It has been years since the crash, and still I wake every morning with
the jarring sense of falling. Christa places her palm on my back for
reassurance and I roll over to face her. It’s not yet morning and I can barely
make out her features in the moonlight. Her face is fuller and so is her
abdomen, but we haven’t said anything to the council yet.
“Go back to sleep Lena,” she whispers, and I flip back to my side, used
to following her directions.
I am mad at her and worried for her, but mostly I am determined to save
her. It’s the not knowing how that keeps me awake.
There is a rustling in the shelter across the way, and I suspect that
Cade is unable to sleep tonight too. I think about crawling out from the
familiarity and warmth of the space I share with Christa and clicking my tongue
against the roof of my mouth three times. It’s the code we use when the four of
us want to sneak out of camp. Only Christa is too tired now and Tanner never
leaves her unless Cade or I are there to protect her.
Maybe Cade can hear me thinking because I watch as his silhouette moves
from the shelter and down toward the water. Christa groans as I pull away from
her and follow him. When I reach the water’s edge I have to skip over three
smaller rocks to reach the large curved boulder that rises above the rest. I
sit close to Cade so the two of us can whisper. We can’t risk waking any of the
others. There are strict rules about men and women being alone together.
Rules that seemed silly—until Christa got sick.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, keeping his eyes on the smooth flat
surface of the water in front of us.
I don’t care that he wants me to leave. I can’t bear the thought of lying
still until the sun rises. So instead, I say what we both know.
“She’s getting noticeably bigger.”
I don’t have to look at Cade to know that his brows are pinched together,
and his mouth has formed a tense, firm line. He gets quiet when he can’t quite
work something out. Usually I wait him out, but this time I can’t because I
know that like me, he doesn’t know where to start.
I trace my hands along the rough edges of the boulder. Below, the water
has rubbed it smooth, but on top where we sit, it has the texture of gesso,
layered heavily with a palette knife.
The uninvited memory of things from before is unsettling. I wrap my arms
around my knees, so as not to feel it.
“They never should have—”
“But they did,” I say, cutting him off.
Cade inches away from me on the rock, as if being too close to me is
dangerous. I don’t take it personally, even though just a few weeks ago his
hand brushed mine in this very spot and neither of us pulled away.
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