“Good morning, darling,” Cass said when she saw her, and she leaned in to kiss Lucy’s cheek, but Lucy ducked away from the kiss and walked straight over to the chair that held her bag. It was right where she left it, untouched. She slung it up on her shoulder and walked back toward the door, head bent down to the floor. But Cass stood in her way, blocking her exit. “I was going to bring it to you.” Cass nodded toward the bag. “But I figured you would come back if you needed it.”
Lucy mumbled something incoherent—a mix of “it’s not a big deal” and “whatever”—and tried not to look up. If she looked up then Cass would see her threadbare nerves, her bloodshot eyes, and all the questions she had about Cass and Ethan.
“Sit down,” Cass instructed and she pointed a finger to her couch. Lucy turned. There was evidence someone had slept there—several crumpled blankets, an extra pillow. Lucy’s eyes lingered on the remnants of her brother’s presence for a beat too long, and when she turned back to Cass it was clear that Lucy had tipped her hand. Cass raised her eyebrows knowingly.
“I’d prefer to go,” Lucy whispered. “Grant wrote me a letter last night and I didn’t get a chance to read it. Because my bag was here.”
“Read it now,” Cass said. “I’ll pour you a coffee. Then we can go exploring—”
“No,” Lucy replied. “I want to be alone.” Her emphasis was clear. She made a move to leave.
“It’s not what you think.” Cass stretched her long body against the doorway, preventing an escape. “You could ask me about it, if you want. Instead of making all sorts of presumptions that aren’t true,” she said. And then Cass raised her eyebrows, waiting. She added, “Do you have something you want to ask me?”
Acknowledging that Lucy was misguided and pushing all the hostility out in the open caused the air in the room to shift. Now everything felt fragile and tenuous. Lucy let her bag drop off her shoulder and she held it with both hands in front of her.
“You’ve been seeing my brother,” Lucy said. “Behind my back.”
Cass nodded and motioned to the couch, then leaned over and blew on the rising steam of her coffee, displacing it in a cloud. Lucy turned and glanced at the sofa with its discarded reminders that Cass had shared a moment last night with Ethan—and then she looked back at her friend. Cass’s eyes were wide and expectant, but still inviting, and Lucy knew that if she sat down and spoke with Cass to unravel all the details of why and how, she would be forced to abandon her indignation.
She wasn’t willing to do that yet.
Grant’s letter was still unread. And she replayed Ethan and Cass’s conversation in her head—focusing on their intimacy, their chemistry, their playfulness.
“Sit,” Cass said, and motioned again.
Lucy bit her lip, and her hand went to the place where Salem’s necklace usually sat. When she found her neck empty, she placed her hand flat against the upper part of her chest and kept it there, still.
“I have a letter to read,” Lucy replied, and she pushed her way past Cass and out into hallway. The smell of coffee followed her as she went.
“I don’t hold a torch for Ethan,” Cass said, peering out her door. Somehow it seemed unconvincing.
Lucy looked back. She was ten feet down the hall now, standing in front of someone else’s door. The name was in Chinese and she couldn’t read it. “Who says things like that, Cass? You don’t hold a torch? Just stop with your silly ways of saying things, and your flighty kindness like everyone’s your best friend. Why can’t you just be honest with me? Spit it out. Just admit it. Ethan was new and mysterious and fun—”
“Ethan,” Cass raised her voice, “was dismissive and terse and rude.”
“And yet you wanted to spend time with him instead of me?”
“You’re jealous?”
Lucy’s nostrils flared and her jaw clenched tightly.
Cass bowed her head, and when she looked up, she was smirking, but not kindly. “I love you Lucy King,” she said. “But please stop sounding like such a teenage drama queen.” Then she took a step back inside her apartment and slammed the door; the echo of it carried down the hallway and hit Lucy like a slap.
Cass’s words haunted her. Drama queen. Those were words used for Salem or the other flighty girls who reigned supreme back at Pacific Lake High School—the girls fueled by gossip and the need for attention. She was the one who dealt with the drama queens, who stayed in the background of the messes they created and hoped to rise above it all. She could be called so many things, so many barbs would have stuck, and yet Cass chose that one. The one that didn’t.
She had a right to be jealous, didn’t she? She had a right to be upset about the secrets Cass kept. But she didn’t have anyone to talk to about it. No one whose guidance and counsel she could seek.
Holding Grant’s letter, Lucy slipped out into the main tower of Kymberlin and stood where the party had been the night before. The space was now clean and empty, and it boasted a woman in a blue pantsuit with a button that said New Arrival Liaison. Ask me about your day! A young couple with a weepy toddler stood at her table. The woman pointed toward the elevator and then leaned down, holding out a sticker to the boy, who snatched it tentatively.
As the family walked away, Lucy walked up.
“Good morning,” Lucy said, her voice dry. She swallowed and cleared her throat. She was wearing the same dress from yesterday. It felt itchy against her skin. “Good morning,” she tried again.
“Good morning, Miss King,” the woman replied. “May I direct you to a specific location this morning?”
Lucy stood there, her hands dangling by her sides, and she tilted her head. “Oh,” she said, taken aback. “I just—” she brought her hand up over her neck again. Her eyes scanned the atrium, and she spotted the tiny domed camera, like at a Las Vegas casino, positioned above the arrival liaison’s head. The woman smiled, a bleached-white grin, and kept her eyes trained on Lucy. “I need—” Lucy started again and then she shook her head. “I’m fine. I’ll just explore.”
“Of course,” the liaison said. “May I recommend floors one through five? The museum of North American artifacts is quiet interesting. Or, of course, there’s always the library. And if you need anything, Lucy, please don’t hesitate to come back.” Without missing a beat, the woman turned her attention to a man standing behind Lucy. “Ohayou gozaimasu, Tanabe-san. May I help you find your way?” The man spoke in Japanese and the woman bowed and made murmurs of understanding; Lucy shook her head, confused, and began to walk backwards, but she stumbled when she hit someone walking behind her. Hot liquid traveled down her back and she shrieked, spinning, to see Gordy standing there, his coffee cup now half-empty, brown streaks of liquid dripping off the sides. There was a puddle of coffee on the carpet beneath them.
“This is brand new,” Gordy chastised, looking at Lucy and the mess with disdain. He snapped his fingers toward the liaison, and she pushed a button on her table and nodded at him with a smile.
“I’m so sorry,” Lucy said, and she bent down to the spill. Digging in her bag, Lucy felt a hot flush in her cheeks, and she tried to eke out another apology, but it came out mangled. “I have...maybe...some...” she stammered. Lucy pulled out a t-shirt, her last remaining clean clothes, tossed it on to the coffee, and rubbed the stain with flustered vigor.
“Stop, stop,” Gordy said, pushing her hands away. “Don’t grind it in.” He tossed the t-shirt back to her—a stain had formed under the armpit and across the right arm. Besides her sundress and her Kymberlin sweat suit, that t-shirt and a pair of jeans were the only clothes she owned. She hoped that their ocean view home had a washing machine. She doubted it. “Stand up.” Lucy obeyed.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, looking down.
“You’re a mess,” Gordy replied.
“Like always? Or just right now?”
The question made him pause and offer her a hint of a smile. He motioned to the stain, “I overrea
cted. It’s nothing. Just a spill. Tatiana will get someone up here to clean it up...but you...your shirt.”
“I’m fine. It’s fine.” Lucy shoved the t-shirt back into her bag and began to walk away toward the main elevator. The coffee-soaked dress clung to her back and felt lukewarm against her skin. She pushed the button and the glass elevator greeted her, and when she stepped inside, she saw Gordy sneak in right behind her. She shoved herself into the corner, and busied herself looking down at the floors of shops and signs below.
“Do you just want me to choose?” Gordy asked and Lucy looked at him.
It was the first time she had ever really looked at the man who saved her life back in the System. He had gray hair around the temples, and a soft baby-face that belied his actual age. Gordy had to be closer in age to her father, but he seemed younger, less tired. His skin was shiny and clean, the beginnings of a beard neatly trimmed, and Lucy caught a vague whiff of his fruity aftershave from the other side of the elevator. Not a drip of coffee had found its way to his tailored khaki pants, white shirt, and argyle sweater vest. And instead, Lucy stood there reeking like coffee with her unwashed hair clinging to her neck.
Still, there was something unsettling about Huck’s son. While he had been the one to pull Lucy from the tanks, she had always felt like that had been to save Blair, not her.
“I’m sorry?” Lucy said, confused.
“The floor. Do you want me to choose the floor?” Gordy asked, his hand hovering over the buttons.
Before she had time to answer, Gordy pushed the button that read LL, and the doors shut with a definitive click. The elevator began to descend. Through the windows, Lucy could see everything—the other elevators shifting around the floors, the open expanse of shops and offices. The entire city was located within the first tower of Kymberlin. It was a bustling metropolis of commerce (which Lucy didn’t understand, yet. If she wanted to buy a new shirt, how would she pay for it?) and government. They moved quickly, like Charlie Bucket’s fast-moving ride through the sky, except their elevator was plummeting; although, Lucy could concede that both Wonka and Gordy shared a strangeness: both exuded a calculated air of eccentricity coupled with an arbitrary set of rules.
“Where are we going?” Lucy asked. She scooted herself even further into the corner and wondered if her toothbrush could be used as a weapon.
Gordy smiled. “The lower level, Lucy.”
She looked down. Beneath them was the glass floor of the tower, and underneath that: the ocean. The elevator was not slowing down, not stopping. They risked crashing into the glass and plummeting into the cold, icy waters of the Atlantic. Except they didn’t. The cylindrical box dropped them down past the floor, and instead of people, shops, and government offices, now Lucy was staring out at the ever-darkening waters of the sea.
When they stopped and the doors opened, Lucy gazed at the hallway stretching out before her, and she looked at Gordy.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to travel down creepy hallways under the ocean with strangers,” Lucy said. She pressed herself further back against the glass.
“Come on,” Gordy said. “I don’t bite.”
“That’s up for debate,” Lucy replied quickly. His face shifted, softened--it was vaguely feline in nature, as though Lucy was nothing more than a toy to bat at.
Extending his hand, which Lucy ignored, Gordy tried again. “My dad built this place. It’s called the Remembering Room. I think you should see it, and then you can be on your way. Go up to the 6th floor for a massage or the 40th to visit the library. Take an aptitude test and apply for a job. You’ll settle in here, Lucy. No doubt.” He exited the elevator, and then he turned back to wait for her disembark.
But Lucy pushed the close button several times and willed the door to shut faster.
“No thanks,” she mumbled, not wanting to appear too rude. “I have...a plan...a date. I’m meeting someone.” The door shut and Gordy disappeared. Without another plan, Lucy pushed the button for the 40th floor and shuddered.
She didn’t trust him. Couldn’t trust him. But he made himself so likeable, so engaging. He spoke to her like she mattered, like he knew her, and like he cared for her wellbeing. It was a trait he had inherited from his father. And it made him very, very dangerous.
The library was well stocked, and the books came from a variety of places—the Library of Congress, the New York and the Boston Public Libraries, the Codrington Library of Oxford, the British Library, the Abbey Library of St. Gallen, and others from around the world: Russia, China, Canada, and Germany. The lights were dimmed and people milled about in reverence for the new collections displayed at Kymberlin. A sign outside the thick mahogany doors, which were no doubt lifted from some place of cultural and social significance, claimed that library tours of the other Islands would begin after the move-in phase was completed. For now, everyone was isolated to their own Islands. Kymberlin would hold her captive.
Still, the library was breathtaking both in scope and majesty. She knew now that everything here had been brought to this place in the last month by Huck’s stealthy army. Wearing suits to protect them from cholera, dysentery, the gelatinous slime of the rapidly decaying bodies, the men and women moved like ghosts through the empty cities. Anything of value was saved and everything else would be left to the elements. Over time nature would take back the earth, while humans lived on inside their manmade quarantine.
Lucy looked for the quietest section of the library and settled into a chair that had a small plaque on the arm boasting that it originated from the “Former Vatican of Vatican City.” She hadn’t wanted to read Grant’s letter while moving from one place to another, she hadn’t wanted to give him flyby attention. Grant deserved every second of her undivided devotion; he deserved respect. When she was certain that no one else was around, Lucy dug her finger under the lip of the sealed envelope and pulled Grant’s letter free.
Dear Lucy, he had written: I don’t know what to say right now. Nothing sounds right. And you know I’m not very good with things like this...because I’ll probably just turn it into a joke. Not like a stupid joke, like that one I told you in Cass’s skylight room, when your hair smelled like lemon and I thought if I didn’t make you laugh then I was going to lose you. (Do you remember that joke?) She remembered the punchline: call him anything you want because he won’t be able to hear you. She only remembered it because of the way Grant giggled when he told her, and how she felt simultaneously embarrassed for him and more in love with him. His single dimple had been so deep that she had to resist an urge to stick her finger into the divot.
I know, I know. You think that’s me being all exaggeratory. I don’t think that’s a real word. I’m sorry I’m not good with words. If it IS a real word, then see? I’m smarter than you give me credit for.
Before I get to the real reason for this letter, I want to tell you all the things about you that I think are wonderful. Isn’t that a good idea?
I love the way you blush when you’re embarrassed. She blushed. And I love how you give whatever you have to the people you love. And you’re not afraid to sacrifice everything for someone...or stand up for them. Someone like me.
And you’re funny. Your little sarcastic moments make me smile.
You’re the strongest person I know. You never waver. You’re stronger than I am. It’s a fault of mine that I want to please people. When I think about how determined you are, it makes me want to be the man that you deserve. A fighter. You deserve a fighter.
So, Lula, it comes down to this. I don’t think I’ll ever be safe in this world, and it scares me. I think I’ll spend my entire life being looked at as some outsider who conned his way into the future by the fortune of some happy accident. (You are the happy accident, btw.) So, when you leave me down here, I can’t help but be afraid...I won’t be able to help thinking that every time you aren’t here to save me, my hours are numbered. You know all those damsel in distress stories you hate? I hate to br
eak it to you, but I think I’m the damsel in distress. Doh. Plot twist: role reversal. And the truth is, I don’t think I’m capable of saving myself. That’s the sad part.
How many times will other people save me before I will feel safe? Is it bad that you are what makes me feel the most secure? A life with you is all I want. It’s all I need. I can’t wait to see you again on the Islands. It has to be soon, Lula. It will be soon.
Okay. I didn’t want this letter to be sad. That’s why I wanted to tell you all the reasons why I loved you. (I remembered another one. Your realness. Honesty. The way you roll your eyes when you get annoyed.) But this thing is too damn gloomy. It’s just because I’m going to be stuck without you for a long time and any life without you is a life absent of hope and laughter. And you make me feel like there is a future for us. Maybe a real one. With kids.
She took the letter and put it down for a second. Leave it to Grant to say something so tender and so ridiculous in one breath. She had to wait until her excitement and annoyance passed before she could keep reading. He wasn’t allowed to wax romantic about a future that couldn’t happen. How could he not see it? In the same breath as writing that he would never feel safe, he discussed wanting to start a family? He wanted to tell her that she was brave while communicating that he would never be brave enough? Grant wasn’t dumb; he was wise and fair. It was what attracted her to him to begin with—he wasn’t like all the other guys. But his wisdom had a blind spot when it came to discussing the future. He looked at their time on the Islands as the start of a new chapter, a new adventure. Lucy didn’t have those misconceptions.
After a long second, she picked the letter up and continued.
I love you, Lucy. That’s not hard to say. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever had to say. You’re easy to love. But here’s the thing...you have to decide what loving me will cost you. You see, you may think it’s stupid, but I just want you to be happy. I know that you see yourself as someone standing up against the powers that be, and I would never ask to take that away from you. If you want to leave, I already told you that I would leave, too. I’ll follow you anywhere. But if it takes me a long time to get to you? If Copia keeps me and you can’t get to me...if they keep us apart? Do what you need to do Lucy, take every opportunity, and leave the Islands without me. You don’t need my permission…I can be an eighteen-year-old kid who recognizes that his girlfriend doesn’t need his permission for anything she wants to do. But even though you don’t need my permission or even my blessing…you just need to know that you can. That I’ll understand. Leave if you need to. I would never hold it against you.
The Variables (Virulent Book 3) Page 24