Chapter 12 #2
“It’s an excellent choice. Heavy, but beautiful. I’m surprised she was able to read it.”
Taylor takes her plate from the nightstand and places it between us.
I take Delilah’s advice and watch her eat in silence.
More healing will happen if I don’t fuck it up by talking.
“Faith was training to be a medic, probably because of the book. She wanted to go to California once she finished her training and this was over.” Taylor opens the well-worn cover of the novel.
“She told me I had to take her to see the ocean after the war. She made me promise.”
“California could be lovely.”
“Could be a wasteland,” Taylor replies. “Immigrating to the Independent Republic of California is almost impossible, even visiting is highly regulated. I have never met anyone who’s been there.”
“Me either, actually.”
“But I would have figured it out. Because I promised.”
Knowing when to talk and when to listen is tricky business. It’s like fishing—the balance between leaving the bait and reeling it in. After some quiet, she grips the sides of the book.
“I should have gotten her out of here. I should have insisted she be put somewhere safe. You were right. I am not a good friend.”
I gulp. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” She puffs out a laugh at her expense. “Look around. The only three people left who consider themselves my friend—Hunter, Mason, and yourself—are in danger. Hunter could already be dead. Mason risks his life every day with me, and for me. I dragged you into this unwillingly.”
Reaching over, I stroke my hand over hers. “You’re missing a big part. Faith was your friend because she chose to be. To love and trust another person is a choice. Obviously, I can’t speak for Hunter, but from what I knew of Faith and what I’ve seen from Mason, I think they’d agree with me.”
“You didn’t have a choice.”
“I didn’t have a choice to be here.” I gesture around the room. “But I do choose to be here.” Slipping her hand into mine, I give it a squeeze. “With you.”
Taylor looks at our hands and faintly squeezes mine in return. “Thank you.”
She slides off the bed and retreats into her bathroom.
I lounge on the bed and flip through the novel.
Faith’s marginalia reads like a diary, real-time notes of her thoughts as she read.
A few minutes later, Taylor returns with her face freshly washed and hair combed.
She settles into her spot and eats her meal in silence.
I peruse more of Faith’s writing, including a bittersweet note scribbled in a corner reminding her to ask Taylor about a specific passage. I wonder if she ever did.
It takes a while, but Taylor cleans her plate and almost finishes her water. “About the night of the party…when I…”
“Grief changes people. It makes you not yourself. It hollows you out. I…I understand. It doesn’t make what I said about you less true.”
“Yes, it does. I was fully prepared to torture and murder that woman. I wanted to. I still do.” She glances up at me. “But you stopped me and I am grateful for that. I am lucky to have you as a friend, Lucy.”
My eyes drop to the blanket. “I thought there was no such thing as luck.”
Taylor laughs airily. “True. Then, I don’t know what to call it when you are in the presence of something you do not deserve.
” Sighing, she dismounts her bed and straightens up the paperwork and books strewn about, and places her plate and glass on a nearby tray.
“We leave at ten tonight. You will be going ahead with Delilah and the others. I need you to see them safely to Lansing.”
“Why am I not coming with you?”
“Because you have no explosives training?” she answers with incredulity. Okay, fair point. “I should be along shortly, if everything goes according to plan. But if it does not, I want you as far from the city as possible.”
Normally I would oppose this segregation on principle. But, in light of her most recent tragic loss, I think this has more to do with protection than exclusion. “Okay.”
Rightfully, she’s surprised I’m not offering resistance. Surprise turns to suspicion, which fades away as other thoughts cloud her eyes over. “Delilah wants us to attend a fitting for new uniforms.”
“Today?”
“No, next summer. Yes, today. She does not think what I have is good enough. I do not possess the energy to argue with her.” Putting a hand on my chest and a look of blown-away shock in my face, I wait for Taylor to catch my gaze. After pretending to be insulted, the corner of her mouth turns up.
“Well, if that’s the case, you need to shower first.” Her brow furrows. “You’ve been sitting in your own stink for days, kid. You’re not exactly fresh.”
Taylor picks her shirt from her chest and gives it a short sniff. “I do not smell.”
“You smell a little.”
“Maybe you smell a little.”
“Real mature.”
“Thank you.”
I lob a pillow at her. “Ugh. I was being sarcastic.”
“Shocking.”
Much to my amusement and relief, the fitting is a prime example of the usual, curmudgeonly Taylor. She is unhappy being on display for measurements, an undertaking to which I am quite accustomed. Perched in an overstuffed armchair, she pouts and anxiously awaits the seamstresses’ final adjustments.
“Will this be much longer? I should be overseeing the evacuations, not being fitted for pants.”
“Plenty of qualified people are overseeing the evacuations,” Delilah says. “You need to gather your strength and stop being petulant.”
“Oh, come on, Delilah. It’s one thing to ask her to save the world, but to stop being petulant? That’s a step too far.” I stick my tongue out at Taylor. “I for one am grateful for the new clothes. I’m getting tired of Taylor forcing me to fight in a dress and heels.”
When a seamstress indicates she’s finished, Taylor nabs the proffered uniform and huffs off into an adjacent room.
My uniform was finished an hour ago, but Taylor’s is a lot more complicated.
Holsters and pockets for weapons, multiple layers for explosive resistance, and loads of other intricate detailing to help her in combat.
She emerges a short time later, self-consciously pulling at the fitted sleeves and staring down at her knee-high boots. It’s almost like a mechanic’s jumpsuit, but hard and insulated, tightly sewn to her body. I’ve never seen someone in such a badass uniform look so thoroughly uncomfortable.
“I thought it would be more—” I drag my eyes up and down her tight uniform. “Puffy?”
“You’re thinking of a bomb squad suit,” Delilah says. “That’s for bomb removal. This suit has nearly all the capabilities of the bomb squad suits, but at a fraction of the size.”
“Ah.”
“She is wearing five layers of thin material, each of which is designed to keep out moisture, regulate her body temperature, and protect her against explosions and high heat.” Delilah places a hand on Taylor’s sternum. “The chest and back are bulletproof, but please, do try to not get shot. Again.”
“Sure. Am I done?” Taylor taps her boot in frustration. “There is a lot to get accomplished in a short amount of time.”
“My word.” Delilah frowns. “I raised you with better manners than that, young lady.”
Taylor sighs, chastised. “May I please be excused?”
“Yes. I’ll have the uniform brought to your room.”
Taylor is undressed and re-dressed in a flash, sparing us the shortest wave as she flies out of the room.
The next time I see her is hours later, when she breezes in through our shared door, clad in her snazzy new uniform.
She’s removed the quiver, instead outfitted with two rifles around her back in an X.
A pistol at each side, the belt sagging below her waist, heavy with equipment I’ve never seen and don’t know the use for.
This put-together soldier is a world away from the haggard woman of this morning.
The transformation is amazing, and concerning.
“Your caravan leaves in twenty minutes,” she informs me, like I don’t have a watch and haven’t been watching the clock religiously. “Do you have everything you need? Do you want to go over the plan again?”
“No, I got it.”
And I do. I spent the last few hours memorizing our plan of action forward and backward.
No longer can I rely on Taylor and her memory.
I won’t be able to rely on her at all. It mixes up my emotions, but chief among them is lingering dread.
I’m worried about her and the martyr crap she’ll undoubtedly pull if the opportunity arises.
I’m worried I’ll never see her again. I’m worried about what happens to me in her absence.
Taylor nods back at me, gazing around at my room but not looking at anything. After several seconds of intensely awkward staring, she finally turns to me and exhales a long breath before meeting my eyes. “If I should fail—”
“Taylor,” I warn.
“No, listen. This is important to me. If I become incapacitated or die, or if for any reason I can no longer protect you, I want you to stay with Delilah. You will be safest with her. Mason will be obligated to return to HQ, but you are not. Stay with her. Promise me.”
“Taylor—”
“Promise me,” she insists. “Lucy, please.”
It’s unlike her to beg, and I couldn’t find a defense against it with two hands and a flashlight. “Okay, okay. I promise. Geez.”
“Thank you.”
Her watch beeps and she frowns at the digital face.
It can’t be time already. I swallow nervously and stand from the bed, stretching out to adjust to my uniform.
How far we’ve come in the short time we’ve known each other.
I’m entrusted to protect members of the rebel organization designed against me, and their de facto leader has my well-being in her priority.
Taylor offers a thin smile. “I can tell you are nervous. You are going to do fine. If you see anyone following you aggressively, shoot them only if they shoot first. If they know you are armed, they may stand down. Do not engage first, and whatever happens, do not get out of the truck.” Sensing my unease, she plants her hands on my shoulders.
“You are smart, capable, and you trained with me. You could not be more prepared than you are right now. Trust your instincts, and trust Delilah.”
Gulping, I nod. “Okay. And you, um, don’t blow yourself to bits?”
“Don’t worry about me. Stay focused.”
“If only it were that easy.” If only I could disengage her at will, like changing dance partners midsong.
She extends her hand. “Miss Piccolo.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s a hard no on hugs, huh? Fine. But when you get to Lansing, I would like at least one hug. Is that okay?” Taylor nods and I clasp her hand and shake it firmly. Using my free hand, I swipe some strands of her blond hair behind her ear and cup her jaw. “Please don’t die, hero.”
She huffs a hoarse laugh, backing away from our contact. “I will see you in Lansing.”
“Promise?”
Her lips quirk upward. “Goodbye, Lucy.”
“Good luck.”
“No such thing.”