by Alice Reeds
I had promised to be better—and thought I was, but I’d had it all wrong.
“You can be so sweet and flirty as though your life depends on it or it’s some kind of contest, but it feels like everything else, all other emotions, are just nonexistent.”
“They aren’t,” I argued weakly. “I feel, think, and worry like everyone else does.”
“Then why don’t you show me?” She raised her hands toward me as though to highlight how cold I was.
The gesture was innocent yet painful, peeling back the layers I’d built to hide the weakness within me, out of sight where she would never find it, so I wouldn’t lose her. And what had it done for me? Nothing. It just made it worse instead of better.
“Why is it so hard,” she said, “seemingly impossible, for you to share these things with me the way I did with you? Am I just not good enough, or trustworthy enough?”
“No, that’s not—”
“That night when you decided to shave your head, instead of talking to me, you also kept your thoughts and reasons to yourself. I didn’t push or pry, because I thought you’d tell me on your own, but that didn’t happen.”
“I trust you with my life,” I said, no matter how overdramatic it sounded, “but things aren’t that easy.”
“Fucking try me, Miles,” she said, her hands and arms limply hanging at her sides, her body language turning more open, hopeful almost, her last attempt, the ice beneath my feet so incredibly thin. “Maybe I’ll be able to help you, or maybe just talking about it will make it easier, clearer than if you just sit on everything in silence and keep secrets.”
“I just…” I bit the inside of my cheek. “I just don’t know if I can.”
It was the honest truth, this hurdle she wanted me to climb seeming far too high, too hard, and I just didn’t know if I could get it done. She was so strong and had been so open and honest, but what if I did what she asked and it just made things even worse? What if, once she saw all my flaws exposed, it gave her even more of a reason to turn away from me?
Fiona sighed, obviously exasperated by everything, and especially me, and sat down on our desk, her hands sitting limply in her lap, her eyes so incredibly sad. “I thought we were a team,” she began without looking at me. “I thought everything was mutual—our actions and words and feelings and trust—but if you’re doing this just so you won’t be alone, or because it’s really just part of whatever Briola has done to us…” She paused for a moment, looked off to the side and then back up at me. “If it’s all really like that, then we are done as soon as we are out of the Villa, or dead, whichever comes first.”
Leon might not have succeeded on the yacht, but each word Fiona spoke felt like a bullet, one after the other, hitting my vital organs and ripping my heart to shreds. My eyes stung while Fiona, and everything around her, turned blurry.
Her threat felt like a slap, but at the same time, it was like I’d broken through the ice and could breathe again. I couldn’t continue the way I had, it was so clear now, the damage my promise to myself had done spread out before me, nothing but hurt feelings and sadness, the very opposite of what I’d hoped to achieve. I thought it would make things better, yet keeping secrets merely led me to hating my own brother. And now it was threatening to rip Fiona and me apart. Regardless of what Briola did or didn’t do, this was on me, not them. I wouldn’t lose her because of them, even if they were part of it somehow, but because of myself, my own fears and insecurities. I couldn’t lose her.
As much as I hated the method she chose, the threat she spoke, I knew I deserved it. I’d needed to hear it. And above all, I needed to fix this, try to explain it even though I had no idea how, and if that would even help, if there was a way to make things right again, show her that I was truly and genuinely sorry and never meant for any of this to happen.
No more lies.
Letting my eyes fall shut, I took a deep breath, braced myself for just how hard this would be, but it didn’t matter. None of this had been easy for Fiona, either. No matter how weak I truly was, I couldn’t be now.
Not anymore.
Not toward her.
“It’s because of my father and the way he raised me—or rather, didn’t raise me,” I finally said, my voice breaking through the silence of our room, the air charged. “But also because of the people I grew up around. It might sound dumb, like some made-up excuse, but it’s true. I could never truly know who was my friend and who was my enemy. I learned that many of them just wait to use your emotions against you, betray you to further their own agenda or make themselves look better. None of them cared about the consequences any of that would have. Being rich might sound like this easy, glamorous life, and maybe it’s easy when it comes to finances, but when it comes to relationships…it’s nothing but a cutthroat business.”
For years I had ignored it all, thought that maybe it was normal, but eventually I couldn’t turn a blind eye any longer. I knew that most people had much harder lives than I had, couldn’t even imagine what a life without privileges like mine looked and felt like, but just because I had this privilege due to a life I didn’t choose, did that mean I couldn’t complain, that it wasn’t still hard in different ways? It’s easy to be surrounded by people yet be lonelier than someone without any friends at all.
“What I told you on the island about keeping my grief and hurt about Leon to myself was true,” I continued. Once the words started to flow I could barely stop even to catch a breath, the blur in my vision making it easier to confront. I was looking at her yet was unable to see her expression, whether she believed or judged me, whether she thought I was lying and trying to get her to pity me. I didn’t need pity, nor did I want it, I just wanted her to understand. “I couldn’t talk about any of it, couldn’t show it, every crack in my facade just a way for them to use it against me however they could. I couldn’t allow that, so I chose to show them what they wanted to see instead. Disgustingly rich Miles Echo driving around in his Audi like some kind of king without a worry in the world.”
It was hard to believe that my life really was like that once, nothing to worry about but homework and keeping up the persona at school and on social media. How trivial it all seemed now, like a completely different reality, when in my current life everything was on fire and all I had was more gasoline.
“With everything I’m sure you heard about me, this will come as a shocker, but before this, you and I, I’ve never been in an actual relationship, ever. At least none that felt like this, so honestly I have no clue what I’m doing.”
“And you think I do?” Fiona asked, speaking for the first time since I started to vomit words. Her voice seemed less angry and broken, though still sad as if searching, trying. “We grew up very differently, and while your world was fucked up, so was mine. I don’t want to belittle what you went through, but remember that I, of all damn people, understand what it means to have a father who seemed to hate you, though mine chose a different way to show it.”
“I know, believe me, I really do. But…I was simply afraid.” Admitting that felt wrong but also freeing, like a weight lifting, just a little, but enough for now.
“Afraid of what, exactly?” Fiona asked. She slipped off of the desk and took a small step toward me. “Of me?”
“No,” I said and shook my head to add emphasis. “Of what would happen once you saw me for who I truly am, when you saw me the way my father does, as this stupid, useless, walking-talking failure who’s not strong enough, not intelligent enough, not ambitious enough, or simply not good enough for anything. I thought it would be better for everyone if I kept all of that hidden and you never saw it, never realized that I’m not who you thought I was, or even worse, that I’m simply not good enough for you.”
“For how actually intelligent you are…” she began but then stopped, leaving the thought unfinished. “Do you really think I would just get up and walk out simply because you’d beh
ave like a fucking human? Do you really think that is what would make me dislike you or view you as lesser or something equally nonsensical?”
My legs felt too weak to keep me standing, like my bones had turned to jelly. I had half a mind to move toward our bed and sit down on it before I’d just fall onto the floor like a wet towel. My stomach turned, flipped, while shame rose within me again, fiercer this time, embarrassment too harmless a word to describe what I felt. The mattress beneath me barely felt real, my body was as though suspended in the air, my thoughts too tangled for me to think straight.
The urge to crawl out of my own skin was nearly unbearable. I’d made a mistake like anyone, but I hadn’t just spilled some water on someone else’s desk or dress; I truly hurt her.
“When you cried because of the videos of our parents, did I laugh at you?” she asked calmly, her voice void of its previous anger now, more neutral.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Exactly, so why did things have to come to this, why act like this? Why hide inside your own head when I thought I showed that I would meet you with kindness instead of betrayal or laughter?”
This was it, the source that led to my decision in the first place, the words and answer I barely knew how to formulate or voice. Admitting all of this felt like stripping down in a far more intimate way than if I were to actually get up and take off my clothes. Once in the open, I couldn’t take any of it back, couldn’t delete the words like an unread text before the other person saw it.
“It wasn’t what was in our files, though I will admit it might’ve been part of it,” I said, my voice unsteady, “but because of the way my father acted, his absolute refusal to give them Leon while being all too willing to give them me like I was just some bothersome pet.” My eyes stung once more, my head hung in shame and fear, all energy drained from me. “I’ve simply never been good enough, and now I know I wasn’t even wanted. So, tell me, how could I possibly believe anyone would genuinely care about me, let alone love me? Hell, even Briola saw a need to somehow try to manipulate you into liking me.”
Silence, and then Fiona’s quiet footsteps as she came closer and stopped right in front of me. Her hand came into my view, her fingers on my chin, coaxing me to raise my head, to follow her soft lead. I’d never been so afraid of looking at her as I was in that moment. Did she believe me, did she hate me, would she still follow through with her threat? Had my words done anything at all to save what possibly couldn’t be fixed anymore?
“I can, and I do, even with everything you did and the lies you told, Project EROS or not,” she said, her tone kind, genuine, her face open and her eyes clear, void of any of what I feared. “And it’s clear your mother does, too, if what Leon said is true. I can’t change or undo any of the hurt you experienced—I shouldn’t and neither should you—but I can at least do this: I can be here for you and help you see that things can be different, people can very much care about you and love you. Everyone has flaws and weaknesses, but also strengths and many good qualities.
“No one is perfect, not you, not me. There is nothing wrong about being afraid because you’ve been burned in the past, and there’s nothing weak about letting another person in, sharing your thoughts and feelings. It could even help you put things into perspective the way you never will be able to if you just keep them all to yourself.”
She made it sound so simple, so rational, logical, the words so tempting, but I was still torn, the past fighting against the present, her truth against everything I believed. I wanted to trust her, believe her, the way she did me. If she was willing to meet me halfway, show me where I’d taken a wrong turn and help me find my way back, how could I refuse to try? Did this mean I hadn’t destroyed everything after all, that she really believed me?
“I’m so sorry,” I said, “I really am. I thought I was doing the right thing.” I stood up from the bed and took her hand in mine like it was the most precious thing in this world, so soft and pale, her past hurt out there for everyone to see through the scars across her knuckles. “The night when I shaved my head, before that, I swear I wanted to tell you everything so badly. But no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t do it. I was too afraid, but now…I know I should’ve done it.”
“Yes, you should have,” she said, quietly, the faintest smile pulling up the corners of her mouth just a little.
“I want to be better, and I’ll try to be. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect immediately, or that I won’t make mistakes, but I want to make a conscious effort, because in all of this, the Villa, Briola, the simulation, and now also our mothers and my brother, the last thing I want is to lose you. You mean more to me than anyone, and I feel awful for having threatened our relationship because I had it all backward and let fear scare me this way.”
Fiona raised her hand and touched my cheek, her eyes kind, soft, accepting, understanding. “You making an effort is more than enough. And, please, I don’t expect you to be perfect in any kind of way because neither am I or anyone else. Simply talk to me instead of shutting down and shutting me out when things get messy. That’s all I’m asking.”
“I promise.”
“Also, I’m sorry for what I said, threatening to break up with you and everything,” Fiona added. “It was a low damn blow, and manipulative, so I really shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t fair of me, so I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. “Don’t apologize. It’s okay, and I understand why you did it, and really maybe I just needed to hear that, so what you said would actually reach me and sink in, even if that sounds kind of fucked up.”
“We’re still okay?” she asked hesitantly. If anything, I should’ve been the one to ask that, to beg for forgiveness even more. I smiled at her, relieved that we weren’t done, that we were still a we, and that I was given a second chance.
“I love you,” was my answer, “and I’ll try my best to show it.”
“That’s all I’m asking for,” she repeated, a smile growing on her lips and across her face. “Now kiss me, you idiot.”
She didn’t have to say it twice.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Freighter
Florida.
Berlin.
The island.
The freighter.
The Villa.
Only two of them I was completely sure of, the other ones remained a mystery. While I was fairly certain we’d never been in Berlin, I couldn’t deny the snippets of it I still remembered, but what if those were just a dream? We were supposed to go there, so maybe my mind ran wild and wondered what it might’ve been like. But even if that were true, it didn’t explain anything else, the freighter we walked across and the Villa—again and again—accompanied by all these different feelings, some directly connected to the memory or vision or whatever the hell it was, and some not.
“Have you noticed any difference between all the different memories and locations?” I wondered, trying to find something, anything, that could help us.
Maybe the timeline wasn’t the important factor and we were focused on the wrong thing. With videos you could find fault in how they looked, differentiate from which time they originated, the quality of cameras improving going forward, and with the evolution of animation, there were things that helped differentiate between art and reality. Perhaps something similar applied to our lives as well, small details that pointed toward what was real and what just pretended to be—gold versus fool’s gold.
Was what we saw before us the gold, or some of the things that we remembered?
“Some of them seem clearer than others, less fuzzy.”
I thought the same. “Which ones?”
“Home looks clear and sharp, or at least as clear as a memory can,” she began, “the island is more or less the same. That would mean both are real?”
“Agreed.”
“But then Berlin is different, the colors not quite right,
some of it out of focus, and just when I think I know what’s going on, it ends. It’s more like what you remember of dreams.”
“And the Villa? Clear or fuzzy?” For me, it started out fuzzy, but gradually it got clearer, the memories longer, more defined, resembling and feeling more like those from when I was a kid or the days before we left for this trip. Part of me was worried that Fiona would contradict what I’d puzzled out and we’d be back to square one, with another idea of mine worth nothing.
It was the only theory I had.
Before she could answer, we stopped what might’ve been halfway down the cargo part of the ship, the line of containers stretching out before and behind us. There was a small alley between them leading to the other side of the ship, breaks like this appearing every dozen or so containers. While I wasn’t claustrophobic, seeing those two seemingly endless walls of containers to either of our sides with merely one entry and exit was unsettling, my mind imagining what would happen should they tilt and fall or suddenly move together and squash us like insects.
We emerged on the other side quicker than I anticipated and found the scenery was more of the same, the deck stretching out until the railing and beyond it the same clear blue sky and the peaceful surface of the ocean.
“The Villa feels different from Berlin,” Fiona said, picking up our conversation. “I don’t know, like it’s less distorted as more of those memories come to me, and the more there are, the feeling also changes, like I can feel the bewilderment or anger or despair much in the same way as I do with memories connected to winning a fight or getting hit across the head, you know what I mean?”
Yes. Exactly.
“What if everything went a little like this,” I began as I leaned against a container, the metal warm on my back, my eyes squinting against the sunlight. “Berlin was our simulation while we were on the island, and this, the freighter, is our simulation while we are actually at the Villa.”
Just as I finished, another memory came to me—an office and files, two of them, one for either of us, thick and full of data, descriptions and charts, pictures and theories. One had names, different ones, those of our parents, and then also ours. Two sets of them. The real ones, and the fake ones, Villa ones.