Vera pulls me aside. “You need to talk to him.”
I run my hand through my hair. “And say what?”
“I don’t know,” she hisses, glancing around the control center. “That you miss him? That you’re sorry and the silence is killing you and you love him?”
I splutter. “Vera.”
“What? It’s the truth!”
“You can’t justsaythings like that.”
“Why not?” I’m surprised to see tears in her eyes. “Don’t you think now is the time to get it all out there? Tell him how you feel?”
“It’s not that easy. He won’t even look at me.”
“You won’t look at him, either.”
“Because it hurts!”
“And you think it doesn’t hurt him, too? Keller, Keller, why are you both so hopeless?” She buries her face in her hands. “Please, for love of the stars, don’t let eruption day come withoutfixing this.”
But eruption day does come. And I haven’t fixed anything.
35
The morning of mountKilmon’s eruption feels almost like any regular morning. The Bargainer is quiet, the counters and tables scattered with empty cups, pens, food wrappers. Jester’s tub of gummies is nearly empty now, sitting like a shrine under the glow of Caspen’s control monitors. NewsNet plays on low volume, and I read the headline:DETERMINISTSGUARDNEUTRALIZERWHILEVENTHROTHIANSAWAITSALVATION.
No one else is up yet. That’s no surprise—it’s barely four in the morning. Also not a surprise? I couldn’t sleep. My anxiety is cresting frombackground noisetofull-blown marching band, and none of my usual tricks are helping, so here I am in The Bargainer’s kitchen at this unholy hour scrounging up something to eat. I tear through my first two PPMs with single-minded zeal and am about to start in on my third when it occurs to me that I don’t actually want the whole meal, just the brownies. I rampage my way through another four boxes, tearing the gooey desserts from their packaging and swallowing them whole.
Lament would probably have something to say about this. I can imagine it: the sardonic arch of his brow, the I’m-trying-not-to-be-amused eyeroll.You’re going to give yourself a stomachache, Hartman.But Lament’s not here. He’supstairs in our shared bedroom, pretending to sleep so he doesn’t have to talk to me.
Don’t let eruption day come without fixing this.
I clutch the brownie packaging between my fingers. I listen to the wind whine against The Bargainer’s windows, the dry sound of my own breathing.
Fix this.
I abandon the carnage of PPMs and go upstairs, wiping my hands on my pants as I move down the hall. I push open the door to our shared room, sticky yellow light spilling across the bed.
Lament is lying on his side under the thin thermal sheet. His back is to me. He doesn’t move, but he knows I’m there.
I cross the small space and kneel next to the bed. Lament’s sides rise and fall with his breath. His shoulder blades poke through the back of his nightshirt like wings. I lick my lips and try to work up enough spit to say, “Lament.”
He jerks upright with a sharp inhale, twisting around to face me. “Hartman?”
It takes me a second to register his puffy eyes, his swollen mouth, the imprint of the pillowcase stamped into his cheek. So hewasasleep. Which means… maybe he hasn’t been ignoring me like I thought?
“Hey,” I say.
“What are you doing?” His hair is sticking out in all directions, his cheekbones flushed. He looks ridiculous and perfect, and I’m torn between wanting to laugh at him and wanting to hug him. The urge is suddenly overwhelming—to just wrap him up in my arms and laugh. But I doubt he’d appreciate that.
He frowns. “Did you fall out of bed again?”
If he wasn’t half asleep, he’d realize that question doesn’t make any sense. My smile wobbles. “No.”
“Why are you on your knees?”
“I guess… because I’m about to beg.”
