In The Afterlight (The Darkest Minds #3)(41)

“More than you,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, well, I decided to try running from my nightmares instead of diving into them headfirst.” The screen on the treadmill he’d been using was still flashing, paused. “Got too much adrenaline. Too many thoughts knocking around my skull. Energy to burn.”

I finally came back fully into the present when my ears picked up the soft voice of a broadcaster coming from the TV bolted to the wall. The room’s smell flooded my nose: plastic, sweat, and metal finally driving out the stench of blood.

Cole gave me a shrewd look, studying me for a moment with a look like he recognized something in me I didn’t necessarily know was there myself. Unlike Cate, unlike Liam, unlike Chubs—unlike Jude—he simply let what had happened drop at our feet. There was no pressing about how I was feeling or what I’d seen, and that was exactly what I wanted. To push it behind me and leave it there.

He pulled the towel away from my palm, inspecting the cut.

“Looks pretty shallow,” he announced, rising to his feet. “Already healing. It’ll probably sting like a bitch for a while, though.” Finished with me, he lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, giving me a flash of toned skin I hadn’t asked for.

I looked away. “Are you here every morning?”

“All two days we’ve been here,” he said, amused. “Trying to get my ass back in shape. It’s been a while since I trained. Helps, too, to get the...” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “To blow off steam.”

“I miss it,” I heard myself say, “feeling strong. I just feel like we know where we’re going. You and me. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m just spinning and spinning and spinning waiting to get there. And dammit—the research on the cause of IAAN, I can’t get over what a goddamn waste it is that, after everything, we can’t even have that. I used to be able to handle things. I’m not...” I lifted my hand. “Obviously that’s not the case these days.”

“Yeah, and what are you going to do about it?” Cole tucked his arms against his chest. “You recognize the problem, how are you going to fix it? Stop thinking about the flash drive, the cause. Don’t waste your energy on regret or self-pity. If that road is closed to us, we’ll focus on figuring out the cure. So, again, tell me: what are you going to do about it?”

“Train,” I said. “We’ll have to train all of the kids. We’re going to need them to be able to fight.”

“You’re not training anyone until you get yourself in shape.”

“Was that an offer?”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Why? Think your monster can keep up with mine?”

I thought mine could run circles around his. Tie his into knots.

“There’s no simple fix, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Cole said, tilting his head toward the treadmill. “I get strong and I get fast, so if I can’t fight the monsters off, at least I can run them out of my head for a little while. When was the last time you trained seriously?”

“Before...” Jesus, when was the last time? A week before I left to find Liam? The training at HQ had been brutal at first, the very definition of an uphill battle—one that was fought with limp, weak limbs. I’d had blisters on my feet and the heels of my palms, and the endless string of bruises had made me look like I’d been in a major car accident. The pain had flared and pulled and twisted me, like it was reshaping my body to its own standards.

Most of the kids had been in the program long enough to hone their bodies for Ops at the same time they were trying to sharpen their Psi skills. It meant weightlifting and cardio every other day, with self-defense, kickboxing, and weapons training thrown into the mix for variety. When you’re working that hard, you’re focusing on every movement your body is making, trying to train each and every muscle to be as sharp as a knife. You get out of your head for a little while.

There had been a window of time when it had all come together for me—I’d been strong, mentally and physically, and more than a little driven to see each Op through. And somehow, in the process of looking for Liam, I’d managed to lose that piece of myself. I’d let the doubt back in, the insecurity. I’d lost control of myself.

“I want to be pushed harder than the instructors worked us,” I told him. “I can’t keep falling apart and waiting for everyone around me to put the broken pieces back together. I want to take care of everyone.”

Cole held up his hands. “I get it.”

“You don’t,” I said, hating the edge of desperation in my voice. “It’s like every time I turn a corner, I find myself right back in that tunnel with all the walls collapsing, and it feels like—”

“No.” Cole stood. “We’re not going to sit around, holding hands, and use the Cate Conner method of coping—art therapy with finger painting.” He crossed the room in two long strides and dug through a blue plastic bin to retrieve an old, worn pair of sparring gloves. He tossed them my way.

Cole crossed his arms but didn’t relax his posture in the slightest. I slid them on without hesitation or consideration for my hand and was rewarded with a nod of approval that warmed me at my center. If I was ready, he was ready.

He pulled out a pair of gloves for himself. There was a stretch of black mats on the far side of the room, and I crossed over to them. Plastic, sweat, rubber—it was a familiar smell. I took in a deep breath of it and set my stance, letting my weight sink into what little give the mats offered.