by Marie Lu
He draws closer, until I feel his lips against my ear. My entire body trembles. “Do you have any idea?” he says in a soft, broken, hoarse whisper. “Do you know how . . . how badly I wish . . .”
He pulls away long enough to look me desperately in the eyes. “If you don’t love me, just say it—you have to help me. It’d probably be for the best. It’d make it easier to stay away from you, wouldn’t it? I can let go.” He says it like he’s trying to convince himself. “I can let go, if you don’t love me.”
He says this as if he thinks I’m the stronger one. But I’m not. I can’t keep this up any better than he can. “No,” I say through gritted teeth and blurry vision. “I can’t help you. Because I do love you.” There it is, out in the open. “I’m in love with you,” I repeat.
There’s a conflicted look in Day’s eyes, a joy and a grief, that makes him so vulnerable. I realize then how little defense he has against my words. He loves so wholly. It is his nature. He blinks, then tries to find the right response. “I—” he stumbles. “I’m so afraid, June. So afraid of what might happen to—”
I put two fingers against his lips to hush him. “Fear makes you stronger,” I whisper. Before I can stop myself, I put my hands on his face and press my mouth to his.
Whatever shreds of self-restraint Day had now crumble into pieces. He falls into my kiss with helpless urgency. I feel his hands touch my face, one palm smooth and one still wrapped in bandages, and then he wraps his arms frantically around my waist, pulling me so close that I gasp aloud. No one compares to him. And right now, I want nothing else.
We make our way back inside, our lips never apart. Day stumbles against me, then loses his balance, and we collapse backward into my bed. His body knocks the breath out of me. His hands run along my jaw and neck, down my back, down my legs. I tug his coat off. Day’s lips move away from mine and he buries his face against my neck. His hair fans out across my arm, heavy and softer than any silk I’ve ever worn. Day finally finds the buttons on my shirt. I’ve already loosened his, and underneath the fabric his skin is hot to the touch. The heat radiating from him warms me. I savor the weight of him.
Neither of us dares to say a word. We’re afraid that words will stop us, that they’ll tear apart the spell that binds us. He’s trembling as much as I am. It suddenly occurs to me that he must be just as nervous. I smile when his eyes first meet mine and then lower in a bashful gesture. Day is shy? What a strange new emotion on his face, something out of place and yet so fitting. I’m relieved to see it, because I can feel the blush rising hot on my own cheeks. Embarrassed, I feel an urge to cover up my exposed skin. I’ve frequently imagined what this would be like, lying with Day for the first time. I’m in love with him. I tentatively test these new words again in my mind, amazed and frightened by what they might mean. He is here, and he is real, flesh and blood.
Even in his feverish passion, Day is gentle with me. It is a different gentleness from what I’ve felt around Anden, who is refinement and properness and elegance. Day is coarse, open, uncertain, and pure. When I look at him, I notice the subtle smile playing at the edges of his mouth, the smallest hint of mischief that only strengthens my desire for him. He nuzzles my neck; his touch sends shivers dancing along my spine. Day sighs in relief against my ear in a way that makes my heart pound, a sigh of freeing himself from all of the dark emotions that plague him. I fall into another kiss, running my hands through his hair, letting him know that I’m okay. He gradually relaxes. I suck in my breath as he moves against me; his eyes are so bright that I feel like I could drown in them. He kisses my cheeks, tucking a strand of my hair carefully behind my ear as he goes, and I slide my arms around his back and pull him closer.
No matter what happens in the future, no matter where our paths take us, this moment will be ours.
Afterward, we stay quiet. Day lies beside me with blankets covering part of his legs, his eyes closed in a drowsy half sleep, his hand still entwined with mine as if for reassurance. I look around us. The blankets hang precariously off the corner of the bed. The sheets have wrinkles that radiate out, looking like a dozen little suns and their rays. There are deep indents in my pillow. Broken glass and flower petals litter the floor. I hadn’t even noticed that we’d knocked a vase off my dresser, hadn’t heard the sound of it shattering against the cherrywood planks. My eyes go back to Day. His face looks so peaceful now, free of pain in the dim glow of night. Even naïve. His mouth is no longer open, his brows no longer scrunched together. He’s not trembling anymore. Loose hair frames his face, a few strands catching the city’s lights from outside. I inch forward, run my hand along the muscles of his arm, and touch my lips to his cheek.
His eyes open; they blink at me sleepily. He stares at me for a long moment. I wonder what he sees, and whether all of the pain and joy and fear he had confessed earlier is still there, forever haunting him. He leans over to give me the gentlest, most delicate kiss. His lips linger, afraid to leave. I don’t want to leave either. I don’t want to think about waking up. When I pull him close to me again, he obliges, aching for more. And all I can think about is that I’m grateful for his silence, for not telling me that I am joining us together when I should be letting him go.
IT’S NOT LIKE I HAVEN’T HAD MY SHARE OF MOMENTS WITH girls. I had my first kiss when I was twelve, when I locked lips with a sixteen-year-old girl in exchange for her not ratting me out to the street police. I’ve fooled around with a handful of girls in the slum sectors and a few from wealthy sectors—there was even one gem sector, high school freshman who I’d had a couple days’ romance with back when I was fourteen. She was cute, with pixie-short, light brown hair and flawless olive skin, and we’d sneak off every afternoon to the basement of her school and, well, have a little fun. Long story.
But . . . June.
My heart’s been torn wide open, just like I feared it would be, and I have no willpower to close it back up. Any barrier I might’ve succeeded in putting up around myself, any resistance I might’ve built up against my feelings for her, is now completely gone. Shattered. In the dim blue light of night, I reach out and run one hand along the curve of June’s body. My breathing is still shallow. I don’t want to be the first to say something. My chest is pressed gently against her back and my arm’s resting comfortably around her waist; her hair drapes over her neck in a dark, glossy rope. I bury my face against her smooth skin. A million thoughts pour through my head, but like her, I stay silent.
There’s simply nothing to say.
* * *
I jolt awake in bed, gasping. I can barely breathe—my lungs heave in an attempt to suck in air. I look around frantically. Where am I?
I’m in June’s bed.
It was a nightmare, just a nightmare, and the Lake sector alley and street and blood are gone. I lie there a moment, trying quietly to catch my breath and slow the pounding of my heart. I’m completely drenched in sweat. I glance over at June. She’s lying on her side and facing me, her body still rising and falling in a gentle, steady rhythm. Good. I didn’t wake her. I hurriedly wipe tears from my face with the palm of my uninjured hand. Then I lie there for a few minutes, still trembling. When it’s obvious that I’m not going to be able to fall back asleep, I slowly sit up in bed and crouch with my arms against my knees. I bow my head. My lashes brush against the skin of my arm. I feel so weak, like I just finished climbing up a thirty-story building.
This was easily the worst nightmare I’ve had yet. I’m even terrified to blink for too long, in case I have to revisit the images that danced under my eyelids. I look around the room. My vision blurs again; I angrily wipe the fresh tears away. What time is it? It’s still pitch-black outside, with only the faint glow from distant JumboTrons and streetlights filtering into the room. I glance toward June, watching how the dim lights from outside splash color across her silhouette. This time, I don’t reach out and touch her.
I don’t know how long I sit there crouched like that, taking in one deep lungful of
air after another until my breathing finally steadies. It’s long enough for the sweat beading my entire body to dry. My eyes wander to the room’s balcony. I stare at it for a while, unable to look away, and then I gingerly slide out of bed without a sound and slip into my shirt, trousers, and boots. I twist my hair up into a tight knot, then fit a cap snugly over it. June stirs a little. I stop moving. When she settles back down, I finish buttoning my shirt and walk over to the glass balcony doors. In the corner of the bedroom, June’s dog gives me a curious tilt of his head. But he doesn’t make a sound. I say a silent thanks in my head, then open the balcony doors. They swing open, then close behind me without a click.
I pull myself laboriously onto the balcony railings, perch there like a cat, and survey my surroundings. Ruby sector, a gem sector that’s so completely different from where I came from. I’m back in LA, but I don’t recognize it. Clean, manicured streets, new and shiny JumboTrons, wide sidewalks without cracks and potholes, without street police dragging crying orphans away from market stands. Instinctively, my attention turns in the direction of the city that Lake sector would be. From this side of the building, I can’t see downtown LA, but I can feel it there, the memories that woke me up and whispered for me to come back. The paper clip ring sits heavily on my finger. A dark, terrible mood lingers at the back of my mind after that nightmare, something I can’t seem to shake. I hop over the side of the balcony and work my way down to a lower ledge. I make my way silently, floor by floor, until my boots hit the pavement and I blend into the shadows of the night. My breaths come raggedly.
Even here in a gem sector, there are now city patrols guarding the streets, their guns drawn as if ready for a surprise Colonies’ attack at any moment. I steer clear of them to avoid any questions, and go back to my old street habits, making my way through back alley mazes and shaded sides of buildings until I reach a train station where jeeps are lined up, waiting to give rides. I ignore the jeeps—I’m not in the mood to get chatty with one of the drivers and then have them recognize me as Day, and then hear rumors spreading around town the next morning about whatever the hell they think I was up to. Instead, I head into the train station and wait for the next automated ride to come and take me to Union Station in downtown.
Half an hour later, I step out of the downtown station and make my way silently through the streets until I’m close to my mother’s old home. The cracks in all the slum sector roads are good for one thing—here and there I see patches of sea daisies growing haphazardly, little spots of turquoise and green on an otherwise gray street. On instinct, I bend down and pick a handful of them. Mom’s favorite.
“You there. Hey, boy.”
I turn to see who’s calling. It actually takes me a few seconds to find her, because she’s so small. An old woman’s hunched against the side of a boarded-up building, shivering in the night air. She’s bent almost double, with a face completely covered in deep wrinkles, and her clothes are so tattered that I can’t tell where any of it ends or begins—it’s just one big mop of rags. She has a cracked mug sitting at her dirty bare feet, but what really makes me stop is that her hands are wrapped in thick bandages. Just like Mom’s. When she sees that my attention is on her, her eyes light up with a faint glint of hope. I’m not sure if she recognizes me, but I’m also not sure how well she can see. “Any spare change, little boy?” she croaks.
I dig around numbly in my pockets, then pull out a small wad of cash. Eight hundred Republic Notes. Not too long ago, I would’ve put my life in danger to get my hands on this much money. I bend down next to the old woman, then press the bills into her shaking palm and squeeze her bandaged hands with my own.
“Keep it hidden. Don’t tell anyone.” When she just continues to stare at me with shocked eyes and an agape mouth, I stand up and start walking back down the street. I think she calls out, but I don’t bother turning around. Don’t want to see those bandaged hands again.
Minutes later, I reach the intersection of Watson and Figueroa. My old home.
The street hasn’t changed much from how I remember it, but this time my mother’s home is boarded up and abandoned, like many of the other buildings in the slum sectors. I wonder if there are squatters in there, all holed up in our old bedroom or sleeping on the kitchen floor. No light shines from the house. I walk slowly toward it, wondering if I’m still lost in my nightmare. Maybe I haven’t woken up at all. No more quarantine tape blocks the street off, no more plague patrols hang around outside the house. As I walk toward it, I notice an old bloodstain still visible, if only barely, on the broken concrete leading toward the house. It looks brown and faded now, so different from how I remember it. I stare at the bloodstain, numb and unfeeling, then step around it and continue on. My hand clings tightly to the thick bundle of sea daisies I brought.
When I approach the front door, I see the familiar red X is still there, although now it’s faded and chipped, and several planks of rotting wood are nailed across the door frame. I stand there for a while, running a finger along the dying paint streaks. A few minutes later, I snap out of my daze and wander around to the back of the house. Half of our fence has now collapsed, leaving the tiny yard exposed and visible to our neighbors. The back door also has planks of wood nailed across it, but they’re so rotten and crumbling that all I have to do is put a little weight on them and they come apart in a dull crackle of splinters.
I force the door open and step inside. I remove my cap as I go, letting my hair tumble down my back. Mom had always told us to take our hats off while in the house.
My eyes adjust to the darkness. I step quietly up a few steps and enter the back of our tiny living room. They may have boarded up the house as part of some standard protocol, but the furniture inside the house is untouched, different only in that it’s all covered in a layer of dust. My family’s few belongings are still here, in exactly the same condition as I’d last seen them. The old Elector’s portrait hangs on the room’s far wall, prominent and centered, and our little wooden dining table still has thick layers of cardboard tacked to one of its legs, still doing their job of holding the table up. One of the chairs is lying on the ground, as if someone had to get up in a hurry. That had been John, I now remember. I recall how we’d all headed into the bedroom to grab Eden, trying to get our little brother out before the plague patrols came for him.
The bedroom. I turn my boots in the direction of our narrow bedroom door. It only takes a few steps to reach it. Yeah, everything in here is exactly the same too, maybe with a few extra cobwebs. The plant that Eden had once brought home is still sitting in the corner, although now it’s dead, its leaves and vines black and shriveled. I stand there for a moment, staring at it, and then head back into the living room. I walk once around the dining table. Finally, I sit in my old chair. It creaks like it always did.
I lay the bundle of sea daisies carefully on the tabletop. Our lantern sits in the middle of the table, unlit and unused. Usually, the routine went like this: Mom would come home around six o’clock every day, a few hours after I’d gotten back from grade school, and John would get home around nine or ten. Mom would try to hold off on lighting the table lantern each night until John returned, and after a while Eden and I got used to looking forward to “the lantern lighting,” which always meant John had just walked through the door. And that meant we’d get to sit down to dinner.
I don’t know why I sit here and feel the familiar old expectation that Mom is going to come out from the kitchen and light the lantern. I don’t know how I can feel a jolt of joy in my chest, thinking John is home, that dinner’s served. Stupid old habits. Still, my eyes go expectantly to the front door. My hopes rise.
But the lantern stays unlit. John stays outside. Mom isn’t home.
I lean my arms heavily against the table and press my palms to my eyes. “Help me,” I whisper desperately to the empty room. “I can’t do this.” I want to, I love her, but I can’t bear it. It’s been almost a year. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I
just move on?
My throat chokes up. The tears come in a rush. I don’t bother to stop them, because I know it’s impossible. I sob uncontrollably—I can’t stop, I can’t catch my breath, I can’t see. I can’t see my family because they’re not here. Without them, all this furniture is nothing, the sea daisies lying on the table are meaningless, the lantern is just an old, blackened piece of junk. The images from my nightmare linger, haunting me. No matter how hard I try, I can’t push them away.
Time heals all wounds. But not this one. Not yet.
I DON’T STIR, BUT THROUGH MY HALF-LIDDED, SLEEPY eyes, I see Day sit up in bed beside me and bury his face in his arms. He’s breathing heavily. Seven minutes later he gets up quietly, casts one last glance in my direction, and disappears out the balcony doors. He’s as silent as ever, and if him waking up from his nightmare hadn’t roused me, he would easily have left my room without my ever knowing.
But I do know, and this time I rise right after he leaves. I throw on some clothes, pull on my boots, and head out after him. The cool air washes over my face, and moonlight drenches the whole night in dark silver.
Even in his deteriorating condition, he’s still fast when he wants to be. By the time I catch up with him at Union Station and follow him through the streets of downtown, my heart is pounding steadily in the way it does after a thorough workout. By now, I already know where he’s going. He’s returning to his family’s old home. I look on as he finally reaches the intersection of Watson and Figueroa, turns the corner, and heads inside a tiny, boarded-up house with a faded X still painted on its door.
Just being back here makes me dizzy with the memory. I can’t imagine how much worse it must be for Day. Gingerly I make my way over to the boarded windows, then listen intently for him. He goes in through the back door—I hear him shuffling around inside, his footsteps subdued and muffled, and then stop in the living room. I go from window to window until I finally find one that still has a crack between two of its wooden planks. At first I can’t see him. But eventually I do.