Believe Me (Shatter Me, #6.5) (17)
I buried myself in work for hours, hardly coming up for air, not even to eat. In addition to all else, I’ve been designing a plan—a safer plan—that would help us bring in the assistance we need while mitigating our risk of exposure. Ella’s, most of all. Usually, this kind of work is enough to hold my focus. But today, of all days—a day my mind continues to remind me was meant to be my wedding day—
It doesn’t matter what I do; I am distracted.
I sigh, resting my hands on my thighs, too uncomfortably aware of the little velvet box still tucked into my pocket.
I clench, unclench my fists.
I scan the dining room again, restless with nervous energy. It’s still surprising to me how easily I shed my solitude for the privilege of Ella’s company. The truth is, I learned to enjoy the mechanics of life with her by my side; her presence renders my world brighter, the details richer. It is impossible not to feel the difference when she is gone.
Still, this has been a strange and difficult day.
I know Ella loves me—and I know she means it when she says she wants to be with me—but today has been ripe not merely with disappointment but also concerning obfuscations. Ella is hiding something from me, and I have been waiting all day for her to return so that I might ask her, privately, a single clarifying question that might resolve this incertitude. Until then, it’s hard to know how to feel, or what to believe.
More simply: I miss her.
I regret even relinquishing the dog.
Upon my return from the gravesite, I searched the grounds for a familiar face—to find someone to take him—and despite my efforts, I couldn’t find anyone I recognized. There’s a great deal of work to do in the previously unregulated areas outside the Sanctuary, so it’s not surprising to see people gone; I was only surprised to find myself disappointed. All I’ve wanted for so long was a single moment of quiet, and now that I have it in abundance, I’m not sure I want it.
The realization has quietly shocked me.
Regardless, I was about to abandon the idea of bathing the animal when a nervous young woman approached me, her face as red as her hair as she stammered aloud a suspicion that I might need help.
I appreciated the effort on her part, but the conversation was far from ideal.
The girl turned out to be a part of a persistent, ridiculous subsection of people here at the Sanctuary, a lingering group of men and women who still insist on treating me like I’m some kind of a hero. I fought off my father’s supreme soldiers in a failed attempt at protecting Ella, and these well-meaning fools have somehow idealized this failure; one of the worst days of my life now fossilized in their memories as a day that should be celebrated.
It makes me ill.
They’ve romanticized me in their minds, these people, romanticized the very idea of my existence, and often objectify me in the process. Every time I looked this young woman in the eye she would visibly tremble, her feelings both indecent and sincere, the mixture of which was almost too uncomfortable to recount.
I thought she might be more at ease if I stared at the animal as I spoke, which I did, and which seemed to calm her. I told her about the dog—explaining that he needed a bath, and food—and which she generously offered to take into her care. As I sensed no actual danger from the girl, I accepted her overture.
“Does he have a name?” she’d asked.
“He is a dog,” I’d said, frowning as I looked up. “You may call him a dog.”
The young woman froze at that, at our sudden eye contact. I watched her pupils dilate as she grappled with an emotional combination too often flung in my direction: abject terror and desire. It confirmed for me then what I’ve always known to be true—that most people are disappointing and should be avoided.
She said nothing to me after that, only scooping up the reluctant, whining animal into her trembling arms and shuffling away. I’ve not seen either of them since.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that this day has been a thorough disappointment.
I push back my chair and get to my feet, taking the foil bowl to go; I plan to save the food-adjacent mass for the dog, should I ever see him again. I glance up at the large clock on the wall, noting that I managed only to kill another thirty minutes.
Quietly, I acknowledge I should accept this day for the nonevent it turned out to be—and, as it appears unlikely I will see Ella tonight, I should go to bed. Still, I’m demoralized by this turn of events; so much so that it takes me a moment to realize Sam is calling my name.
I pivot in her direction.
She’s waving me over, but I have no interest in a conversation right now. I want nothing more than to retreat, fester in my wounds. Instead, I force myself to clear the short distance between us, unable to generate even a modicum of warmth as I approach.
I stare at her by way of hello.
Sam is even more exhausted than I first assumed, her eyes held up by lavender half-moons. Her skin is grayer than I’ve ever seen it, her short blond hair limp, falling into her face.
She spares no time for formalities, either. “Have you read the recent incident reports from”—she looks down at her papers, rubbing one eye with the palm of her hand—“18, 22, 36, 37, 142 through 223, and 305?”
“Yes.”
“Have you noticed what they all have in common?”
I sigh, feeling my body tense anew when I say, “Yes.”