
“There was one thing I knew about your life that I never told you,” he says. He swallows. He’s looking into his hands when he says, “You were adopted.”
The revelation is like a thunderclap.
I stumble off the bed, clutch the sheet to my body and stand there, staring at him, stunned. I try to stay calm even as my mind catches fire.
“I was adopted.”
He nods.
“So you’re saying that the people who raised me—tortured me—are not my real parents?”
He shakes his head.
“Are my biological parents still alive?”