So I lifted my chin, indignant. “Well, considering that the whole time we’ve known each other, you’ve never done anything more than touch my hand, anything at all would be a scandal, wouldn’t it?”
Beckett took my hand, as if to prove the point. “It’s my dream that someday you’ll let me remedy that.”
He guided me toward the bathroom door, pausing before pulling it open.
“By the way, when we walk out of this bathroom, don’t be surprised if there’s a guy just waking up from unconsciousness ready to hit me in the face.”
I was grateful Beckett changed the topic, so I didn’t have to respond to his comment about the “remedy” of our relationship.
“Me?” I said. I pressed my hand to my chest, playing the charade already. Pretending I wasn’t still shaking. Making myself believe everything was fine. “Me, getting surprised by that? I wouldn’t think of it.”
56
SAGE
Beckett meant what he said about pretending. After leading me back to the table, he ate a full meal and seemed to enjoy it thoroughly.
Dr. Mitchell, and another scientist who took the stage right after him, both wrapped up their speeches long before dinner concluded.
The live orchestra started up again.
I was fidgeting; my foot wouldn’t stop tapping the ground. But somehow, Beckett made small talk with our table, laughing in all the right places, flashing his charming smile at all the right times, and gaining the particular attention of a middle-aged woman and her husband who eventually pulled Beckett away to mingle.
To his credit, Beckett glanced back at me with apologizing eyes and mouthed, “Be right back.”
I couldn’t blame the lady. Beckett looked good tonight. The tuxedo suited him; his tall, toned build fit it well, and his white shirt paired with the black coat highlighted his tan. His innocent, friendly face and bright white teeth topped off his natural appeal to people. Beckett was warmth and openness … he always had been. And tonight, he’d wrapped his charisma in a sharp outfit.
He was like … upscale sunshine. A fresh breeze.
No wonder people liked him.
A voice from my left interrupted my thoughts.
“May I have this dance?” Sven stood at my side, holding out his hand.
Everything in me tightened, shrunk away from his offer. “No, thank you. I’m not much of a dancer.”
But he took my hand and pulled me out of my chair anyway. “I’ll show you how.” He forced a smile.
We moved stiffly across the room, situating ourselves among several other couples on the dance floor. Sven turned me, placed his hand on my waist, and gripped my free hand in his other.
I did not attempt to cover how uncomfortable I felt. Beckett said pretend to be happy. But I would not be happy about this.
We began; Sven guiding, me following. He smelled of liquor and aftershave shrouded by a layer of casually acquired sweat. The seconds ticked by in my head, and I wondered how long classical songs lasted. Three minutes? Four minutes? Five?
Sven looked over into the crowd of people, seemingly undisturbed by my lack of comfort. “Let’s be extra careful of him, shall we?”
“Who?” I said, annoyed somehow. “Dr. Adamson? Don’t worry. I already know that.”
“No, not Dr. Adamson. His son.”
My heart stopped a beat. I stumbled over Sven’s shoe.
He caught me, and we continued our trajectory—a wide circle across the dance floor.
I regained my voice. “Beckett? Why?”
“Because he’s not to be trusted.”
“What do you mean, not to be trusted?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sven directed me past a couple swinging in circles to our left, the man and woman fully engrossed in the smooth, lilting rhythm of the song. “He’s working with his father.”
My shoulders went rigid. “He says that. But it’s not real. It’s part of the plan. You know that. You’re in on it.”
“It’s real.”
I glared into Sven’s eyes, and he stared unflinchingly back at me.
“Fine,” I said, indignant. “I’ll just ask him.”
“He’ll tell you it’s a lie, and that it hurts him you would even think it.”
Sven nodded his head toward Beckett. The stubble on his neck bobbed with the movement, the little black hairs obvious around his throat, already growing in from his previous shave.
Beckett stood across the room, acting as suave as ever. He laughed. He placed his hand on the arm of the older lady who had been sitting at our table. He held her full attention, like it was easy.
A tiny seed of doubt planted in the core of me. I wanted to trust Beckett. My heart said I could trust Beckett, I think.
Who else would I trust here, if not him?
But should I?
He’s over there, in his tux, laughing with Marshall Mitchell, toasting with the group, and looking like he fits right in.
The most disconcerting part of all—or the most reassuring?—was that Beckett didn’t look the least bit ruffled. Apparently, Jack wasn’t the only Adamson brother who knew how to put on a mask.
Unless.
Unless it wasn’t a mask at all.
Unless it was real.
“Think about this,” Sven said and spun me under his arm. “The guy hides out for three years, doesn’t tell you who he is; then he shows up on the island. Your mom has been killed, his aunt and uncle aren’t there, and then you’re tricked onto a helicopter with his dad. You didn’t see him on the helicopter, did you? Maybe he knew he shouldn’t get on because he knew what his dad was doing. Did you ever think about the full picture, Sage? Maybe Beckett siding with his dad and believing the code is good for the world—maybe it isn’t a ruse at all. Maybe he believes it.”
The worst feeling flooded over me, the worst I’d ever dared to think about Beckett: what if I’d never known him? Never truly known him? What if all of it was a ruse, just like Sven said? Down to every last day I’d spent with him on the farm?
What if Beckett hadn’t been keeping a single secret from me? What if his entire persona was a fraud? What if he’d been acting and pretending the whole time to be someone totally different than he actually was?
Beckett looked over then and spotted Sven and me dancing. A frown washed over his face.
I diverted my gaze toward my feet, ashamed of the thoughts I’d just had but unable to fully push them away.
57
SAGE
“May I cut in?” Beckett stood just to the side of Sven and me. It was not a question; it was an order. Sven released me, bowed, and held a knowing look with me before stepping away. The silent message was clear: think about it.
Beckett’s reassuring form replaced Sven’s damp, unfamiliar body. His hand slid to my waist, and he took my hand in his.
Beckett spun me once, around in a complete circle, and then leaned his face toward my neck, not touching my skin, yet close enough for me to feel his breath. He took a giant inhale and then lifted his head, letting out a satisfied exhale, like the scent had soothed him somehow.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the day I met you.”
“Do what? Smell my perfume?”
“Dance with you, Sage.”
My heart twinged, both in satisfaction and hesitation. “Better late than never, I suppose.”
We moved together in loaded silence. These past few days without Beckett had felt like an eternity. Before that, on the island, I was still processing the lie he’d lived with me on the farm—not telling me who he really was, nor sharing his original intent for coming to Canta.
And now, I had Sven’s doubts swirling around in my head.
Finally, the silence felt too great.
“Those aren’t my real eggs up there on stage, you know,” I said.
“Um, okay ….”
“At least, that’s what Sven said.”
Beckett made eye contact with a couple dancing nearby and smiled at them. He lea
ned in toward my ear and whispered, “I’m not sure if we want to believe everything Sven says.”
Funny, that’s what Sven just said about you.
I knew I had to bring it up. But how to ask?
“These people,” I said. “They like you. You’re good with the ruse. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe you, too.”
Beckett snorted, a sound of disgust in his tone. “Yeah, well, I’ve had plenty of practice with them. When you’ve been working on it since you’re four years old, it all comes easy at some point.”
Did it come easy with me, Beckett?
Becket must have noticed the emotion cross my face, or maybe felt me tense, because he said, “But you don’t believe it, right? You do know better?”
He ducked his head to try and get a look at my eyes.
I averted his gaze. “What would you say if I said I’m not sure what to think?”
Beckett smiled again for the crowd, but underneath, I could see it was forced. “I would say that’s the most painful thing I could ever hear from you, and my heart is breaking in half.”
My head lowered so I wouldn’t have to maintain eye contact.
“Sven said you’d say that.”
Beckett stiffened. “And what else does Sven have to say?”
“That you can’t be trusted. That you are in cahoots with your dad.”
“I’m going to smash Sven to bits when this is over.”
We remained silent while the melody of the orchestra played on. I didn’t know what to say.
My skin was acutely aware of his touch: his hand at my waist, his other hand holding mine, our legs grazing every so often. In all the places where our skin connected, it felt like a hum, different than with Jack, but still something “otherly,” outside of my ability to describe.
Even with my doubts, a warm familiarity washed over me at being near to him. It wasn’t because Beckett and I had done much touching in the time we’d known each other, quite the opposite, actually. But it was because of our time together, our memories. It was because, for the three most recent years of my life, he had been my best friend, my safety net, my one calm and centering spot on days when my mom decided to let her nervousness take over and dictate our life on the farm. Beckett and I had harvested wheat together, rounded up cattle together, watched the stars together. Those moments were more precious to me now than ever before because that life barely existed anymore.
And maybe Beckett was thinking the same thing because when I ventured to sneak a look at his face, he was blinking wetness from his eyes.
“I’m going to say this,” Beckett said, “and you might think I’m crazy, but that’s okay. I feel what you feel, Sage. When you were about ready to kill yourself in there, I felt the horror of it. I felt your desperation. I felt when you made the decision to actually to do it; I knew you’d decided to end your life. I could feel everything in that moment with you. I don’t know how, and I know it doesn’t make sense, but I’m connected to you somehow. Me dancing with you here right now, I feel … together. Like a missing piece of me is back again. It was gone—you were gone—and now the piece is back.”
We stopped dancing.
I knew what Beckett was talking about because I felt some of it, too. But wasn’t it just familiarity? How could it be something more than that? Now, more than ever, I couldn’t let my heart take over. I couldn’t miss seeing truths about Beckett because I was too busy wishing he was the boy from back on the farm. I’d done that once before—taken him for face value—and the end result … the feeling of betrayal … it was more than I thought I could live through.
I realized we were still standing, frozen, and Beckett was staring at me, waiting for some kind of answer. He wanted a response to his openness, and I couldn’t give him what he wanted.
“People are watching us ….” I tugged on Beckett’s shoulder to make him start dancing again, and grudgingly, he gave in.
“I don’t care who watches.” His voice held a tone of indignation. He realized I wasn’t going to reply to the pouring out of his heart. I only hoped he knew it was simply because I didn’t know how to respond.
He inhaled deeply, cleared his face from any emotion, and plastered on a smile again.
“Besides,” he said. “All of them watching us helps our cause. No one is going to think you’re leaving if you’re having fun with the son of Dr. Adamson. A son who is now in full support of everything Vasterias is doing.”
Those words. His phrasing. It set off alarm bells all through me. Why would he say it with such conviction?
I pulled away from him slightly. Beckett noticed.
“What is it?” he said.
I couldn’t hold back my words; I had to know, straight up.
“Are you in full support of what Vasterias is doing?”
Beckett rolled his eyes, completely agitated.
He pulled me in close and spoke directly into my ear. “Why do you keep asking me this? What am I doing wrong?”
The grip on my waist tightened, his desperation obvious.
I swallowed. A protective wall began to form around my heart and mind again. Those fond memories of us back on the farm were too deeply intertwined with lies and confusion.
“You didn’t answer my question. Are you in support of them?”
“Sage, what are you really asking? What is this really about?”
“I don’t know, Beckett!” My frustration welled up. “Just answer me!”
His voice remained even. “Sage, you know me.”
And still, he hadn’t answered.
“No.” I pulled away from him slightly. “See, I thought I knew you. But I didn’t. Now I’m just getting to know you again. For real this time.”
Beckett’s touch, his hand at my waist, his hand holding mine, now felt pained to allow. I just had to make it through the song, keep up the act for a minute longer, and then I could go sit down and try to sort out all my thoughts.
Desperation flickered across Beckett’s eyes. I tried to ignore it, tried not to be swayed by it.
“Sage. Look at me.” He squeezed my hand, jiggled it to get my eye contact. “Us, on the farm. That’s who we are, Sage. We’re those two people. Me and you. They aren’t gone. We can’t let Vasterias take that away from us.”
“You’re wrong. That girl is gone, Beck. She’s long gone. Vasterias didn’t take her away, I had to give her up because I couldn’t hold onto her and still survive.”
58
IMOGEN
What normally would take me ten minutes has taken two hours.
My fingers fumbled with the parts and pieces of the toilet paper dispenser.
My hands screamed at me while I attempted to straighten out the tiny spiral wire that I intended to use to pick open the door. I hadn’t even started my attempt at attaching it to another piece of plastic to make a weapon out of it.
Eventually, I stopped and shoved the paraphernalia back under the sink to hide it. The skin on my hands needed a break.
The heat of frustration built up in my chest. I could not remember a time I was unable to do something because of physical limitations.
I stared down at my thumbs while Finn slept. I remembered the conversation on the island with Sage and how she told me about her weird infatuation with thumbs. What would she think of mine? They were red and cracked and dried out. Even I was grossed out by them. But mostly, they hurt. The entirety of both my hands hurt.
I looked up when the door across the room opened. Bert knocked softly on the door.
“Good evening,” he said.
Every time Bert came back to check on Finn, the guy seemed to be relaxing more and more.
I jumped up and walked around the bed toward the guard.
“Listen, being captive wasn’t part of this plan. I need to talk to Jack. Immediately. And tell Dr. Cunningham I need to see him now.”
Bert’s eyes flickered nervously to the guard, waiting for a response.
“Dr. Cunningham will come to
see you when he’s ready. And your friend, Jack, isn’t available right now.”
If my hands didn’t hurt so bad, I’d jump this guy right now. I debated doing it anyway.
“Just find out when they’re getting back, okay? And I need some food. Some real food this time.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the guy said stiffly.
“Hey Bert, I was wondering if you’d mind having a look at my hands?” I eyed the guard while I spoke because it was the first time I’d addressed Bert directly. I wasn’t so sure I was supposed to, but he was some kind of doctor, right? At least he’d been looking over Finn, so maybe he could offer some suggestions on what to do about this redness.
Bert glanced at the guard, who didn’t look pleased at our dialog, and said, “I’d be happy to.”
He took one of my hands in his, a gentle, confident touch, just like a good doctor.
“I noticed this yesterday,” he said. His voice sounded tight. “Let’s get some lotion on them to sooth the dryness, and I’ll do some research on what’s best.”
Then Bert looked me directly in the eye and added in a low voice, “I’d hate for you to be taken hostage.” He squeezed my forearm slightly. “With the pain, I mean.”
His gaze bore into me. He released my hand and directed his attention to the guard, leaving me to puzzle over what just happened.
“May I go get her some lotion?”
59
SAGE
I freed myself from Beckett’s hold and marched back to my chair immediately after the song ended.
I was mad at myself. I was failing miserably at one of the most important promises I’d made with myself: to trust the people closest to me.
Why couldn’t I take Beckett for his word? What was so hard about it? I wanted to believe him. A part of me wanted us to be those two people again. Why couldn’t I at least try harder?
It didn’t help that with every layer of anger that built inside of me, some of it got shoveled on Beckett. He was the one who lied to me in the first place. We could have avoided this whole divide between us if he’d just told me who he was, right when he came to Canta three years ago.
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