Chapter 6
“You need to get more than two hours of sleep tonight,” Ben says a couple of hours later when we’ve all pulled back into the building except the folks on guard duty for the first night shift. His voice is low so no one else hears it.
“So do you,” I tell him.
“I sleep when you sleep. You already know that. So if you want me to get more sleep, then you will too.”
I exhale and give him a mild eye roll, mostly on principle. He’s not wrong, and I no longer mind him insisting I take care of myself.
I’ll be no good to anyone if I run myself into the ground, and this fight is far too long to exist in eternal crisis mode.
“You did good,” he mutters as I take off my belt—complete with holsters for my handgun and hunting knife—and drop it on the sofa where I slept last night.
“I did good in what?” I’m genuinely confused. The only thing I’ve done for the past hour is wander around to touch base with everyone, listening to concerns and rallying excitement for what we’ve almost accomplished.
“With Roderick earlier. If you’d handled it any other way, we would have lost him.”
“Yeah. It was touch and go. But he’s an asset, and he’s been a big help lately.”
“I know. So you did good.”
“Thanks.” I give Ben a little smile. He’s not the world’s most loquacious companion, but what he says has impact.
At least it has impact on me.
I sit down so I can unlace my boots and then unhook the ankle holster on which I keep a second, smaller pistol.
“You should change into something more comfortable to sleep,” he tells me, watching my progress.
“Not tonight. I want to be ready, just in case. After tomorrow, I will.”
He accepts this without argument. I’ll sleep in my jeans and shirt the way I have so many other nights since I left my husband and we escaped the Capitol together.
He waits until I’ve stretched out on the sofa before he does anything. Then he drops a blanket on my lap, waiting until I spread it over myself before he takes off his own belt and ankle holster and unrolls his sleeping mat to lie down on the floor beside my sofa.
Because I’m looking, I see him undo the top button of his jeans.
With a soft snort, I ask, “Are you going to have to cut back on your rations?”
He gives me an appropriately defensive look. “You think I’m getting fat?”
“I don’t know. Seems like your pants might be getting tight.” I reach down to pat his belly. It’s always been mostly flat, and it still is. “Maybe not. You’ll do.”
He chuckles and gently moves my hand so it’s not resting against his abdomen.
Both touches—both my teasing pat and his mild removal—were harmless, casual, and completely in keeping with our established relationship.
But for some reason my insides down low tighten. It makes me feel squirmy, but I never squirm. Instead, I clear my throat to dispel the unexpected reaction.
“Good night, Annabelle,” he says from the floor after a few moments of silence.
“Good night, Ben. Don’t stay awake watching over me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Sure you wouldn’t.” I close my eyes and smile to myself. “Just think, if this is ever over, you’ll be able to take it easy and eat good. Maybe you’ll get a belly then.”
“Maybe so.”
“That will be a good day.”
“Yeah,” he says, something warm and poignant both in his tone. “Yeah, it will.”
At about noon the following day, we get the alert that a two-truck unit is on the way.
We’re ready when they arrive, using similar tactics to the day before.
One of the trucks takes serious damage, and Jon takes a bullet in his thigh.
But we win the skirmish without any real losses and come away with more guards for the cell, a lot of weapons and ammunition, and another working combat truck.
Yesterday’s good mood has escalated in the ranks tenfold this evening. While we don’t know for sure what will happen tomorrow, any stronger force they send would become public information. And I still don’t think Vincent will believe that’s worth the loss of the outpost.
So we might have done what we need to do here.
We’ll of course stay on guard and keep our lookouts in place around the clock, but we might be set up now for next month’s raid on the Arsenal.
The good humor of the evening spills out into music in the main room of the building where most of those not on duty have been camping out.
Vella plays the harmonica, and Sasha carries her fiddle around with her everywhere.
Between that and a lot of singers, the music is pleasant and lively.
They start with some popular folk songs and then take requests, an eclectic mixture of contemporary songs (all very tame since they’re regulated by the government) and pre-Fall spiritual and romantic songs that have managed to survive the collapse of the old world.
Ben and I come out to the main room as soon as the music starts up, and I go to sit next to Vella, who waves me into the empty space on the bench beside her. Ben sits on the floor at my feet since there’s no more room on the bench.
It’s been a long time since my people have been so exuberant. One couple, Jim and Carlos, get up to dance in the middle of the room. They’re soon joined by another couple, Tim and Bethy, whose over-the-top moves make everyone laugh.
Chelle comes over when the next song starts and tries to get Ben to dance with her. When he says no, she graciously retreats and gets Michael to dance with her instead.
I’m having a good time. A better time than I can remember having for ages. The music is mostly familiar, so sometimes I can sing along. But even when I can’t, I still feel it in my chest, in my throat, in my gut.
A reminder of something human it’s easy to forget.
Something that matters as much as the fight.
When Vella and Sasha converse briefly and then play the opening strains of a popular, fast-tempo love song, there’s a round of cheers and I sit up straighter, because I love this one too.
Ben has been enjoying the music like I am, twirling with ring on his finger and keeping time by tapping his foot, but now he clears his throat and hefts himself to his feet.
I look up at him, surprised and confused by his leaving such a good time.
But he’s not going anywhere. With a self-deprecating quirk of a smile on his face, he extends his hand to me.
I blink. “What?”
“You know what. Get your little ass up.”
Vella huffs, losing a few notes on her harmonica as she shakes with amusement.
“Excuse me?” I ask with teasing loftiness. I’m not remotely annoyed. I’m oddly, irrationally thrilled.
“You heard me… ma’am.”
Giving him the eye roll he deserves, I stand up. He keeps hold of my hand as he leads me to the middle of the floor.
There’s an excited murmur—either about me dancing or me dancing with Ben, I don’t know.
I’m not a dancer. As girls in the village, we used to dance around sometimes, pretending we were fancy ladies.
But my mother walked out on us when I was barely a teenager, so I never learned any formal steps, and after my father married Lorraine, my stepmother, we weren’t given any freedom to have fun or interact outside the household.
But I can make my body move the way everyone else is right now. There’s nothing practiced or skilled about this spontaneous expression of joy. Ben holds one hand and puts the other on my waist, and he leads me around in simple steps.
And I love it. I love it. Not just doing something for no other reason than enjoyment but also because of how it feels to move with him this way. There’s a warm smile in his eyes that’s only barely unfolding on his mouth. And it seems to reach all the way inside me.
I can feel it in my chest, where my heart is pounding strangely fast.
And I can feel it lower, below my belly. It’s not arousal—that would startle me enough to distract me—but it’s something deep and possessive.
As if this man, this strong, faithful, warmhearted man, is smiling just for me.
I don’t know why he would. I don’t know how I’ve done anything to deserve it. I’ve been guarded and intensely focused for most of the time I’ve known him.
But I feel it anyway.
And I never want it to end.
It does, of course. The song does anyway. Vella and Sasha start up a new one—a slower one. The other couples are closing the distance between their bodies, swaying with the tender rhythm of the new song.
Ben is waiting to see what I’ll do.
I want it. More than I’ve ever understood about myself before. I want him to pull me into his arms like that. I want to sway with him, hold on to him tightly.
But just the thought of it makes me feel… soft.
And I’ve never been soft. I’ve always been sharp and bright and wound as tightly as a bow.
That’s what I need to be—to do what I’ve committed to do.
The softness will only get in the way.
And it has scared me more than anything has in years.
So I shake my head, smiling so he won’t take it as a rejection. “I think that’s all my ankle can handle.”
My ankle has been a little sore when I turn it the wrong way but otherwise totally fine today.
It’s not my ankle.
Ben knows it too.
But he’s not upset. There’s no way for me to believe he’s even the slightest bit upset. That warm smile is still lingering on the corners of his mouth and in his eyes.
I might be a little disappointed that I ended our time together, but Ben is still happy.
And that’s what matters more to me.