Chapter 17 #2
The situation on Lumaria continues to worsen, the death toll rising, and every day, she waits to hear that her dad has been infected.
It seems impossible that he won’t contract it.
But the minister is doing the noble thing, the selfless thing by remaining on the planet with the infected Lumarian citizens.
Kit wishes he could have acted more selfishly so that her dad could be on the ship with her and Knox, their family whole.
Or as whole as it could ever be, without her mother.
Kit sees the worry in Knox’s eyes, and she would give anything to shield him from the agony of losing another parent.
She knows that’s what he’s preparing for, though.
You did that, after you lost a parent, braced yourself for the loss of the other.
Thought about what life might look like afterwards.
This, along with the fact that she’s figured out nothing more about the properties of her blood, nor anything more about how she came to possess this supposed power, makes her feel more unequipped than she has in years.
She presses her hand to the reader on the side of the door, and it slides open, revealing a pitch-dark room.
She’s confused, because usually it’s sunny, fueled by an energy source that allows people on the ship to get Vitamin D.
She normally tries to go at the end of her days to recharge for a bit before heading back to her room on the other side of the ship.
She spots Task standing near the window. His profile is illuminated by the stars shining in through the large glass dome in front of him. He looks ethereal, his hair practically silver in the moonlight, the planes of his face cast in shadow. He turns as the door clicks shut behind her.
“Kit,” he says, his voice a low rumble.
Her heartbeat speeds, though she’s not entirely sure why.
“Uh, sorry,” she blurts. “I didn’t know you were in here.” Her voice sounds overloud in the dim room.
“It’s open to everyone,” he says. “I don’t lay claim to it.”
“I know,” she says. “But still. I can go, if you want to be alone. You were here first.” She stands near the door, ready to bolt if he says the word.
Task studies her, and she finds herself holding her breath, waiting for a jab.
“Stay,” he says, finally.
Kit swallows and nods, walking across the grass towards him. She’s not sure if “stay” was necessarily an invitation to come closer, but something draws her to him. He looks how Kit feels — haunted, exhausted.
“Why is it dark?” she says, softly. “Isn’t the point of the room to replenish your Vitamin D?”
“I like it better in the dark,” Task says, shifting a bit where he stands. “It feels more like home.”
Kit takes the opening, though she’s not sure if he’d left it there on purpose. “What’s it like? Home?”
Task doesn’t say anything for a minute, as if searching for the words. Kit waits, looking out the window at the enormity of the universe in front of them. Feeling exceptionally small.
“It’s lonely,” he says. Kit’s heart squeezes in her chest at his words. Lonely. “I live with Draven at Xaria, surrounded by hundreds of people all the time, but it’s lonely.”
She wasn’t expecting vulnerability, not after how he’s behaved with her the last several weeks.
Task looks down at her, his face open. So different from how she normally sees him, hard, closed off. His eyes search hers, and then he steps back, scrubbing a hand across his face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have — didn’t mean to say that.”
“Task,” Kit says. “It’s okay.” She wants to move closer to him again, to touch him, but she doesn’t know if he’ll let her. She breathes in, her stomach in knots. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, afraid to look directly at him, but trying to read him nonetheless.
He’s tense again, his hands braced on the railing in front of him.
Kit takes a chance, closing the distance he’s created between them, placing her hand over his.
His fingers flinch, but he doesn’t move.
A rush soars through her, making her dizzy.
What the hell is she doing? This is a man who called her incompetent yesterday, implied she was being a fool, questioned her abilities.
And yet she can tell there is something more to him, something he’s hiding just under the surface.
“I know the feeling,” she offers.
And she does. For so long after her mother died, she’d felt lonely.
She wasn’t alone; she had her brother, her dad, Nevis, Finn.
But nobody was wading through their grief in the way she was.
The impossible, horrible thing about loss and grief was that it was so deeply individual.
Nobody experienced it the same way, could precisely understand the way in which it was appearing for the person trapped in it.
“After my mom died, there were so many people around me, but I felt so isolated.” She feels the grief rise in her chest, remembering her mother’s laugh, the way her eyes crinkled.
“I’m so sorry,” Task says. He flips his hand over and grasps her palm in his, squeezing her hand. Her stomach drops, as though she’s just launched herself out of an airauto. There is a palpable electricity in the air, one she doesn’t know what to do with.
The moment stretches between them, Task’s hand warm under her own. She feels something shift, and the grief lessens, almost as if the top layer has been siphoned off. She is lighter than she was a moment ago.
And then it all shatters. Task drops her hand, taking several steps away, shaking his head.
“Task,” Kit says, reaching for him again.
“Don’t,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut, as if he’s in physical pain.
“Are you alright?” She’s unsure of what just happened, what caused the delicate balance they’d struck to collapse.
He takes a deep breath, and she sees the mask slide back into place. His face reverts to something hard, blank. “Don’t touch me again,” he says.
“I’m sorry, I thought —”
“You shouldn’t touch me,” he repeats, more quietly.
“You don’t want me to, or I shouldn’t?” Kit presses.
“Both,” he says. “I’m not… It’s not… It can’t happen.”
“Why not?” Kit breathes.
“Just trust me,” he says.
“Trust you?” She scoffs.
He nods once. “You don’t know me.”
“I’m trying to,” Kit says gently.
“Then stop,” he says. He turns away from her, back towards the set of windows. “You should go.”
Kit feels as though she’s been punched in the stomach.
She’s torn between continuing to push him and respecting his request. She’s seen glimpses of him; she’s certain there’s someone worth knowing under that hard exterior, but if she pushes too hard, she might never get to see them.
She may have already, with this little overture.
She crosses back over the grass, to the entryway. She glances over her shoulder once more, watching his rigid form at the window. “Good night, Task.”