Chapter 8 #2
“Touché,” she says, taking off her jacket and bundling it up beside her. She’s wearing a fuzzy, off-the-shoulder sweater that shows off her golden skin and black bra straps. From the way she glances at me, I know I’m outright ogling her. “Still, I think my job might be a little easier.”
Katy places the water down, the perfection distraction, and Mia swallows back her pill before pulling out her recorder, setting it on the table between us. “So. No handlers, no conference room. What do you actually want to talk about?”
“Background,” I say. “Yours. I know your byline, your publication history. I did all the homework Julia tossed my way. But even though I approved you, I don’t know anything about you.”
“For good reason. This is supposed to be an interview about you.”
“Interviews go both ways,” I bargain. “You give me something real, I’ll give you something real. Tit for tat.”
She considers this, fingers drumming lightly on the table. I can almost see her calculating risks, weighing options, though her face gives nothing away.
“Fine,” she says finally in a clipped voice. “What do you want to know?”
Everything.
“Where are you from? Before London, before King’s College.”
A shadow passes across her features before it quickly dissolves. “Richmond, originally. Nice house, nice neighborhood. Parents who worked too much.” She pauses, rubbing her lips together. “My mother died when I was ten. Car accident. My brother too.”
The words land heavy. I know loss, know exactly what shape it leaves in you.
Hollow and yet no shape at all.
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago,” she goes on, her voice carefully flat. “My father moved us to Canada afterward. A small island off Vancouver Island. He worked at a research facility there—very remote, very quiet. Good place to grieve and try to pick up the pieces. Start again.”
“And your brother…? He died with your mother?”
A pained look comes across her brow, enough that I feel sorry for pressing her.
“Yes, though they never found his body. The river current was too strong. They searched for days.” She shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about it.
“I was home sick that day. A bloody fever. My mum was supposed to take us both somewhere, but I couldn’t go. So she just took Oliver.”
Oliver.
“You wonder,” I say quietly, “what would have happened if you’d been in that car like you were supposed to.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, sharp with surprise. “Yes. For years. Maybe I still do.”
“Survivor’s guilt,” I say with a nod. “I know something about that.”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying me like she’s seeing something new. “Your sister. Emma. I read about her.”
The name still lands like a blow, and I have to swallow down the burst of pain. “What did you read?”
“That she was an activist killed during a raid in 2033. That the official report said she was armed, but no weapons were ever found.” Her voice is careful, neutral. “That you were deployed overseas when it happened.”
“In Syria,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Got the call at three a.m. By the time I made it stateside, she’d already been cremated. Expedited processing, they called it.”
She nods slowly, and I can tell she wants to say more, know more, the same questions I’ve had since I returned. All those suspicions, the whys. But instead, she says, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I pick up my water glass, turn it in my hands. “She was twenty-five. Beautiful. Smart. So smart. Valedictorian. Had a full scholarship to Georgetown. She wanted to change the world.”
“Maybe she did in a way.”
I think about Emma at seven years old, looking up at me with those trusting eyes. You don’t have to protect me all the time. I think about her at twenty-five, standing on a stage, telling crowds this wasn’t what America was supposed to be.
“She tried,” I say. “Harder than anyone I’ve ever known. And they killed her for it.”
Just then, the milkshakes arrive—enormous glasses topped with whipped cream and cherries. Mia wraps her hands around hers but doesn’t drink. She’s blinking at me like she’s shocked at what I said. Perhaps I am a little too.
“Should that be off the record?”
I give her an appreciative nod and clear my throat. “Some of it. The facts are public. My feelings aren’t.”
“Copy that.”
I switch the subject, having a long pull of my drink. Despite it all, chocolate still makes the world a little sweeter. “How’s yours?” I ask, nodding at her drink.
Mia tentatively wraps her lips around the straw and takes a sip, and fuck, if I’m not picturing her wrapping them around my dick.
As if she can hear what I’m thinking, she looks up at me through her long, dark lashes and holds my gaze.
Fuck.
Then, her eyes roll back in her head, and I feel my hard-on straining against my fly, getting worse as she moans in enjoyment. She sucks back her milkshake like a champion, right before my eyes, until it’s pretty much all gone.
“Holy fuck,” I breathe.
She giggles and lets out a little burp. “I didn’t know America’s golden boy was allowed to swear.”
“And I didn’t know a tiny little thing like you could mainline milkshakes like water,” I say in astonishment.
She wipes the back of her mouth and smiles. “Listen, I’m a slag for strawberry anything, and I haven’t had a proper milkshake in years.”
“A slag?”
“A slut,” she says cheekily. “But, you know, in a proper British way.”
“I see.”
She finishes the rest of the glass with a slurp and gives me a satisfied look.
“You don’t mind if I take my time with this, do you?” I gesture to my glass.
“Not at all.”
I have another sip of my milkshake then slide it toward her. “Here. Try it.”
She shakes her head, her lips pressing together tightly.
I frown. “You don’t like chocolate.”
“I love chocolate. It’s just that I’m rather full after that.” She pats her stomach.
“Just a sip,” I say, sliding it toward her another inch, feeling like I’m being challenged. “Come on.”
Something flashes across her eyes. Fear?
“I have a cold,” she protests. “I mean, I’m afraid I might be coming down with something. I don’t want to give you my germs. Could you imagine?”
“Don’t worry. I don’t get colds. I don’t get sick. One of the many benefits of having my body genetically engineered.”
She stares at me for a moment, and I can’t for the life of me figure out what her problem is. Perhaps she’s one of them germaphobes. Can’t really blame the girl, not with so many viruses and pandemics floating around the world the last couple of decades.
Then, she reaches over and taps the straw dispenser in the middle of the table.
“Just a sip,” she says as she sticks the new straw in the glass, barely submerging it in the milkshake. She gives me a sweet smile, leaning forward as we both drink from the shake at the same time.
“Goddamn wholesome as fuck,” I hear Danny murmur to himself, and I look over to see not only him watching us with dry amusement, but the crowd outside of the diner, filming and taking photos through the glass. This is going to be on the front page of every media in ten minutes flat.
Meanwhile, Mia keeps sipping, even as she lifts the straw out of the glass and places it back in the empty strawberry one. So she really is a germaphobe. Duly noted.
“Your turn,” Mia says, pushing my glass back toward me, and it takes me a moment to remember we’re in the middle of an interview and not two horny teenagers sharing an afterschool treat. Or at least, one horny teenager. Seems she’d keep her germs to herself.
“Childhood,” she goes on. “Montana. What was it really like where you grew up?”
Right. The serious stuff. The stuff I don’t want to get in to.
I should give her the press-approved version. Loving family, wide-open spaces, the wholesome American upbringing that looks so good in campaign materials.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Hard. Very fucking hard. My mother was an alcoholic. She died when I was fifteen.”
Mia’s eyes widen slightly. This isn’t in my official biography. It says she died of cancer. Liver cancer is what was kept out.
“My father was absent. Even when he was there, he wasn’t there. He dealt with her by not dealing with her, and Emma and I got caught in the middle. Shit often got ugly.” I don’t dare go into details.
“How much younger was Emma?”
“Three years.” My voice catches. I clear my throat. “She was the good one. Sweet, hopeful. Even when things were bad at home, she never lost that light. She always believed our mama loved us, always believed she’d get better. That we’d get better, as a family.”
“You protected her,” she observes.
“I tried. Not long enough. After a while, I couldn’t always be there.”
The admission hangs between us, more honest than anything I’ve said in years. I don’t know why I’m telling her this, don’t know why her small nod of understanding makes me feel like unraveling the rest.
“Some of that should be off the record too,” Mia says quietly. “Your mother. I won’t use it unless you want me to.”
“Why?”
“Because some things aren’t for public consumption.” She holds my gaze. “Because you trusted me with it, and it feels like I should protect it, like you protected your sister.”
I break eye contact, feeling too much at once, and glance at the windows. The crowd has grown, phones everywhere, faces pressed to glass. Tomorrow, there will be headlines, speculation about Mia, is she really a journalist or is it a cover for a girl I’m dating, etc.
“We should probably wrap up,” Mia says, glancing at the window. “Your PR team is going to have a lot of work to sift through.”
I lean back in the booth, watching her gather her things. “This was…nice. Better than nice. Even though it got pretty personal, I haven’t had a real conversation in longer than I can remember. And definitely not with a civilian.”
“Is that what this was?”
“Wasn’t it?” Cause in the end, it sure as hell didn’t feel like an interview.
It felt like a shared confession.
She pauses, recorder in hand. “Yeah,” she says finally. “I think maybe it was.”
I want to ask her to stay, want to stretch this moment out, keep her here in this sticky-floored diner with the crowd pressing against the windows and Danny pretending not to watch from his post by the door. I want things I have no business wanting.
And I’m afraid. Afraid I can’t say no to myself.
Dangerous. This is dangerous. You know how you can get.
I stand abruptly, paying for the drinks with a few clicks of my watch. “I’ll have Danny take you back to your hotel.”
She looks up at me, disappointment crossing her features before she smooths it away. “No flying car tour of the city?”
“Let’s make it a rain check.”
I offer my hand to help her up, and when she takes it, I’m careful to let go at the appropriate moment.
Careful not to hold on. Careful not to think about how small her hand feels in mine, how warm and soft her skin is, how warm and soft her skin might be elsewhere, how easy it would be to pull her closer.
Pull her down.
Hold her down.
Stop it.
“Until next time, Mia.”
“Sure. Until next time.” She doesn’t move toward the door. “You know, you’re not what I expected either.”
“What did you expect?”
“I’m not sure yet. When I figure it out, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Danny clears his throat from the doorway. “Cameras are getting restless, boss.”
The moment breaks. Mia steps back, her face neutral again, and I watch her walk toward the door with my hands shoved in my pockets so I don’t do something stupid, like reach for her.
Outside, the crowd surges forward, phones flashing. I can already see the headlines forming: Vanguard’s Mystery Woman. Who Is She? By tomorrow, everyone will have an opinion.
I watch the Meridian lift off with her inside, and I stand on the sidewalk in Carroll Gardens, the October wind cutting through my shirt while strangers film me from across the street, waiting for me to fly off on my own.
Just an interview, I remind myself.
But I’m already counting the hours until I see her again.