But I don’t say any of those things. I don’t say anything, in fact.
I sit on these mats with my head in my hands and I’m trying to figure out what else could possibly go wrong. I’m wondering how many more mistakes I’ll have to make before things finally fall into place.
If they ever will.
FIFTY
I’m so humiliated.
I’ve been thinking about this all night and I came to a realization this morning. Warner must’ve told Castle on purpose. Because he’s playing games with me, because he hasn’t changed, because he’s still trying to get me to do his bidding. He’s still trying to get me to be his project and he’s trying to hurt me.
I won’t allow it.
I will not allow Warner to lie to me, to manipulate my emotions to get what he wants. I can’t believe I felt pity for him—that I felt weakness, tenderness for him when I saw him with his father—that I believed him when he told me his thoughts about my journal. I’m such a gullible fool.
I was an idiot to ever think he might be capable of human emotion.
I told Castle that maybe he should put someone else on this assignment now that he knows Warner can touch me; I told him it might be dangerous now. But he laughed and he laughed and he laughed and he said, “Oh, Ms. Ferrars, I’m quite, quite certain you will be able to defend yourself. In fact, you’re probably much better equipped against him than any of us. Besides,” he added, “this is an ideal situation. If he truly is in love with you, you must be able to use that to our advantage somehow. We need your help,” he said to me, serious again. “We need all the help we can find, and right now you’re the one person who might be able to get the answers we need. Please,” he said. “Try to find out anything you can. Anything at all. Winston and Brendan’s lives are at risk.”
And he’s right.
So I’m shoving my own concerns aside because Winston and Brendan are out there, hurting somewhere, and we need to find them. And I’m going to do whatever I can to help.
Which means I have to talk to Warner again.
I have to treat him just like the prisoner that he is. No more side conversations. No falling for his efforts to confuse me. Not again and again and again. I’m going to be better. Smarter.
And I want my notebook back.
The guards are unlocking his room for me and I’m marching in, I’m sealing the door shut behind me and I’m getting ready to give him the speech I’ve already prepared when I stop in place.
I don’t know what I was expecting.
Maybe I thought I’d catch him trying to break a hole in the wall or maybe he’d be plotting the demise of every person at Omega Point or I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know anything because I only know how to fight an angry body, an insolent creature, an arrogant monster, and I do not know what to do with this.
He’s sleeping.
Someone put a mattress in here, a simple rectangle of average quality, thin and worn but better than the ground, at least, and he’s lying on top of it in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs.
His clothes are on the floor.
His pants, his shirts, his socks are slightly damp, wrinkled, obviously hand-washed and laid out to dry; his coat is folded neatly over his boots, and his gloves are resting right next to each other on top of his coat.
He hasn’t moved an inch since I stepped into this room.
He’s resting on his side, his back to the wall, his left arm tucked under his face, his right arm against his torso, his entire body perfect bare, strong, smooth, and smelling faintly of soap. I don’t know why I can’t stop staring at him. I don’t know what it is about sleep that makes our faces appear so soft and innocent, so peaceful and vulnerable, but I’m trying to look away and I can’t. I’m losing sight of my own purpose, forgetting all the brave things I said to myself before I stepped in here. Because there’s something about him—there’s always been something about him that’s intrigued me and I don’t understand it. I wish I could ignore it but I can’t.
Because I look at him and wonder if maybe it’s just me? Maybe I’m naive?
But I see layers, shades of gold and green and a person who’s never been given a chance to be human and I wonder if I’m just as cruel as my own oppressors if I decide that society is right, that some people are too far gone, that sometimes you can’t turn back, that there are people in this world who don’t deserve a second chance and I can’t I can’t I can’t
I can’t help but disagree.
I can’t help but think that 19 is too young to give up on someone, that 19 years old is just the beginning, that it’s too soon to tell anyone they will never amount to anything but evil in this world.
I can’t help but wonder what my life would’ve been like if someone had taken a chance on me.
So I back away. I turn to leave.
I let him sleep.
I stop in place.
I catch a glimpse of my notebook lying on the mattress next to his outstretched hand, his fingers looking as if they’ve only just let go. It’s the perfect opportunity to steal it back if I can be stealthy enough.
I tiptoe forward, forever grateful that these boots I wear are designed to make no sound at all. But the closer I inch toward his body, the more my attention is caught by something on his back.
A little rectangular blur of black.
I creep closer.
Blink.
Squint.
Lean in.
It’s a tattoo.
No pictures. Just 1 word. 1 word, typed into the very center of his upper back. In ink.
IGNITE
And his skin is shredded with scars.
Blood is rushing to my head so quickly I’m beginning to feel faint. I feel sick. Like I might actually, truly upturn the contents of my stomach right now. I want to panic, I want to shake someone, I want to know how to understand the emotions choking me because I can’t even imagine, can’t even imagine, can’t even imagine what he must’ve endured to carry such suffering on his skin.
His entire back is a map of pain.
Thick and thin and uneven and terrible. Scars like roads that lead to nowhere. They’re gashes and ragged slices I can’t understand, marks of torture I never could have expected. They’re the only imperfections on his entire body, imperfections hidden away and hiding secrets of their own.
And I realize, not for the first time, that I have no idea who Warner really is.
“Juliette?”
I freeze.
“What are you doing here?” His eyes are wide, alert.
“I—I came to talk to you—”
“Jesus,” he gasps, jumping away from me. “I’m very flattered, love, but you could’ve at least given me a chance to put my pants on.” He’s pulled himself up against the wall but makes no effort to grab his clothes. His eyes keep darting from me to the pants on the floor like he doesn’t know what to do. He seems determined not to turn his back to me.
“Would you mind?” he says, nodding to the clothes next to my feet and affecting an air of nonchalance that does little to hide the apprehension in his eyes. “It gets chilly in here.”
But I’m staring at him, staring at the length of him, awed by how incredibly flawless he looks from the front. Strong, lean frame, toned and muscular without being bulky. He’s fair without being pale, skin tinted with just enough sunlight to look effortlessly healthy. The body of a perfect boy.
What a lie appearances can be.
What a terrible, terrible lie.
His gaze is fixed on mine, his eyes green flames that will not extinguish and his chest is rising and falling so fast, so fast, so fast.
“What happened to your back?” I hear myself whisper.
I watch as the color drains from his face. He looks away, runs a hand across his mouth, his chin, down the back of his neck.
“Who hurt you?” I ask, so quietly. I’m beginning to recognize the strange feeling I get just before I do something terrible. Like right now. Right now I feel like I could kill someone for this.
“Juliette, please, my clothes—”
“Was it your father?” I ask, my voice a little sharper. “Did he do this to you—”
“It doesn’t matter.” Warner cuts me off, frustrated now.
“Of course it matters!”
He says nothing.
“That tattoo,” I say to him, “that word—”
“Yes,” he says, though he says it quietly. Clears his throat.
“I don’t …” I blink. “What does it mean?”
Warner shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair.
“Is it from a book?”
“Why do you care?” he asks, looking away again. “Why are you suddenly so interested in my life?”
I don’t know, I want to tell him. I want to tell him I don’t know but that’s not true.
Because I feel it. I feel the clicks and the turns and the creaking of a million keys unlocking a million doors in my mind. It’s like I’m finally allowing myself to see what I really think, how I really feel, like I’m discovering my own secrets for the first time. And then I search his eyes, search his features for something I can’t even name. And I realize I don’t want to be his enemy anymore.
“It’s over,” I say to him. “I’m not on base with you this time. I’m not going to be your weapon and you’ll never be able to change my mind about that. I think you know that now.” I study the floor. “So why are we still fighting each other? Why are you still trying to manipulate me? Why are you still trying to get me to fall for your tricks?”
“I have no idea,” he says, looking at me like he’s not sure I’m even real, “no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Why did you tell Castle you could touch me? That wasn’t your secret to share.”
“Right.” He exhales a deep breath. “Of course.” Seems to return to himself. “Listen, love, could you at least toss me my jacket if you’re going to stay here and ask me all these questions?”
I toss him his jacket. He catches it. Slides down to the floor. And instead of putting his jacket on, he drapes it over his lap. Finally, he says, “Yes, I did tell Castle I could touch you. He had a right to know.”
“That wasn’t any of his business.”
“Of course it’s his business,” Warner says. “The entire world he’s created down here thrives on exactly that kind of information. And you’re here, living among them. He should know.”
“He doesn’t need to know.”
“Why is it such a big deal?” he asks, studying my eyes too carefully. “Why does it bother you so much for someone to know that I can touch you? Why does it have to be a secret?”
I struggle to find the words that won’t come.
“Are you worried about Kent? You think he’d have a problem knowing I can touch you?”
“I didn’t want him to find out like this—”
“But why does it matter?” he insists. “You seem to care so much about something that makes no difference in your personal life. It wouldn’t,” he says, “make any difference in your personal life. Not if you still claim to feel nothing but hatred for me. Because that’s what you said, isn’t it? That you hate me?”