Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Emilia
It’s been forty-seven and a half hours since I saw Zac.
Ten minutes after he left, I shuffled up to my bedroom, collapsed into bed and passed out. I didn’t wake up to find out whether he came home at nine, and didn’t know if he left again at half one.
I only woke when my alarm blared through my ears, groaning as I dragged my weak body to the farm. That evening, I forced myself to eat a crust of bread before collapsing on top of the mattress.
The next morning, there’s a freshly baked ham croissant on the kitchen counter, but Zac’s nowhere to be seen. I stare at it for a moment, utterly speechless, before tearing it from the plate and devouring it in record time. I moan out loud at the taste, relishing every bite.
Mum used to love croissants. Pain au chocolat in particular. A small lump clogs my throat as I polish off the crumbs.
The fields are ever so slightly easier to work today.
Kayla and I are assigned the same job, both digging for potatoes, just one row and two people apart.
She keeps trying to catch my eye, but I keep my own on the soil, knowing that if I see sympathy, or if her eyes widen at the cuts on my cheek, I’ll break.
By the time I get back to the house, I’m limping. I shut the front door behind me, kick my boots off, and collapse onto the sofa with a groan.
“This is absolute bullshit.”
“Fucking hell!” I exclaim, shooting upright, hand slamming against my chest.
Zac descends the stairs, eyes on the booklet in his hands. “Have you read this yet?” He holds it up. It’s the dark green book from his envelope.
“Yeah,” I manage, my throat tight.
“What a load of shit.”
“Yeah.” I rest my arm over my eyes and sigh, focusing on letting my limbs relax.
“As if I’m actually going to keep track of your period.” I don’t respond. “Or attend a monthly meeting just to listen to them spout absolute shit.”
My arm slips from my face, and I push myself up on my elbows, heart hammering, as I stare at him.
“We don’t have a choice. First one is next week.”
“They can fuck—”
“Zac,” I snap, teeth gritted, panic spilling into my voice.
He falters, eyes flicking to my cheek, to the fading scratches on my arms. The fire in them dims, replaced by hesitation, and his jaw slackens before he tears his gaze back to the booklet.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, a reluctant edge to his voice. “We’ll go.”
I slump back, head slamming into the cushion as a shaky breath escapes me.
I think I doze off, because suddenly, he’s beside me with a small bowl of what looks like chicken stew. Mumbling my thanks, I sit up to take it, and he settles onto the armchair opposite before digging a spoon into his own bowl.
I swallow the urge to make a snarky comment about his other girl not making him dinner tonight, instead opting to fill my mouth with the well-seasoned food, letting it warm my chest.
Quiet stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable.
Afterwards, I mumble an excuse about having plans and slip out of the house, crossing the road to Number 14.
Heidi greets me with a grin, tugging me inside and roping me into helping decorate their house with plants, trinkets, and one of her paintings; it’s a gorgeous utopia of green rolling hills, a small cottage in the foreground, smoke rising from the chimney, bright blue front door.
I remember that she once told me that her home in Burton upon Trent had a front door painted blue, and I tear my eyes away, the emotions of the past, and of what Heidi lost too much for me right now.
The photo of the two of us sits pride of place on the mantlepiece, and I pause, brushing a thumb over the frame, the corners of my lips lifting into a smile.
When I finally stumble back across the street, the house is dark. Zac is curled up on the sofa. His legs dangle off the end, neck bent at a ridiculous angle, and something inside me twinges at how awkward and uncomfortable he looks.
I wrench my gaze away and pad quietly upstairs, sliding beneath the comfy blankets and begging for sleep to come.
I’ve not even unzipped my boots when Zac stands from the sofa the following evening.
My brow lifts. “Do you ever work?”
He scowls. “Ten hours. I left at half four this morning.”
“Better you than me,” I mumble, fingers still fumbling with my zips.
“Don’t take those off,” he says.
My hands freeze. “What?”
“We should get our rations,” he says.
“Oh! Right. Yeah, we should.” I straighten. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him tug on his own solid, heavy-duty black boots. The sunny street greets me as I pull open the door and step through. Zac follows, slamming it closed and I scoff at the unnecessary action.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I just don’t know what that door ever did to offend you,” I say. “But then again, you’re just impatient and rude to anything in your path.”
“How perceptive of you,” he mutters.
We fall into silence. The sun reflects off the street, and my eyes flinch at the brightness as our pace falls into sync.
I feel his gaze flick down every few seconds to my legs, my uneven stride.
Each time my ankle wobbles, his steps falter to match mine, slowing himself for me.
Guess that guilt’s still simmering deep.
“Do you know where we’re going?”
“Thought you read the booklet?” he says.
“I did,” I mutter. “I just… was a little distracted when I did so.” I read it the day after I got back from The Cell, slumped on the bed after a shift. I passed out before I got to page four.
“Good to know you’re taking it seriously.”
“I couldn’t get fucking comfortable,” I snap. “My ribs were tight, my spine aching, my cheek throbbing; excuse me for struggling to take it all in.”
His jaw tightens, and he looks away, over to the other side of the street. Silence stretches, taut and awkward, before he finally says, “They give married couples their rations from the old Lidl on Carlton Road. It’s five minutes this way.” He nods ahead, up the road.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my too-tight navy jeans, boots clacking against the tarmac.
Each step echoes, loud enough that I can feel his judgement prickling beside me.
We’re lucky, I suppose, that we’re allowed to buy whatever we want from the thrift shop by City Hall.
Each person gets fifteen vouchers every two months—to be used sparingly, and at their own discretion.
Germain says it’s a flawless process, one that keeps people’s greed in check.
Back when I was eighteen, I spent most of mine on low cut, cleavage hugging tops and tight dresses. My very own way of saying fuck the system.
Now I curse myself for it.
I’ve only got a couple of hoodies to get me through the days, and I had a singular pair of joggers, but now I’ll have to parade around the streets in tiny skirts and attention-seeking tops, with no one to blame but myself.
These boots cost me forty vouchers. I love them, but they’re impractical, and even I know I should have chosen something else.
Zac, on the other hand, looks ready for whatever they might throw at him. His boots probably have steel-toe caps, and I’d bet thirty vouchers they didn’t give him blisters for three straight months like mine did.
He might be absolutely insufferable when it comes to listening to the State, but at least he didn’t try to stage a revolt through lacy lingerie and black mini-dresses.
His tops are always long-sleeved, despite the fact that it’s a hot summer, and something inside me niggles at the fact that it might be to hide his ink.
And if that’s the case, then I’m not the only liability here.
I break the silence. “How was your… long day? The eight and five-hour drives?”
He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Alright.”
I glance sideways at him. “You weren’t too tired?”
“I’m always tired,” he says, voice rough.
I hum, eyes on the road. “And the sourdough? Was that successful?” Something itches under my skin at my words.
The fucking sourdough. Made by another woman.
The nerve.
The lack of discreetness.
“Very,” he says, not missing a beat.
“Great,” I grind out.
“It feels like maybe you’ve twisted this whole sourdough thing into something it isn’t,” he says, tone harsh.
His hands slip from his pockets, fists balling at his sides.
My gaze betrays me, dropping to the tight clench of his fingers, the strain in his knuckles like he’s holding himself back.
Heat creeps low in my stomach, entirely fucking ridiculous right now.
“I didn’t go to another woman, Emilia—”
“No one in this day and age can make sourdough,” I snap, spinning to face him. “Unless your friend is an Enforcer.”
He stops, just a few feet away. His eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching, the space between us humming with something uneasy. His jaw twitches once before he looks away, breaths heavy.
My eyes widen. “Oh my God—”
“She isn’t an Enforcer!” he snaps, quick and defensive. “She just… has connections.”
“With Enforcers?” I shoot back. “It’s either that or State officials.” He mutters something low and indecipherable, before turning away, boots slamming against the tarmac. “I’m not sure which is worse,” I call after him as I scramble to keep up, heart pounding faster than I’d like to admit.
“Stop chatting shit about things you don’t understand.” He throws over his shoulder.
“Then make me understand.”
He stops so suddenly I almost crash into him. “You?” he snaps, spinning on his heel. “The girl who could’ve gotten us killed by sneaking around with another girl’s husband?”
“I swear to fucking God, if I have to tell you one more time—”
“Whatever,” he bites back. “You didn’t fuck him.
But you did something, Emilia. You were down that damn alley with him for one reason or another, and I’m struggling to believe that it was to play Ring Around the fucking Rosie.
” The air between us crackles with heat and accusation and something I don’t want to acknowledge.
I bite my bottom lip, tasting iron as anger swells up my throat.
He’s right. That’s why I don’t reply.
But it doesn’t stop my dislike for him from flaring up, as sharp and alive as ever.
We round the edge of the street, and the old store looms ahead; a grey and white building streaked with black stains from fire and smoke. The faded blue and yellow logo tilts to one side, cracked and tired, looking as though it might fall at any moment.
“There’s no place for secondary school drama in this world, Emilia,” Zac snaps, grabbing a rusted trolley in our path and shoving it to the side. “As soon as you grow up, maybe I’ll tell you more.”
My jaw locks, heat crawls up my neck, and fiery fury paints my cheeks. He’s already storming ahead, not bothering to slow his pace as he shoves through the glass doors into the store.
I follow, each step heavy with words I’m holding in.
And we don’t talk for the rest of the day.
Or the day after that…