While You Were Gone

by Amy K. Nichols

  She smiles at me like, Isn’t that nice? and turns to Eevee. “Curious display this morning. I’m sure the Art Guild found your paintings interesting, to say the least.”

  “I’m sure they loved yours.”

  “Well, Antonio did say he overheard some members saying my work was outstanding.”

  “If anyone’s art is outstanding,” I say, making the word sound as snooty as I can, “it’s this girl’s right here.” I lean over and kiss Eevee on the cheek. She looks embarrassed. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.

  Vivian raises an eyebrow. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” And she walks away.

  “What was that about?” I ask. “Didn’t you say you weren’t doing the jury exhibit?”

  “I wasn’t,” she says, finally taking her eyes off Vivian. “But at the last minute, I had this crazy idea.”

  “You entered the paintings that were in your room, didn’t you?”

  She nods. “I thought it would be cool to take a stand. Show them who I really am. But now…” She shrugs.

  “Are you kidding? I think that’s incredible. And so brave.”

  “Or stupid.”

  As she’s telling me about the morning, my head gets this weird feeling, like the floor is moving, like I’m still out on the ocean with Dad. I hold on to the table, expecting the cold and the static to start up. Maybe it’s just the champagne I drank. Hopefully, that’s all it is.

  I put my hands on her arms and look her in the eye. “I’m so sorry. Stay here. I promise I’ll be right back.” And I walk out of the ballroom, tugging at my collar. On the far side of the entrance is a large square pillar. I lean back against it and breathe, praying I’m not about to jump.

  Voices speak low on the other side of the pillar and the word December catches my ear. “He knows it wasn’t us, so now he thinks there’s a real cell at work.”

  “And you’re playing it up?”

  “Of course. The more paranoid he is, the more mistakes he’ll make.”

  “Things could still work in his favor if the rollout is successful.”

  “That won’t matter. If people don’t show, great. If they do, we run a false flag that exploits the system’s weaknesses. Either way, we win.”

  Even though my head is still wonky, I slink away from the pillar. Whatever they were talking about, it didn’t feel right to listen. From the corner of my eye, I watch the two men. One leaves. The other turns to walk back into the ballroom. It’s Senator Hayes.

  I find a restroom and splash water on my face, trying to get my head together before going back in. “Not now,” I mutter at my reflection, expecting the floor to open and swallow me down.

  It takes me a minute to find her again in the ballroom. She’s been trapped by a couple of women and a towering flower arrangement. She excuses herself and makes a beeline for me. “You’re back, finally! Everything okay?” She adjusts my tie and rests her hand on my chest.

  “Yeah. I just got overwhelmed. Needed to breathe.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Welcome to my world.”

  The band stops playing and someone up on the stage taps the microphone. The speeches are about to start.

  She slips her hand into mine. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I lead him through the crowd around the stage. This is always the dullest part of the gala. They’ll blab on for an hour at least. No one will notice we’re gone.

  We exit the ballroom and take a left, passing the bar and heading for the patio. He holds the door open for me, brushing my shoulder as I walk through. The night air raises goose bumps on my arms. It’s less crowded out here than in the ballroom, but there are still so many people lounging around the fire pits. Too bad. A fire would be nice.

  We walk hand in hand down the steps toward the pool. On the far side, the seating is more secluded. Darker too. As soon as we pass the corner of a shrouded cabana, his arm moves around my waist and his lips touch the back of my neck. Dizzy, I turn and slip my hands inside his coat. My fingers run down his back and sides as his hands search out my hips, my neck, the small of my back. He pulls me close, lifting me to kiss my neck, my collarbone. I melt into him, and in a heartbeat, the days of separation dissolve away, taking with them all the stress and care and worry. We’re together, and we’re free.

  But then he stops, resting his forehead against mine, our lips barely touching. His breath is warm against my skin. His eyes are closed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I’m running out of time.”

  “We have all night.” I kiss him again, but he holds back and takes my hand.

  “Eevee, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  My stomach cartwheels. “Wait. You’re breaking up with me?”

  “No.” He traces his finger along my jawline. “You were so brave today, sharing your secret art with the world. I just…I’m tired of keeping my secret from you.” He swallows hard. “Eevee, I’m not who you think I am.”

  I take a small step back. “What?”

  His eyes never leave mine as he tells me about another world, another him—another me, even. It’s fantastical and bizarre and awful and there’s no way any of it could be true because it’s ridiculous and that’s not how the world works. I blink, my mind racing. “No, that’s impossible. We met outside the museum the night of Bosca’s exhibit.”

  “That wasn’t me.”

  “Yes, it was,” I say, trying to keep my voice down. “I should know. I kissed you.”

  “You kissed him.”

  “Who?”

  “The other Danny.”

  “Oh my God.” I pull away from him. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because…” He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I think it’s going to happen again, and I want you to know in case it does.”

  He takes a step toward me, but I hold up my hands. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I think you should just—”

  I don’t give him the chance to leave. I leave him instead, stumbling back through the crowds of people swarming the lobby, to the cars waiting in the hotel drive. Jonas takes one look at my face and opens the rear passenger door. I climb in, curl into the backseat and fall apart. The engine starts and we drive away. He doesn’t say anything, but even if he did, it would all be wrong. The voice in my head returns. You’ll be sorry.

  She left.

  I grab a glass from a waiter on the patio. And another from a tray in the lobby. Pound a few more until the floor is no longer flat. I stumble into the ballroom, hell-bent on kicking up trouble.

  But something stops me.

  No.

  Someone.

  He grabs my arms and steers me out to the lobby. My head flops back and I stare up at the stars falling from the ceiling above. Angry shouting pounds in my ears. Frightened faces blur in my eyes. Bits of white paper float down from the upper level and scatter across the mosaic floor. What do they say? My head falls forward, but he holds me tight. I fight against him and reach down to snag one. The bar-code-head guy screaming. Everywhere I look, the bar-code-head guy screaming. I crumple the flyer in my fist as he walks me off the carpet, his hands holding me up, his brown shoes pounding the marble. My own feet stumble, confused. Outside, he practically carries me to the car. Opens the door, pushes me inside, drives me away.

  Saturday morning, I wake up in my bed at the Executive Tower with my feet tangled in the sheets and a headache throbbing behind my eyes. I wish for stars, but above me there’s just a blank white ceiling. One look at my dress lying in a heap on the floor and the sadness comes flooding back. The clock reads 10:23. I force myself up, change into yoga pants and a T-shirt and shuffle off in search of water.

  The place is empty. No sign of life. My steps through the hall are the only sound. Must have been quite a party last night. Everyone is still sleeping it off.

  My mind slips into the memory of his lips and hands, his eyes looking into mine. I try to shake it away, but my heart is a sinkhole caving i
n. I grip the back of a chair and my shoulders shake as tears stream silently down my face. It was supposed to be a perfect night. But instead, it’s all in pieces. Just like everything else in my—

  Someone else is awake. I walk toward the kitchen, wiping my eyes, and hear Dad say, “I’m telling you, they’re out there. Something has to be done.”

  Richard responds, but his voice is too low to make out what he says. I inch closer to the door.

  “How am I supposed to secure a city when I can’t keep jackasses from crashing my own event?”

  Something must have happened after I left last night. Something bad.

  “I want it switched on,” Dad says. “Now.”

  Richard says something about public safety.

  Dad gets angry. “I don’t care what he says. Skylar is a go. If McAllister doesn’t agree, he can find another job.”

  Richard mumbles again. I press my ear to the door. Dad says, “Find out who’s behind these events. I don’t want to get caught with my pants around my ankles if there’s an actual threat.”

  There’s movement behind the door. Quickly, I duck back out into the hallway, then retrace my steps toward the kitchen. The door where I’d just been listening opens, and both Richard and Dad walk out. They look surprised to see me.

  “Good morning, honey,” Dad says. “Did you sleep well?”

  Pain pulls me from my sleep. My head feels like it’s coming apart, my eyes like they’re glued shut. I force one open and squint. Everything hurts. I peer into the light until the room comes into focus.

  How did I get home? Through the haze I remember brown shoes on red carpet, car doors slamming. What happened?

  Then it all comes back.

  I told her. And she left.

  My head falls back into the mattress and one arm flops down to the floor.

  I blew it. I had it all. Everything was right there in my hands, and I blew it.

  Fighting through the pain, I push myself up. One thing’s for sure: This Danny is a lightweight. My head feels drier than desert dirt. I fumble along the hallway to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. On the table is the morning paper. The headline declares GALA DISASTER. Photos show panicked people frozen midstep as they leave the hotel. The floor around them is littered with pieces of paper. An inset shows a close-up of the flyer, and a smaller headline reads GRAFFITI FLYER MYSTERY.

  What happened? I turn the pages, scanning the photos for a glimpse of Eevee, but she’s not there. I hope that means she left before all of this happened.

  She left. I flop into a chair and hold the glass to my forehead. If only she’d listened. If only I’d said it all better.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” Dad says, walking into the kitchen.

  I slide the paper across the table. “Did you see this?”

  “Didn’t need to,” he says, pouring a cup of coffee. “You don’t remember me bringing you home?”

  I look up at him, surprised. “That was you?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Next time, lay off the booze.”

  “No kidding.”

  “So,” he says, sitting across from me. He swirls a spoon in his mug. Every ting is like a nail in my brain. “Things didn’t go well with your date?”

  “You could say that.” I turn another page. More photos, more stories and still no sign of her. Gala disrupted in serious security breach, one article reads. Masked protesters infiltrated the Regency Majestic…disseminated subversive propaganda…hotel searched for explosives…minor injuries reported…governor and his family safe…

  Safe. My eyes lock in on the word, but it doesn’t quiet the fear rattling around inside. I want to see her, hold her, know for sure she’s okay. I close my eyes and relive the moment she pulled away, the look on her face as she disappeared into the crowd. Everything after blurs in a fog of alcohol and confusion. “Wait—why were you there?”

  He sips his coffee and sets the mug back down. “I was looking out for you.”

  “Because of this?” I point at the paper.

  “I tried to talk you out of going,” he says, his voice low, “but I knew the more I pushed, the more you’d run right to it. You’re like me that way.”

  “But I don’t get it. How did you know?”

  He slides the paper toward himself, scans the stories, then slides it back with his finger pointing at two words: antigovernment protesters.

  “Is that the group—”

  He puts a finger to his lips and tips his head toward the back door. I follow him outside, crossing the cold patio into the colder grass. The air clears my head a little, but my eyes water from the change in light. He stops in the middle of the yard and looks around before saying, “They were planning something big. I already wasn’t okay with the idea, but when you announced you were going to the gala, I knew I had to do something.”

  “That’s why they kicked you out, isn’t it?” I say, remembering his confession after the Hydro. “Because you tried to stop the plan for the gala.”

  He nods. “I went down there last night just in case they stuck to their original plan. When security started searching for bombs, I grabbed you and got the hell out.” He sighs and looks back toward the house. “What a messed-up world, huh?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “My guess is every world has its problems.”

  He looks at me for a moment, then shakes his head.

  “Dad,” I say, stopping him as he starts to walk back to the house. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

  “Of course,” he says. “You’re my son.”

  I hide away in my room with my Retrogressives book, ignoring his messages on my phone. But my sadness and confusion run so deep that not even van Gogh can save me. Whenever my mind wanders to him, wondering where he is or what he’s doing, I remember his lies. So many lies. I let myself dwell on all of the times he fooled me into believing what wasn’t true. Being the governor’s daughter complicates things. It’s difficult to know who to trust. When it’s finally time to leave for school on Monday morning, I throw my stuff into my overnight bag. I leave the red dress hanging in the closet.

  The Executive Tower buzzes with activity. It seems every government official is either here in person or on the phone. Dad’s advisors pace the halls. They hardly notice me passing.

  I stop at the door to Dad’s office. He’s leaning back on his desk, arms folded, surrounded by officials. Everyone is talking at once. Senator Hayes taps him on the arm and points at me.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Dad says, “but this young lady needs my attention.” He walks over, a sad smile on his face. “Heading back to school?”

  I nod and glance at all the people. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing you need to be concerned about.” He steers me into the hallway. “Listen, I’m sorry your night didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”

  “I’m sorry yours didn’t either.”

  He looks over his shoulder and lowers his voice. “Honey, I think it’s best if you stick around school for a while, at least until things settle down.” Then he hugs me and says, “Don’t worry, though. I’ve alerted security to keep an eye on you.”

  When Jonas and I are a few blocks from the Tower, I see why.

  DPC forces move in teams, rounding up people from businesses and homes. Men, women, children. They wait in long lines, single file, for their turn at the mobile registration units. All those Unknowns soon to be Knowns. I roll down my window. Sirens echo, ricocheting off the skyscrapers. A female voice repeats directions over the PA system. “Proceed in an orderly fashion to the nearest DPC checkpoint. Your compliance is required.”

  Neither Jonas nor I say anything as we drive through the streets. He only looks at me once in the rearview. When he does, his eyes are worried.

  Farther out, protesters gather in approved areas cordoned off and guarded by soldiers. A parking lot here. A dirt lot there. Angry and shouting, they pound against the chain-link fencing and raise signs into the air.
I’m surprised they aren’t all carted away. I’m surprised they think their protesting will make any difference. But then, I was naive enough to think I could change the world, too.

  Monday afternoon, Mom walks into the kitchen, holding a piece of paper. “This was on the front door.”

  “What is it?” Dad asks, and she hands it to him. I get up from the couch and join them at the table.

  When the announcement came blaring over the radio and TV this morning, I freaked. Out of nowhere, a female voice had said the city was on lockdown. It’s crazy that they can just do that—decide no one is allowed to leave the house, go to work, go to the mailbox, play in the backyard. So here we sit, listening to trucks rumble up and down the street, trying to pretend we aren’t all going crazy from the pressure and the not knowing.

  “We have until sundown tomorrow to register with Skylar,” Dad says, letting the paper fall from his hands. He rubs his forehead. Mom throws her own hands up in frustration.

  So that’s that. Mac’s attempt to shut down Skylar over safety concerns failed. Our plan to take out the system with M chips failed. Anytime now, Skylar will be switched on, I’ll jump back to the other world, and this one will be clamped down in a state of constant surveillance.

  Government wins. We lose.

  Another truck rumbles by. Mom stops pacing and goes to the window. Dad picks up a pen and doodles on the Sunday paper still lying where I left it yesterday. Gripping the pen, he gives Governor Solomon a black eye and draws a pointed tail on the back of Senator Hayes. The conversation I overheard outside the ballroom drifts into my mind.

  If people don’t show, great. If they do, we run a false flag that exploits the system’s weaknesses. Either way, we win.

  “What does ‘false flag’ mean?”

  Dad doesn’t look up. He’s now defaced almost every picture on the front page. “Uh…” He moves to the inset photo of the flyer, transforming the bar-code-head guy into a skull. “It’s when a group sets up an attack on its own people but blames someone else. Why?”