Chapter 10
A whirlwind, that’s what it is. I can’t see a thing, blinking so much against the constant camera flashes that seem to explode
in my face.
The announcer steps up onto the stage, drawing raucous cheers from the crowd. He talks about Callum’s new philanthropic endeavor,
Legacy Outreach, which, from what I can gather in my strange, disassociated state, seeks to give aid to victims of the climate
crisis and is the reason for his furlough. Callum’s hand is tight around mine, squeezing intermittently as though to tell
me he’s still there, even when he’s answering the announcer, whose name is something like Gary. Or Larry. Knowing who he is
is the least of my worries, honestly.
My parents, I think, trying to keep my face as neutral as possible as my mind spirals.
I don’t know what the hell is happening, but I know that they are going to be worried.
Nef.
Lyceum.
“. . . and that’s my goal, really. Well. Our goal,” Callum says, lifting our interlaced hands to his chest.
The crowd lets out a soft sigh of approval, and I try to coach my face into something like a smile in his direction. If the
expression stutters, I can only hope they read it as infatuation. What had they called me? The Girl Next Door.
There are more questions, more lights, and then we’re backstage. The dress comes off in a flurry of hands and the whisk of
zippers. I want my clothes back—my worn-in training pants and black top—but Kaleb just makes a noise like a computer error
that tells me that’s not going to happen. Instead, they slip me into a powder-blue dress with floofy sleeves that cut into
my biceps. At least the fabric is softer—maybe this is what passes for casual here.
“And to finish off the look,” one of the girls says, holding out a pair of pearl-drop earrings and sand-colored wedges. I
miss my boots.
“Sure. The look,” I answer back. I’ve never worn anything but silver studs, so this will be interesting.
Though it is not the strangest bit of new jewelry I’m sporting.
I look down at the ring that sparkles on my left hand.
I wouldn’t know a fake diamond from a real one, but this thing is heavy.
I clench my fist, afraid that it will slip off.
I can’t imagine how much it costs. If they made me pay for a replacement, how many extra hours would my parents have to log?
How many mindless images would they have to sort through?
Before I have a chance to even comprehend the strange girl in the mirror, the gentle waves in her hair and the petal smudge
of her lips, they’re shuffling me out of the room again, taking me down another nondescript hallway and into a sort of parking
garage.
“Wait here,” one of the guards says, seeming to open a section of the hall. The handleless door nearly hits me in the face.
I don’t have a choice, so I step inside, coming to such an abrupt halt that I fear for my ankles in these shoes. Because I’m
not alone.
Callum stands as I enter, his hands coming up to absentmindedly button his jacket out of habit.
I blink, my breath coming faster as I look at him.
He’s beautiful. In the stage lights, he seemed like an alien creature, something made for the DopaMine screens. And he is,
still. But here, I can see that eleven-year-old kid if I look closely enough, in the straight edge of his nose, in his ice-blue
gaze. Those eyes ping between mine, like he’s begging me to say something. I want to say something, but I don’t know if I
can speak.
Where are we? Where are my parents? Are they safe? Did I expose Lyceum? A thousand questions split off in my synapses at once, and I don’t know which one to chase, as the strange weight on my hand draws my gaze to the gigantic rock there, and one question pulls me.
We’re engaged.
We’re engaged?
Tears spring up in my eyes, unbidden, and I let out a soft breath. One thing isn’t a question: He’s here, in front of me.
Callum. My Callum.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” I whisper.
The sight of me almost crying seems to catch him off guard. The media-ready mask seems to shatter, his brows peaking and mouth
turning strangely soft. He crosses the room in two strong strides and pulls me into a hug, crushing me to his chest.
He’s warm. His chest holds me firm, and against my cheek his heart beats, a slow, steady thrum. Sometime since the taping
he’s discarded his jacket and repinned that golden button to his chest; it cuts against my face. The weight on the crown of
my head must be his cheek.
My body goes taut and for a moment he freezes, every muscle locking, as I feel him question his decision to touch me. The
pressure on my head lifts.
And I wrap my arms around him, almost on instinct, melting into his frame. He sighs, pulling me closer still.
“Ripley Hart,” he murmurs, and it’s like he can’t believe he’s saying my name.
“Um,” I mutter, my cheek still flattened to his chest. “Callum. Why does everyone think we’re engaged?”
He clears his throat, and it almost sounds like a laugh. When he pulls back, keeping hold of my arms like he can’t quite let
me go, his eyes are bright, full of an emotion I try to place.
“I wish I had more time to explain. But here—we can’t—not yet. They’re just getting the car to take us to the plane. From
there, we’ll be headed to New Washington.”
“We?” I repeat.
He clenches his jaw as he shoots a look at the door. I know we don’t have too much time, and I have to make decisions here.
“Are my parents safe?” I ask first.
He nods. “Yes. And they will continue to be. Can’t have my future in-laws in harm’s way, right?”
I nod, trying not to laugh at the casual way he says that.
I want to ask about Nef. I want to ask about everyone else in Lyceum. But doubt slithers into my mind.
I knew Callum years ago.
I knew him when we were kids. We shared chalk and secrets and Popsicles. He was the first person I wanted to talk to when
I woke up and the last person I wanted to see before I went to bed.
It broke me to lose him, especially since it was all out of my control. His dad getting a new job. My parents losing theirs. And, scared to send him letters that would be read by the New Washington Hammers, I instead wrote about everything I wanted to write to him.
But this Callum—the older, beautiful Callum who smiles easily in front of the cameras he used to hate—I don’t know him. He’s
the son of the president, and as much as he’s smiling at me right now, I still know I can’t bring up anything related to the
rebellion trying to get his father out of power.
I swallow and back up, aware of the weight of his hands, still resting on me. Heavy and solid, but not so forceful I couldn’t
pull away if I wanted to.
“Why does the world think I’m your fiancée, Callum?” I whisper, knowing he’ll tell me the truth. The world was always simple
for us. Right and wrong. Black and white. Trees to save and bullies to stop. Punishment to share, but also credit. That was Ripley’s idea, Dad. She’s the smartest. The coolest. The bravest.
Maybe he can make things simple again.
He inhales as he looks at our joined hands, although I’m unsure how we’ve ended up here. “My dad is going to make a big announcement
at the Union Conference next week. It’s . . . major.”
“Is he endorsing that senator?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
When I open my mouth to ask all the questions bubbling up, he steps close to me, putting a thumb under my chin.
I shiver at the touch, my breath catching in my throat.
I haven’t seen him in years, but it’s like no time has passed at all.
The hug, his smile—those are all familiar.
But this touch is new. We were kids before.
He has never touched me like this. Like he . . .
Is he going to kiss me? My heartbeat kicks up into a dead sprint, and I force myself to look up into his eyes. I’ve dreamed about this. I wrote about
this. I’ve—
Before I can do anything else, he presses a gentle thumb under the right side of my jaw and pushes ever so slightly toward
the direction he keeps looking at.
Is someone watching us? I follow his lead, pulling him closer in another hug, pressing my head to his chest. I use the moment
to look back toward the door, expecting to see a figure in the frame.
Instead, above it, a red light blinks beside a round, black eye. A camera.
The world needs to think we’re engaged, for some reason, or my parents, Nef, they could all be in danger. I hate that I feel
a small shard of disappointment in my chest. It was all for show. Of course it was.
“There are cameras everywhere,” Callum whispers, his voice barely audible against my hair.
I tilt my head up, and he lowers his lips to the shell of my ear, hiding his face from the camera.
“But he’s going to need all the support he can get. And . . . I’m the only one who can help with that.”
My heart hurts, and I don’t have to remember we’re being watched. I pull him closer out of instinct. “He’s using you?”
“He’s using us. A wedding—my wedding—is something people want. My dad had names, daughters of senators and congressmen. We beta tested different
DopaMine content, but people aren’t gravitating toward political marriages and American royalty. They don’t want alliances.
They want someone real. The Girl Next Door. Someone who has worked in the data farms, who is just like them. And maybe I’m
selfish, but when I heard that you had applied for my dad’s postgraduate internship––”
I go very still, aware that I’m playing chess here. But half of the pieces are liable to explode if I touch them and the board
is on fire.
I sure as hell didn’t apply for an internship with the administration. Someone did on my behalf. And I don’t know who did
it or why, but now I’m Callum’s fiancée. It’s a precarious safety. My parents can’t be hurt. Nef can’t be hurt. But now the
entire world will put me under a microscope.
A third option, at least for now. Until I can figure things out.
I don’t say anything, opting instead to just hold him tighter.