But Kennedy jumping to the assumption I’m taking him toBooker? Way off base. I shiver and shake my head.
“Hmm …” He rubs his scratchy jaw. “Who’s that other guy I’ve seen? He was wearing a ball cap and had his hair in a ponytail.”
That sounds like Rooney. I tap my lips three times, and he watches me, that look taking over his expression like he’s puzzling me out.
Kennedy copies tapping his lips. “Does this mean … whatever his name is?”
The answer to his question pops up in my mind, and it’s an easy one. One word. That’s it.
Rooney. Just say Rooney.Rooney. Rooney. Roooooney.It’s lodged in my throat, growing and growing, but even when I open my mouth, when I form the word with my lips, the sound won’tcome. The harder I fight it, the longer it takes, the more my stress skyrockets, and then the stupider I feel for not being able to get the fucking thing out. I can’t stop the sickening nerves or the lockjaw tension that builds whenever I imagine hearing my voice between us.
Pussy.
Wimp.
Ungrateful.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Kennedy says, the warm weight of his hand on my shoulder as he squeezes it.
But it’s not okay. Pressure builds in my chest, and I want to scream at how useless I am. How frustratinglypathetic.
But Kennedy squeezes harder this time and angles his face until he’s in my line of sight.
“Ziggy.” He makes a slashing motion over his mouth. “That’s Ziggy. Right?”
I study him, waiting for a sneer or fake pity to take over his face. I brace for him to shove me or for his lips to form one of a million insults I’ve had hurled my way.
Instead, he makes the slashing motion again. Then the corners of his lips twitch upward. “Do you have one for me?”
For … him? Slowly, I pull my focus away from myself and the ringing in my head to the man standing in front of me. The man who’s not shouting or pushing or mocking me.
I study him for a moment, everything from his golden hair to his golden smile, and I’m filled with the same warmth he’s always funneled into me.
It’s where my name for him came from. But as he watches me and waits, it gets too hard to lift my hands. I never learned sign language because when I was younger, I had no problems with talking. It was only as I got older and started learning how evil the world is that my voice shrank and shriveled inside of me.
Telling Kennedy the name I have for him would be easy, and I want to, but self-preservation wins out. There’s a chance it would give away how I feel about him, and when I can’t even have a goddamn conversation with the guy, that feels like skipping a lot of steps.
I shake my head instead. Normally, I’m not a liar, but there isn’t a whole lot that I won’t do to protect myself.
“Ah, damn. You’ll have to tell me when you think of one.” He resumes walking and chuckles to himself. “What about this?” he asks, holding a finger beneath his nose like he’s sniffing it.
I pull a disgusted face, and his chuckle turns into a laugh. “I’ll take that as a no.”
If I didn’t already have something, it would work, but Kennedy deserves to be known for more than his mustache.
I take a right off the path and follow a long, narrow one deeper into the forest. It’s the way to Lynx’s place. He lives beside the crop fields and the battery containers, and maybe if Kennedy sees that, he can get an understanding of what I want to achieve in Old End. Given they’re planning to market the houses there as high-end luxury weekenders or whatever, our batteries won’t have enough energy to supply those too, but I can work out a similar arrangement up there.
It takes ten minutes of walking and Kennedy telling me about where he used to live before we pass the tree line into the clearing. It’s as large as a football field, with Lynx’s small house right on the edge, rows and rows of crops, protected by his intricate fencing, and then the shipping containers on the other side.
“Oh, wow,” he mutters, following me. “Is this where you live? It’s like a fairy-tale cottage.”
I almost laugh at that. Me? Grow food when I can barely cook it? I’m not sure exactly what I contribute to the town other thanbeing an eagle-eyed lookout, but feeding people would never come close to being on the list.
I lift my hand and use my fore and little fingers to make horns above my head.
“That’s who lives here?”
I nod and, throat feeling tight, manage a whisper before I’m too in my head. “Lynx.”
