Refraction

by Naomi Hughes

  He laughs, his voice breaking. “I’ve been arrested three times. Someone had to fill your troublemaking quota,” he says, and then he crushes me in a hug.

  He smells like the woods. Like earth and grass. Like something green that wraps itself around your life, and grows through the cracks, and binds you back together.

  The shard—the only remaining piece of Mirage—is still in my hand. When I lift my arms to hug my brother back I think I spot a flicker of color. Just for a second, no more than a blink. No more than a ghost.

  Cobalt. Happiness.

  I close my eyes and let it in.

  EPILOGUE

  I WAIT FOR ELLIOTT NEXT TO VALKYRIE BRIDGE.

  It’s a ruin. The road is charred, torn apart. The statues are pulverized. The palm trees are gone. There’s nothing left of the bridge itself beyond twisted chunks of metal that stab up through the waves offshore, barely visible in the dim starlight. Other things are different too.

  There’s no fog. The northeastern horizon no longer pulls at me.

  And then, of course, there’s the brand-new cluster of prefab buildings over my left shoulder. One of the researchers who works here has had their radio on full volume for the last few hours. The news station has played my interview—the now-famous one that I gave the day after I arrived back in the real world—twice during that span of time.

  Tell them I meant no harm, Mirage said. I’ve done much more than that. I’ve told his story, and mine, in the hope that the next time a beautiful oval ship flies overhead, humanity won’t murder it.

  The radio is drowned out by the drone of an approaching helicopter. It’s a sleek black one that blends in with the night sky, not the dingy white chopper that carried me to my exile, but I flinch anyway. I don’t look up, don’t track its progress. A sudden flood of uncertainty tingles in my gut.

  The islanders were released from FBI custody today. Thirteen hundred vaguely familiar strangers, plus one Elliott Ackermann.

  The helicopter lands. It’s only on the ground for a moment before lifting off again, leaving a small figure staring up after it, his forearm held up to protect his face from the flying debris. I keep him in my peripheral vision as he lowers his arm. As he looks around. As he spots me, pauses for a long moment, and then walks in my direction.

  I’m sitting on the edge of what used to be a bridge support. It creaks as he sits down next to me. There’s a long moment of silence, and then:

  “You look like shit,” Elliott observes.

  I let out a breath. The uncertainty settles. “I’ve been here three days. There’s no running water,” I explain.

  “So that’s the same, at least.” He’s looking at the remnants of the bridge now too.

  I risk a glance at him. He’s a little thinner than I remember, his cheekbones almost gaunt—with leftover grief or from his long stay at the detention center, I’m not sure—and there’s a new sort of quietness about him. Not like he’s hiding his emotions. More like he’s learned to get along with them, maybe.

  His knees are pulled up, his arms wrapped loosely around them. It makes me remember the way he looked in that last mental construct, on the radio tower. When he was dying. I flinch again, and look away.

  He catches the motion but doesn’t remark on it. “With all your newfound wealth, I’d think you’d be able to afford swankier accommodations,” he says instead.

  So he’s heard the news. I just sold the movie rights to my biography for eight figures. I donated half the proceeds to a fund earmarked for the newly released islanders, so he’ll be able to afford some swanky accommodations of his own soon, but I’ll be damned if I’m the one to tell him that.

  “Maybe I felt like slumming it,” I reply—a little too lightly.

  He gives me a look. “That’s not why you brought me here.”

  “No.” I hesitate. The words I want to say to him have lived in my head for so long that now they feel stuck there, rusted shut like an old door. “I’m sorry,” I manage at last. “For what I did to Braedan.”

  His expression goes blank, impossible to read. He doesn’t say anything.

  I swallow and keep going. “And … I’m sorry for the other stuff too, for everything I did to you—for trying to shoot you in the knee, for—”

  He cuts me off. “That’s not why you brought me here either. You could’ve apologized to me in a letter.” His voice is sharp now.

  I fumble for words. “They wouldn’t let me send you any letters” is all I can come up with.

  Something in his expression eases. “Of course not,” he says. He’s quiet for a second, then seems to realize how tense I am—staring at the sea, waiting for him to forgive me or hate me or something. He raises an eyebrow and says: “Well, go on then. Finish your apology.” He leans back, threads his fingers together behind his head, and waits.

  I roll my eyes but finally manage to relax. He doesn’t hate me. “I’m sorry I was an ass.”

  “Which time?”

  “Just … you know, in general. I’m sorry for my general assery.” I cross my arms. “I did save your life too, you know. Twice, if you want to get technical.”

  He drops his hands and turns to look at me in full, suddenly serious. “I know. I thought you died for it.”

  I press my lips together, my gaze flicking to the north, to the spot where the last bits of Mirage evaporated to ether after he transported me to safety. “I almost did.”

  “No, I mean … until today, I thought you were dead. They cut us off from everything after we landed. No news from the outside, just debriefing after debriefing. I found out you were alive when that chopper you chartered flew in to pick me up from the detention center about an hour ago.”

  My gaze snaps to him. He stares back. His eyes are the only thing that look exactly the same as before—they’re a sharp, demanding blue. “They let you believe I was dead?” I ask, hardly able to get the words out past my anger. “For three months?”

  That’s why he was upset that I hadn’t sent him letters. While I hid out with my brother until the government stopped trying to haul me in for questioning, he was stuck in a detention center along with all the other people who got pulled out of the escape pods. He had no family, no friends. He probably thought there was no one left alive who cared if he ever got out. And then he boarded a helicopter and got his first taste of the news since his arrival in the real world.

  My famous interview. The protests it spawned. The demands for the islanders’ freedom, for a peaceful first contact initiative, for the full crash-site findings to be released to the public. My story—and Elliott’s story, which I had to tell without his permission—was the catalyst for something big, something that’s still in the making. Something he didn’t get to have a say in.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him again.

  He sighs. “I’m sorry too. Thanks for saving my life. You’re still an ass.” But he smiles a little as he says it, forgiving me once again.

  We stare at the moonlight reflecting off the waves in silence. I wonder if he’s seeing his ghosts the way I’m seeing mine.

  “You could stay with us,” I say eventually. “If you want. Until you figure out what you want to do.” This offer is one of the main reasons I brought him here—so I could make it in person, so he would know I was serious—but I try to make it sound casual anyway, because I’m still me.

  “Stay with you? Here on the island?” His tone is flat.

  I make a face. “God, no. I don’t live here.”

  “Then why exactly are you here?”

  I stand up. I pull the shard of Mirage out of my pocket. This is the one thing I held back from the interview. If the authorities knew this existed, they’d take it away in two seconds flat. I can’t let them.

  “I’m here because of this,” I tell Elliott.

  He stands to get a better look at what I’m holding. He reaches out, takes the shard—and then grasps my hand, pulling my palm flat. The Being sting is a circle of scarred flesh now. There
’s no red ring around it anymore, but black veins still bolt across most of my palm.

  Elliott looks at me. Some emotion flits over his face, a cross between accusation and concern. “I thought this would be gone,” he says.

  I sweep my thumb over the spot. “Not gone,” I say. “But it’s healed. Mostly.”

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “Sometimes,” I admit. “But it’s okay.”

  And it really is. He must see it in my face, because he lets my hand drop and examines the shard. His eyes widen. “Is this a piece of the ship?”

  “Yeah. No one else knows about it.”

  He stares at the jagged piece of glass in his hand. Then, suddenly, his breath catches and he fumbles the shard. I dive to catch it, then tuck it safely back in my pocket.

  Elliott shakes his head. “Sorry. I thought I saw …”

  “Colors?” I supply. “Flickering across its surface?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s why we’re here. One of the researchers who lobbied to study the wreckage on the island is a consciousness expert. I want to take the shard to him, have him examine it. He and his team were supposed to get here three days ago—which is why I got here three days ago—but they got delayed till this morning. Then I found out you’d be released tonight, so I decided to wait a little longer.” I start walking toward the prefab buildings behind us, motioning Elliott to follow.

  After a second, he does. “You think Mirage might still be alive.”

  “Maybe. If he is, we have to help him.”

  “We?”

  “Me. The researcher. You, if you’ll help me. Ty.”

  He pauses. “So you really did find your brother?” he asks at last. There’s something in his voice that wants to be glad but can’t quite manage it. After all, he doesn’t have a brother anymore.

  I hunch my shoulders. “Yeah,” I confirm.

  “And … he’s part of the ‘us’ you invited me to stay with earlier.”

  “Yes. If you want.”

  He doesn’t answer for a second. We pick our way through the debris on the street, walk past the rubble that used to be the storm drain where I hid to watch Sam Garcia’s exile. It’s also the storm drain where Elliott escaped his mother, that last day at the bridge.

  “I’d like that,” Elliott says at last. We’ve come to the biggest prefab building. He reaches for the door’s handle, pulls it open. “My dad is still somewhere in Miami, I think. He was always close with Braedan. I hated him, but now I think that might be mostly because my mom hated him. Maybe I’ll … reach out. See if he wants to talk.” There’s only a small catch in his voice when he mentions his mother. He knows she’s gone—he’ll have to have seen her body next to mine when he found me on Mirage—but I know that it’ll keep hurting, in one way or another, for the rest of his life.

  “That’s a good idea,” I tell him, then pause. I’m standing at the entrance of the building, one foot on either side of the threshold. A familiar compulsion rises in me.

  Elliott notices. He doesn’t say anything. He waits.

  I’ve been seeing Dr. Washburne—the same therapist I used to see pre-Fracture, who was understandably surprised to find me alive and back on his roster of patients—since I returned. He’s helped me understand that flare-ups and changes in my obsessive fears are normal. We’re working through some more exposure and response prevention therapy and it’s helped me gain a lot of ground as well as a better understanding of myself and my OCD. It’ll be a while before I’m okay, and maybe I’ll never completely get there … but at the very least, I’m starting to be okay with not being okay. That’s new, and actually kind of wonderful.

  I step over the threshold. I tap the doorway, but only once on either side. One: an okay number, but not nearly as safe as three or five. Anxiety stirs in my gut and I let it exist.

  My palm twinges. I glance down at it—at the darkness that still hurts sometimes, at the injury that will never completely heal. But that’s okay. I’m learning to accept what I have. I’m learning to accept the middle ground:

  An imperfect recovery.

  A life that’s streaked with shadows—but still brilliant.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Although this book is a work of fiction, the obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) that Marty grapples with is a very real—and often very isolating and scary—experience for many teens and adults. If his struggles resonate with you, please know that you are not alone.

  For more information about OCD, you can visit intrusivethoughts.org or iocdf.org (the International OCD Foundation’s website). From 6 to 10 p.m. Pacific Time, teenagers can also call Teen Line at (800) TLC-TEEN ([800] 852-8336) to talk to teen volunteer listeners trained to provide support for those dealing with anxiety, depression, bullying, and a wide range of other issues.

  For those who have or suspect they may have OCD, speaking with a trained mental health professional is also highly recommended, if circumstances allow.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to my awesome agent, Naomi Davis, my fantastic editor, Lauren Knowles, my immensely talented designer, Rosie Stewart, and the whole team at Page Street. You all take such good care of me and my books, and I am so grateful for your hard work and investment.

  Thank you to those who read drafts and/or helped me brainstorm elements of this story: Kira Watson, Sher-May Loh, Alicia Jasinski, Mark O’Brien, and Alyssa Chrisman. Thank you also to my lovely critique partners Chelsea Bobulski and Casey Lyall, whose encouragement has gotten me through so many hard times.

  Thank you to Dr. Jonathan Grayson, author of Freedom from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, a book that served as an invaluable resource in my study of OCD. Thanks also to Andrea.

  Thanks to the TV shows, movies, books, creators, characters, and games that inspire me: Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton, Thor: Ragnarok, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, Firefly, Doctor Who, CW’s The Flash, Voltron: Legendary Defender, Final Fantasy XV, BBC’s Sherlock, Megan Whalen Turner’s Queen’s Thief series (read it—seriously), and The Good Place.

  Thank you to Paige, superhero librarian and passionate champion of books.

  Thank you to my family and friends. I especially want to thank my magnificent best friend, Britton, whose encouragement and take-no-prisoners boldness brings me life every day.

  Thank you to my husband, Caleb, whose steadfastness (read: willingness to put up with me) often astounds me.

  Thank you to my daughter—my little girl, full of fire—for lighting up my life with her zeal, curiosity, and kindness. May I someday be worthy of you.

  Thank you to the God who walked me through my own shadows, even—especially?—when I didn’t want to face them.

  And last, thank you to my readers. The book that you hold in your hands is my soul. It was both the most fulfilling and the scariest thing that I’ve ever written, and part of it will always belong to you now.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Naomi Hughes grew up all over the United States before finally settling in the Midwest, a place she loves even though it tries to murder her with tornadoes every spring. She writes quirky young adult fiction full-time. When she’s not writing, she likes to knit, travel with her husband and daughter, and geek out over British TV and Marvel superheroes.

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten
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  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2019 Naomi Hughes

  First published in 2019 by

  Page Street Publishing Co.

  27 Congress Street, Suite 105

  Salem, MA 01970

  www.pagestreetpublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  eISBN 978-1-62414-891-0

  Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension. 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019934491

  Cover design by Rosie Stewart for Page Street Publishing Co. Image of boy © Shutterstock / Nejron Photo