Elites of Eden (Children of Eden #2)(31)

She’s really not going to tell him that someone is actively hunting for me? That I’m never supposed to come back? I open my mouth to tell him myself, then snap it shut. I’m a coward. I don’t want to see that look of despair in his eyes. Selfishly, I leave it to Mom to tell him, to bear the brunt of his sorrow. I wonder if he’ll forgive me, once he knows. But I just want this last moment with him that isn’t marred with too much grief. I will hold it for both of us. What he knows is sad enough.

He’s taking it pretty well, though. Mom excuses herself (I hear the hiccup of a sob as she departs), and Ash dumps out a trash bag and starts methodically folding the clothes Mom shoved inside. The repetitive, precise action seems to give him focus, and he talks fairly calmly as he folds. But he doesn’t talk about what’s happening. He tells me about yesterday at school, how he missed a question on his Eco-history test, how the latest fashion calls for tiny iridescent robotic butterflies in the hair, how Lark seemed strangely tired but happy all day . . .

I understand. He desperately wants everything to be normal. He doesn’t want the patterns of the last sixteen years to change.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you!” I blurt out suddenly. The shirt he is folding drops into his lap in a messy heap.

He gives a little laugh. “You? What about me? What am I going to do without my sister watching out for me?”

“How do I watch out for you? I’m never out with you.”

“You might not be with me, Rowan, but you always have my back. Whenever I need advice, reassurance—anything—you’re there for me. Always. I’ve been thinking more and more about your bravery, and you’ve inspired me. You know, I think I’m finally going to ask Lark out.”

I gasp, just a little, then bite my lip.

“What?” he asks, a little sharply. “You don’t think I should? You think she’ll say no?”

“I . . . I don’t know anything about relationships,” I say truthfully. “I think you should do whatever feels right.” It felt right when Lark kissed me. But it was nothing like any kind of romance I ever imagined.

“Well, don’t worry about that,” he says, making an attempt to sound breezy. “You have enough to think about.” I sniff. “Listen, I’m doing my best not to cry, too, so let’s just look forward to the next time we can see each other. It will be soon, right?”

He looks so eagerly hopeful that I feel my throat tighten. But I manage to say, “I’m sure it will be.” Then I fling my arms around his neck. I can feel his tears dampening my shoulder. Mine are falling, too. It’s not fair. He should know.

But Mom, who has apparently been lurking just outside the door, bustles in and says it’s time to go.

Ash takes my hand and we walk out into the main living quarters.

“It’s only for a little while,” Ash whispers, more to reassure himself than me, I think. “We’ll be together again soon.” I choke back a sob and hug him.

“Come on, we should go,” Mom says.

“But you have to say good-bye to Dad,” Ash says, with that same look of vague confusion I always see on his face whenever the issue of Dad’s relationship with me comes up. Mom and I make sure it rarely does. She and I glance at each other now.

“Right,” she says, nodding decisively. “He’s in his room. Go on, but be quick.”

I’d rather not, but with Ash watching, I should pretend there’s at least some normal feeling between us. I knock softly at the bedroom door, but when I don’t get an answer I just push it open slowly.

He’s in striped pajamas, perched tensely at the edge of the bed. “You’re still here,” he says.

Oh, Dad, even now, even at the end, you can’t just lie and pretend to just a little bit of feeling? Not a good luck, or an I’ll miss you, or anything?

Nothing. So I steel myself and say coldly, though with a tremor in my voice, “For another minute, anyway.”

He nods, looking down at his knees. I search for anything—sadness, anger—but his expression is unreadable. Mostly it seems like he’s waiting. He’s been waiting for sixteen years for me to conveniently disappear from his life, and now, if he can just hold out a little longer, he’ll get his fondest wish.

“Okay then, Dad,” I say, swallowing hard. “Good-bye.”

I wait. Nothing except the crease of his frown deepening between his brows.

So I leave. Leaving him is the one thing I’m truly glad of in all this mess.





IT FEELS SO weird going out through the front door like a regular person. Mom glances at me like she’s expecting me to be in shock at being outside for the first time in my life, so I do my best to look awestruck, to gawk at everything from what she imagines is a new perspective.

She leads me to the small arched outbuilding that holds our tiny car. I’ve read that back before the Ecofail, cars were huge monsters that ate fossil fuels with a gluttonous appetite. They actually burned gasoline, with engines that ran by caging explosions. They were violent juggernauts that thundered through the world by the billions like vast migrating herds of some destructive creature.

We still use the word “car,” but the few that exist in Eden (almost all in the inner circles) are nothing like their namesake. Our water-fueled vehicle is an elegant deep-pink egg with a shell so thin we can see the world around us in a rose-colored haze. It reminds me of Lark’s glasses.