“Hi,” I say.
“Slade? What’s up? Are you okay?”
I frown. She’s asking about me? “Edmond said you’re sick.”
She laughs. “No. No I’m not sick.”
“Then … what’s wrong?”
She sighs. “It’s just that time of month, you know.”
“Oh … I’m—I’m sorry. Do you have everything you need?” Did I really just ask that?
She offers me another laugh, and it goes straight through me. Hell. “Yes. The housekeeper had something on her and was able to help me get what I needed. It was a surprise, I guess. They gave us stuff at EV that, uh, you know … prevented it.”
Sniffing, she moves, and there’s more rustling.
“I’m sorry, Thea.”
“When are they going to take me back, Slade?” She sniffs again.
I press the phone tighter to my ear as if it could bring me closer. She’s crying, and her broken little breaths gut me. Running a hand over my face, I lean back against the headboard. I don’t know. My hope is they’ve forgotten I have her, which is ridiculous. Of course they haven’t. The other men, the ones sniffing around, definitely haven’t forgotten.
“Promise me, Slade. Promise me if they do, you’ll bid on someone else. Save another girl from a terrifying night. Don’t just save me.”
Like hell. “Thea …”
“Please, Slade. I can’t handle it anymore. I’m here making cookies, watching movies, enjoying the summer sun, and they’re stuck back there sucking down every last drop of green juice to satiate themselves, and fighting for sunlight through a skylight just for thirty minutes. The guilt is eating at me. Please … next time … give someone else the respite.”
The pain in her voice has me grasping for anything to help her. The cracks in her voice, each shaky breath she tries to swallow back—I hate it. I hate that she’s falling apart, and that she feels guilt for me loving her. “I-I promise,” I say, not thinking.
She lets out a relieved sob, and my chest caves. “Thank you. Thank you.”
“Please stop crying.” Every sniffle is a punch, and each sob a chokehold. I wish I could shoulder the guilt she’s feeling, because none of this is her fault. It should be mine, my guilt. I’m the one who stopped the bidding rotation after I laid eyes on Thea. I’m the one who wanted to stop her from the Culling. Every hurt, I want to take from her. I want to ease her pain. I want to care for her for the rest of my life.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m probably extra emotional right now,” she says. “When will you be home?”
Home. My jaw clenches, the energy in that single word humming in my veins. For a moment I’m somewhere else with her. She’s beside me in my office, barefoot with her hair curled on top of her head in a bun, tapping on her laptop while she edits, saying, “This line is too safe. Say what you actually mean.” I’ll smile because she’ll be right and she challenges me. I see her walking the halls with me, shaking hands, whispering the truth in moments I can’t afford to get it wrong. I see her on the steps of the community center in Chicago when we launch the literacy program together—her name on the foundation paperwork beside mine.
The rabbit hole continues, and I picture us home, worn out but content to relax with a few comics and bowls full of Frosted Flakes. She can’t know what I’m seeing. Not yet. This life I’m picturing would only compound the guilt she feels, but I picture us transforming the legacy my grandfather tried to impart on me into something for good, for the better.
She says something, then laughs softly with a yawn behind it.
Hell.
She’s the only version of the future that makes any damn sense, and it’s not some preprogrammed legacy my grandfather crafted. It’s organic and beautiful.
Yet, I’m terrified I’m the only one who can see it.
What doesTheawant from life?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THEA
Another week goes by without Slade, and the monotony of the days, along with the pressing guilt surrounding them, weigh me down. I pull myself out of bed, the sun already crested in the sky and drag myself to the bathroom. After splashing some water on my face, I dress in a pink polka dot bikini and toss some black shorts over it. Another day on the dock. Maybe I’ll cut up the watermelon Stefan brought home yesterday.
I sigh, fingering through my tangled hair and piling it on top of my head. My reflection in the mirror isn’t what I’d thought it would be. Yes, I’ve got more color. My nose is sun-kissed, and my face has filled out, but under my eyes—the skin underneath is darker than usual, bruised and purple. My eyes constantly feel scratchy and heavy, and mirroring that, there’s no light there anymore, just exhaustion.
