Chapter 12 #3
And Callum. My Callum.
I’ve been dreaming of this moment for eight years. The chance to tell him how I felt, to apologize for never trying to write
to him. For instead writing a story about him.
We’re telling a story, he’d said.
I open my eyes and stare at myself in the mirror. Most of the mascara is gone, but there’s still a stubborn ring of black
around my lashes.
Whatever. It’ll be fine.
I unzip my dress and let it pool to the ground.
I have no idea how expensive this thing is, but I know it’s more than my parents make in a year.
Even though I want to hate it, smash the mirrors, destroy everything that belongs to this administration, I find myself lifting it and hanging it on the hook on the back of the bathroom door.
Yawning, I feel around for the bundle of folded pajamas on the end of my bed that someone must have left when I was at dinner.
They’re softer than anything I’ve ever felt, and I can’t help but shiver as I button up the striped shirt and step into the matching pants.
They’re so comfortable that I can get past the fact that they’re navy and cream, the presidential colors.
A squeak in the corner of the room makes me jump, and I cover my mouth to stop myself from screaming as a figure slips in
through an open French door I hadn’t even noticed. I am about to sprint for the door to the hallway when the figure looks
up. Blue eyes, blond hair falling from its coif: Callum.
My hands drop to my chest. “You scared me!”
Callum closes the French doors that lead to the courtyard, taking one second to peek out once more to make sure the coast is clear.
He holds his hands up in apology. “I’m sorry.
” He’s in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, and it’s very different from the tux, a thin fabric that clings to his body, strains against the broadness of his shoulders, the bulge of his arms. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him.
He’s in my bedroom. We’ve been alone a million times as kids, but somehow this feels different.
I reach over and flick off the bathroom light so that no one will be able to see us through the windows, but he’s cast in
the warm glow of the holoscreens outside. A sinking feeling roils in my gut as I realize that he can see me, too: my smeared mascara, hair in a topknot, my striped pajamas. I cross my arms over my chest, and Callum looks up at the
ceiling. Suddenly, the weight of today comes crashing down. Words seem to rush out of me.
“You’re in my bedroom” is all I can think of.
His gaze remains fixed on the ceiling. “I didn’t think you’d be in your pajamas yet.” And I’m not imagining the faint redness
creeping up his neck.
“Pajamas make you blush but you want to walk down the aisle with me in three months?”
I step closer to him. Callum squints up as though there’s something really interesting up there. “You’re tired. I just wanted
to say thank you. And—and it was good to see you. We can talk tomorrow.”
“No, we can’t. You know we can’t. That’s why you snuck in here.” I remember Becka’s warning. At least here, we only have to
worry about the Hammers hearing us. There’s no risk of it getting out to the press. “Outside of this room, we have to smile
and kiss for the camera.” He flinches at that. “So whatever you’re going to say . . . say it, okay?”
He sighs, eyes still pitched upward.
“Callum. Look at me. We used to have sleepovers.” I fight to keep my voice even against the thrill. “You’ve seen me in pajamas.”
Slowly, he lowers his gaze until his eyes are locked on mine. “We were six.”
“You were awkward then, too,” I joke, perching on the edge of the bed. I jut my chin out, a wordless offer. He sits. Once
again, our eyes find the window, the trees stretching across the glass.
“This is my fault,” he says finally. “I picked you. I didn’t know that they were going to do it like this, Ripley. Believe me. I thought that they’d give me a chance to ask you if you wanted to do this. But I should have known better. My dad does what he wants, when he wants. And I’m so sorry,
Ripley. I should have known that it would be awful to ask this of you. Especially when your parents fought hard against getting
him elected in the first place. And here I am, asking you to lie to make him look better to the public.”
I blink back tears as I smile, though there isn’t any real reason to.
If Lyceum put me here, I don’t know what they want me to do. Do they really believe that people will read pamphlets about
democracy and term limits when their DopaMines are brimming with footage of the “royal wedding”?
“I’m not here for your dad, Callum.” He glances up at that, and for a moment he looks so much like that kid I fell in love with. “I’m here for you. I’ve missed you every single day since you left. Seeing you is . . .” My heart beats faster. The truth is right there on
my tongue, but I swallow it back. “It’s amazing. But I don’t want to help your father. I can’t help him.”
Callum hangs his head. “Why not?”
I bite my lip. How honest can I be? “What would happen if I tried to leave?”
He winces again at that, and I reach out to steady him with a hand that falls loosely on his knee. “I mean, I know I can’t.
Wouldn’t he just send me to the front in Europe? The data mines in Oklahoma? I mean, it could be bad, but I don’t care about
that as much as I care about what he could do to my parents. And you know he could do something bad.”
Callum’s face is even more stark in the shadow, and he takes a deep breath as he absorbs my words. His eyes dart around; I
can see the glow of dozens of screens reflecting in them as he searches for an answer in the dark.
Part of me wants him to tell me that his father wouldn’t hurt my parents. Wouldn’t hurt me. But he doesn’t deny it. Even as nausea rises in my throat at the idea, there’s something steadying. He won’t lie to me,
not even when it’s clear I need him to.
Finally, Callum clears his throat. “I’m going to get you out of this, okay?” he says. “I don’t know how. But I’m going to
get you out of this.”
He reaches over and holds his hand out, palm up.
In the low light, I can see the scar from the tree. Eight stitches.
They’ll have to go through me.
I reach over and rest my hand on top of his, interlacing our fingers. My body hums with the awareness of his warmth.
Callum is here, and he’s still good. He’s still my Callum.
He presses his palm against mine. “But play along for now, please? We’ll pretend. Smile for the cameras, pretend that we’re
madly in love. We’ll keep my dad happy until I can figure something out.”
I nod. I can do that, can’t I? It won’t be hard. It feels natural to slip back into Callum’s life, into his touch.
The hard part, a little voice in my head tells me, will be remembering that it’s not real.
I look at our intertwined hands, and then move my gaze up to his.
His eyes gutter, pupils so wide that they’re more black than blue. I’m probably projecting. I know I’m projecting. I’ve written things like this. I’ve written this moment.
But it feels real. His eyes drop to my lips, and everything goes still.
The sound of the lock on my door twisting cuts through the moment like a knife, and in less than a second, we’re both standing.
A figure all in black cracks the bedroom door, and a familiar voice calls inside. “Ms. Hart, are you decent?” it asks.
That voice. I wish it were anyone else, but it’s him. Hux.
I panic, eyes wide as I turn to Callum, who moves quietly to the French doors. He tries to open them, but the hinges squeak
loudly. He stops and swears, silently.
“No, nope. Not decent at all,” I call back, rushing over to slam the door in Hux’s face. I wave at Callum, motioning for him
to go, but he tries the door again—and it sticks.
I put my hands over my face. This can’t be happening.
“Well,” Hux continues in his fake professional voice, inching the door back open until it hits my heel, “we’ve had word of
a credible threat. I need to clear the room.”
“Just a moment!” I shut the door again.
Callum’s wide eyes meet mine, and we both pantomime terribly, trying to figure out what to do, as Hux once again squeaks the
door open.
Eventually, I point under the bed.
Callum presses his lips together and cocks his head like Seriously?
“Ripley,” Hux says, and the way he says it—like he knows me—draws Callum’s attention.
I don’t know what I’m more scared of: Hux finding Callum and trying to hurt him, or Callum seeing Hux and being hurt by him.
I rush over, yanking at the door to the courtyard until my hands burn.
“Ms. Hart, this is really time-sensitive,” Hux says. He’s teasing me, like he would in class. Playing with me, like he’s been doing this whole time.
“Just—a—moment!” I eke out, huffing as I tug.
Finally, the door creaks open. Callum and I both wince, but Callum sneaks through the small opening.
“These gosh darn pajamas,” I say, to keep up my ruse, unsure if I’m lying to protect Callum or Hux.
Callum surprises me by sticking his head back in quickly. For a second, I assume he forgot something. But then he does something
that sends my heart skittering in every direction—he kisses me on the cheek.
“Good night,” he breathes.
I shoot him a shocked look, and he smiles like I haven’t seen him smile since we were ten. And then he disappears into the
darkness of the courtyard.
I can’t help the goofy look on my face as Hux kicks the bedroom door all the way open, unwilling to wait any longer. As he
strides in, he brushes his sleeves to his elbows, revealing dark tattoos that snake up his forearms.
As I stare, he pulls a knife from his belt with one hand while using the other to pull back the door, as if someone could
be hiding behind it the way he booted it open.
I hazard a glance into the hall to make sure we’re alone before I punch him in the shoulder as hard as I can. Which, with
all my training, is really hard.
He grunts and then looks down at me, annoyed but not as injured as I was hoping. “Don’t do that.”
I hit him again, and this time he doesn’t even flinch.