by Amy Engel
Being so close to him startles the breath from my lungs, sends a tear trailing down my cheek. Bishop cups my face with his free hand, wipes away the tear with his thumb. “I’m still yours, Ivy,” he whispers. “I always have been.” His body is warm. His jacket smells like autumn, brittle-backed leaves and chilly sunlight. I watch my hands come up and flatten against his chest. My hands climb higher, skimming over his neck and face, fisting into his hair. My tears are coming faster now, streaming out of me like they haven’t since the day I let go of the fence and stepped into this new world. I drop my head and rest my forehead against his shoulder. My tears soak into his jacket, sting my chapped lips.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper on a hitched breath. “I’m so sorry.” The words sound small to my ears, this apology that can never be big enough to encompass all the ways I’ve wronged him.
Bishop doesn’t speak, but I can feel his uneven breaths against my hair, his hands rubbing my arms. My sweater slips off one shoulder, and his fingers find bare skin. The night air is cold and his hand is warm and my whole body catches fire. I turn my head and run my lips up his neck, kiss the line of his jaw until I find his mouth. Our kisses taste like salt and forgiveness, and I’ve never been so thankful for his arms around me, supporting me, holding me, weaving us together.
I feel hollowed out, but not empty. All my lies and secrets and fears are finally flowing out of me, leaving me floating. I’m light with the knowledge that Bishop and I have found our way back to each other. That in the end, we are stronger together than all the forces that tried to pull us apart. We belong to each other now. Not because someone forced us to marry or bound us with lies, but because we’ve chosen each other. And I understand in a way I never have before that loving someone is always going to feel like flying—the unthinkable drop, the fear of falling, the heart-in-your-throat thrill. It is always going to be impossible until the moment that it’s not and you’re soaring on pure faith, your altitude completely dependent upon something you can’t control.
I pull back slightly, a breathless laugh when his lips chase mine. I trail my fingers over his face, the curve of his cheekbones, the line of his brow. For the first time since he got here, his eyes are twinkling with that barely suppressed amusement I remember so well.
I hold his face between my palms, stare into his eyes. “I love you, Bishop. I never stopped.” It’s the first time I’ve really told him how I feel, the sentiment not disguised as something else or hidden between lies. They are not easy words for me. They don’t flow effortlessly off my tongue. My family taught me to keep them clutched tight, always stingy with the things that matter most. It will take work before the words come naturally to my lips, before what’s in my heart doesn’t feel like something I need to hide. I see the gleam in his eyes and tilt my head, the corners of my mouth lifting even as my tears still flow. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Bishop smiles. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I knew.”
“How did you know?”
He brushes my hair off my face, touches his lips to my temple, my cheek, the sensitive skin below my ear. My eyes close, my heart beating in my throat. “Because for all the ways you’ve changed, you’re still the same girl, Ivy, deep down. The one who says everything with her eyes, with her face, even when she refuses to speak. And I know that girl is brave enough to love me, no matter what it costs her.”
Are most people this lucky? To find someone who really understands them? Someone who accepts all their strange and foreign ways of looking at and approaching the world without constantly trying to change them into someone more like themselves? Letting me be Ivy, when so many others have tried to mold me into a different kind of girl, is the most valuable gift Bishop will ever give me.
Chapter Twelve
“I think I might actually prefer washing clothes to this,” Ash says, causing me to raise my eyebrows over the deer carcass we’re butchering. “I’m serious,” she says. “It feels like this is all we’ve been doing lately.”
“That’s good, though, right? The more meat now, the easier winter will be.”
“Yeah, I know.” Ash sighs. “I’m just sick of blood and guts.”
I huff out a sympathetic breath, thankful at least that the cold weather has eliminated the flies that used to collect around the dead animals in the heat of late summer. Back in Westfall I never got this close to the food I ate, never had to kill it myself or watch its blood soak into the dirt. Never carved it up and ate it later. I didn’t know what hard work it was or how innately satisfying it would be once I got past the gore. Leaning back on my heels, I swipe my hair off my face with the back of my hand.
“When we get done with this, we still need to check the snares,” Ash says.
“I’ll do it,” Bishop says from behind me. He’s getting as good at walking quietly as Caleb and Ash.
I look up at him with a smile, shading my eyes from the early winter sun with my bloody knife. “You’re finished already?”
“Yep, took down a couple trees and got them chopped up. Caleb’s finishing stacking the logs.”
“We’re almost done here,” I tell him. “If you want to wait, I’ll go with you.”
Bishop crouches down next to me, balancing one hand on his ax. With his free hand he brushes my ponytail off my shoulder, leans over, and kisses the tender skin below my ear. “I want to wait,” he says, voice low.
I tell myself it’s stupid to blush over a simple kiss even as my cheeks flame. “Okay,” I croak, clear my throat. “Give me ten minutes.”
“Oh my God,” Ash groans. “You two are so disgusting. I think I liked it better when you weren’t speaking.”
Bishop laughs, pushes himself to standing. “You did not.”
Ash smiles. “You’re right. I didn’t. But don’t let Caleb catch you doing that crap. He’ll give you an earful.”
I go back to carving the deer meat, tell myself I don’t still feel the imprint of Bishop’s lips on my skin. “He has been grouchy lately.”
“I think it’s the lack of walks,” Ash says with a meaningful glance in my direction. “We’ve been too busy for taking time off.” She wiggles her eyebrows up and down and I grin, shaking my head.
“I’m lost,” Bishop says. “He’s grumpy because he misses walking?”
“I’ll fill you in later,” I tell him around a smile.
As if on cue, Caleb rounds the side of the house and glares at Ash and me, stabs a pointing finger in our direction. “Less talking, more doing!” he shouts without breaking stride.
I catch Ash’s gaze, and we burst into laughter at the same moment. “See what I mean?” Ash says between giggles.
Ten minutes later I meet Bishop at the tree line behind the house, the worst of the blood scrubbed from my hands and an extra sweater layered over the one I’m already wearing. “You going to be warm enough?” Bishop asks.
“Sure. If we walk fast.” I’m only half kidding. Caleb’s been saying we’re going to get an early winter this year, and if the rapidly falling temperatures are any indication, he’s right. It’s no wonder he’s anxious about us stockpiling as much food as possible before the first snows hit. Winters now are harsher than they were before the war. It’s not uncommon for us to get more than a hundred inches of snow in a bad winter, and this one is promising to be bad. All the weather is more extreme since we blew the world apart. Hotter summers, colder winters, raging tornadoes, violent floods, unrelenting drought. I wonder what it used to be like, when the seasons didn’t feel like just one more form of violence.
Bishop zips my sweater up all the way to my chin. “We need to get you a warmer coat before it snows.”
“We’ll find something. Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Come on.” We lace our fingers together and head into the woods. I’m still getting used to the easy way we touch now, the way my hand seems to find his without my even thinking about it. These past few weeks have been the first time we’ve touched without the burden of secrets or fear.
The freedom of it has made me greedy.
“Caleb thinks it’s going to snow soon,” Bishop says.
I give a little laugh, shake my head. “Westfall’s not that far from here. How did we grow up not knowing this much about the weather?”
“Because we didn’t have to. We trusted that someone else would take care of what needed doing.”
I glance at him. “Someone like your father?”
We walk a few steps before Bishop answers. “I know you don’t like him, Ivy. But he did a pretty good job of keeping most of us alive.” He squeezes my hand before I can respond. “But he made us lazy, too. Unprepared for handling our own survival.”
“You seem to be doing pretty well.”
“I learned as much as I could. I tried to talk my father into teaching people the basics, so that they could survive if things ever went bad.”
“He didn’t like that idea?”
Bishop shrugs. “He thought it would cause people to panic. Think Westfall wasn’t safe and secure.” He gives a harsh little laugh. “As if anything can be safe and secure nowadays. It’s all an illusion anyway.”
We walk in silence for a bit, leaves crunching under our feet. I could swear the air smells like snow, although it’s probably too early in the season, even with the promise of an early winter. I glance at Bishop. His cheeks glow a faint red in the cold, his alert eyes scanning the woods. He has a rifle slung across his back. Ash didn’t speak to Caleb for an entire day after he gave it to Bishop. Just as in Westfall, guns are prized out here. But Caleb said from watching Bishop he knew he’d be patient, wouldn’t take any unnecessary shots and waste bullets…unlike other people he could name. That’s when Ash had stomped off. The rifle already seems like a natural extension of Bishop’s lean frame, the same way Caleb’s crossbow is a part of his.
“You love it out here, don’t you?” I ask him.
He stops walking and turns to face me. “I love that I feel useful.”
“You’ve always been useful,” I protest, and he’s shaking his head before I can even finish my thought.
“No, I haven’t. Not really. We already have a president in Westfall. We don’t need one just sitting around, waiting in the wings. Especially when he’s not even interested in the position.”
“Okay,” I say conceding the point. “But it’s more than that.”
Bishop reaches out and pulls a piece of leaf out of my hair, crumbles it between his fingers. “I used to beg my father to let me have a job in Westfall. I would’ve been happy with anything. A patrol guard, working in the cotton fields. Anything. But he always said no.”
“Why?”
Bishop sighs. “He thought if I worked a regular job, alongside everyone else, they’d start to see me as one of them. And he believed the only way to keep control was for people to look up to the president, see him as someone above them, not an equal.” Bishop gives his head a little shake. “I used to sit in those council meetings and look around the room and wonder how I ended up there. No one ever asked me what I wanted. Everyone just assumed I would follow in my father’s footsteps and be happy to do it. But I was so bored, restless every second. But out here, I have freedom. Out here, I’m no one’s son. No one expects anything of me. I can be exactly who I want to be.” He looks at me. “What about you? Is this where you want to stay?”
I’m not sure how to answer that question. I care about Ash and Caleb, more every day. I like living a life that’s not filled with lies and is free of having to second-guess my every action for fear I’ll give something away. I like making my own choices. But I’m not sure this is where I belong for the rest of my life. I don’t know if this is where my story ends. “I feel like this is my life now. But I’m not sure it’s my life forever. I’m just not sure what the next step is. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense.” The sky is a dirty white above Bishop’s head, all the trees around us stripped of leaves and their bark the color of ash. It’s like the whole world has turned colorless except for Bishop’s eyes, bright beacons in the unrelenting gray. “We don’t have to have everything planned out. We can take it one season at a time. One day at a time.”
My whole life I’ve been burdened with the knowledge that everything’s been planned for me without my consent. The idea that I can just watch things unfurl organically, make decisions without always thinking about the end game, is something I’m still getting used to. Having choices is what I always wanted, but I still hate that it came at the expense of so many other girls’ futures.
“Do you think everything’s okay in Westfall?” I ask.
Bishop pauses, searching my face. “Do you want it to be?”
He always knows how to get right at the heart of what I’m feeling, slicing through all the unnecessary outer layers to find the kernel of truth. “I still want things to change there,” I say. “And I always will. But I don’t want anyone to get hurt. And I know my family, Bishop. They won’t give up.” On me, yes. On their plans, never.
“My father knows that,” Bishop says. “I’m sure he’s being careful. But we can’t protect any of them, Ivy, not from out here. And we can’t control what happens.”
“I’m sorry you can’t be there with your family,” I say, guilt coloring my words.
Bishop gives me a small smile and pulls me into his arms. “I’m not. We may not be married anymore, but you’re still the most important family I have.” He opens his coat to wrap it around me. “You’re shivering.”
It’s like being in a warm cocoon, and my head drops forward, my lips finding the open vee of his shirt. His skin is so hot against my cold mouth it makes my teeth ache, like swallowing fire. My arms are wrapped around his waist, and I ease my hands under his shirt, spread them across his lower back as I press myself even closer against him. He hisses in a breath and I start to draw my arms back. “Hands too cold?” I ask.
He tightens his hold on me. “No,” he says. “That’s not the problem.”
I run my hands farther up his bare back, flatten myself against him. He sucks in another rough breath. Unlike that night in our bed back in Westfall, at least we are fully clothed this time. “Torture?” I ask him on a whisper as a smile slides across my face.
He tips his head down to mine. “The best kind.”
It turns out all the snares we checked were full, and we returned with six plump rabbits swinging between us and a wild turkey Bishop shot on the walk back. We cooked one of the rabbits for dinner for the four of us to share. Not really enough meat to fill us up, but all we were willing to spare.
“You know what I miss?” I ask Bishop as we lie in bed after dinner, the small lantern still glowing on the bedside table. We’ve all been going to bed earlier and earlier as the days get shorter, running out of things to keep us occupied. It’s going to be a long winter.
Bishop is sitting back against the headboard, and he tilts his head down and looks at me where I’m sprawled across him. “What?” He seems surprised, maybe because I don’t mention Westfall very often, and this makes twice in one day.
“Those oatmeal cookies from the market.” I can practically taste one, the mix of butter and oats melting on my tongue. I haven’t gone hungry since Ash and Caleb found me, but the food is even more basic than what we had in Westfall. Nothing rich or decadent, nothing that lights up your mouth when you bite into it.
Bishop laughs and I elbow him in the side. “Your turn,” I prompt. “Something you miss.”
“Showers,” Bishop says without skipping a beat.
“Ah, good one.” The river isn’t a bad place to wash in warmer weather, but now having to haul water to the house and heat it up whenever we want a bath is exhausting and time-consuming. “Strawberries.”
“You can’t miss something that’s not in season. You couldn’t get strawberries in Westfall now, either.”
“Hey,” I say, “my game, my rules. And I miss strawberries.”
Bishop shakes his head with a smile. “I think you’re ch
eating.”
“I’m not cheating! But fine, how about electricity? I miss electricity. Even though it didn’t work half the time.”
“Better,” Bishops says. “I miss ice.”
“They’ll be plenty of that soon enough. Books.”
“My grandfather’s photo album.”
Something in Bishop’s voice makes me stop our game. I push myself up and straddle his lap so I can see him better. “You had to leave it behind.” Of course he did. It’s not like he could drag it along with him when he ventured beyond the fence. Practicality trumps sentimentality out here.
“Kind of hard to carry,” he says with a small smile.
I rake my fingers through his hair, let my hand linger. “I miss my dad and Callie,” I say. “Or the idea of them, at least.” I miss being someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister. “Even though I probably shouldn’t. I doubt they miss me.”
“You might be surprised.” Bishop runs his fingers over the scar on my forearm, tracing the silvery lines. “You leave a pretty big hole when you disappear.” His hand on my waist tightens, pulling me closer. “And I miss my parents, too. But I had to make a choice, and I chose you. They knew what they were doing, Ivy. They knew you were taking the fall for your family, but they had you put out anyway.”
“Your father?” I always figured Erin didn’t really care about the facts. She just wanted a Westfall punished, and I fit the bill as well as anyone. But I was never sure about President Lattimer, what he really believed.
“I think he felt guilty about it,” Bishop says. “Afterward. Putting you out.” Bishop’s hand moves upward to fiddle with the strap of my tank top, his fingers feathering against my skin, outlining my collarbone. “I think he did it as some sort of twisted gift to my mother.”
Bishop’s hands on me make it hard for me to concentrate, hard for me to breathe. “What do you mean?”
“Like putting you out could make up for the fact that he always loved your mother more. Maybe by hurting you he was showing allegiance to my mother instead of yours. But it ate at him. He didn’t fight very hard when he found out I was leaving.”