Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(45)

Xingjuan, be careful.

The words are like a slap. I flatten my hand against the desk, quashing that impulse. I concentrate on my breath—each inhale crystal clear, filling my lungs and then spilling out once more—until I don’t want anymore.

Then I finally let myself answer.

No, I write. There’s nothing you can do. It’s just not safe.

He reads this. He looks ahead. His chin squares, and for a moment, I think he really will protest. But a few minutes later, he sends back a note.

Okay. If that’s what you need.

I let out a shaky breath, afraid to believe. Adam Reynolds’s son, showing restraint? I write. That’s hard to believe.

He turns his head and looks at me. His eyes are impenetrable. And then he bows his head and writes again. On the contrary. Adam Reynolds’s son knows what it’s like to be pushed too far. He would never do it to anyone he cares about. Friends?

Friends, I write slowly. Until this is over.

12.

BLAKE

Friends is supposed to be a bad word, and I suppose my body thinks it is. Spending time around Tina leaves me on edge, horny and restless in a way that no amount of running—or, let’s be honest, masturbation—can cure.

Truth is, I want her and I want her bad. It’s worse now that we’ve kissed. Now that I’ve touched her almost all over, now that I know how she responds to me. Those wants feel embedded permanently in me, a tattoo of lust that resides just beneath my skin.

But—and this is going to sound weird—I actually enjoy it. It fits with the life I’ve adopted for now. I wash dishes; I stumble through my classes in a haze. I spend time with Tina, going through details of the launch.

The want gives me something to do, something to focus on. Something so that sometimes, I forget myself and I can eat without choking on my own food. The desire distracts me; I almost don’t even have to run to push everything else away.

Almost.

Want is always present, fierce and ferocious, a punch to the throat. Here, it says. Here this is. Here you are. Here is one thing you want.

I want, therefore I am.

Tina and I don’t talk about how much I want her, not for weeks.

It hits me hard one day as we’re doing homework together before my shift. I’m not sure when we started hanging out together—it’s partially because I want to spend time with her, and she spends an inordinate amount of time doing work, and partially because as we come down to the last few weeks before the launch, there are a thousand tiny details that we have to discuss.

We’re sitting in my kitchen. She’s frowning at her computer, reading through a discussion on the Cyclone intranet. And then her phone rings.

She glances down and her face tightens. It’s scary how well I know her. She shuts her eyes and pushes back in her seat.

“Your mom?” I ask.

She nods.

Her parents call regularly, and ever since that first time, she’s let me listen silently on the calls. Her mom doesn’t always need money, but when she does, Tina always sends it. And I always pay.

I can only imagine what it must have felt like for her to feel every spare dollar—and then some she couldn’t spare—slip through her hands. I would resent it, but for me, it’s temporary. For me, this is just another form of an ultra-marathon. It feels difficult. It seems interminable. But I’m doing it to myself, and that makes it bearable in a way it wouldn’t be for her. Deep down, I know it’s going to be over.

For her? There is no end. The marathon never stops. She can’t get off. She can’t rest. It just keeps going on.

This time, her mother is calling about another friend, an appeal that will be heard in a few weeks.

“Any way you can come down?” she asks Tina. “Maybe find someone you can carpool with. Then you can come to the hearing with me.”

The other thing I’ve learned is that Tina’s mother, in her own way, is as relentless and indefatigable as my father.

Tina winds her hair around her finger. “Mom. That’s a Friday. I can’t miss class.”

But she’s already pulled up her schedule and she’s frowning at the date.

“You just have two classes on Friday. You have a test?”

“No.” Tina bites her lip. “But…”

I reach over her shoulder and type on her laptop. You should go.

“You can’t get notes from someone else?” her mother asks insistently.

“Yes, but—”

“Because this is Jimmy Ma. You used to babysit him, remember?” Tina’s mom makes a distinct clucking noise through the phone. “I told his parents to file for citizenship as soon as he turned eighteen, but did they listen? ‘Too expensive,’ they said. ‘He can do it later.’ You should come. We can show the judges he is part of a community.”

Tina types in response to me: How?

She hasn’t told her mother about the trade—unsurprisingly, given her mom’s propensity to spend other people’s money—and so it’s not like she could buy a plane ticket without occasioning questions. And driving my car down, I suspect, would lead to even larger questions. Questions like: Where’d you get a car that costs six figures?

Tina runs her hand through her hair and looks at the ceiling. “I don’t think the judges will care.”