The Ones We're Meant to Find(67)

The pain in my gut fades.

I think of Hero. Of U-me. Of simple joys, like watching a sunset or eating a taro biscuit. I think of the moments and memories I’ve made that can truly be called my own, and the pain reignites. The false memories bleed into the real ones.

How sick—that my happiness should be the meterstick. But I can adapt. I switch between recalling suffering and joy until my body adjusts to the seesawing physical reactions. I can’t stop the pain, but I can stop myself from bending to its will.

I’m sweaty and hollowed out by the time I feel ready to return to the house. I crawl back onto the couch, where Hero’s still sleeping, and curl beside him, letting the rhythm of his breathing be a metronome to my own.

Please, I think as I shut my heavy eyelids and tuck my aching hands into my elbows. Let me sleep without dreaming.

And thankfully, I do.

When I wake, I’m still on the couch. The space beside me is empty. The blanket is tucked up to my chin, slipping off as I pull myself up. A broken fingernail catches on a carpet fiber and I wince—then sniff the air.

Something’s cooking.

I pad into the kitchen and am greeted by the sight of pots and pans bubbling on the stove, an array of taros on the chopping board, and Hero wearing a slate-blue V-neck sweater and a rooster-print apron, hopping around U-me with a pot in one hand.

“Morning,” he says when he sees me by the doorway. “Or should I say, ‘Evening.’”

I stick out my tongue, then wave a hand at all the dishes on the table. “What gives?”

“It’s—no, U-me!”

U-me knocks into a pot handle, and soup pours like lava from the stove to the ground.

“I got it,” says Hero, righting the overturned pot and placing it into the sink while throwing a towel over the mess. “Sit. It’s your welcome-back meal.”

Welcome-back meal. Hero pulls out a chair for me. I sink in. Smile, despite the tinny, mocking voice in the back of my mind. Welcome back to the island! Your life is a lie! And now you’re deceiving the only other person who deserves to know! Hooray! “You didn’t have to, love.”

“I wanted to.” Hero passes over a bowl of mashed taro, and again, a memory of eating fancy mashed potatoes with Kay resurfaces—except now I remember we did it in holo. The food was as fake as these recollections. And this food before me might as well be fake too. I don’t need to eat it to survive. In fact, I bet if I stopped eating and “starved,” then my wired need to find Kay would abate. Conditions no longer habitable: Cancel command.

But what sort of life is that? I don’t want to concede pieces of my humanity just to preserve it. And I don’t want to live forever in Kay’s shadow, either. This island is the problem: I’m only a two-day swim from Kay, plus a billion bodies in the sea. That image kills the rest of my appetite.

“I was thinking…” I clear the mucus from my throat. “I was thinking we could leave the island.”

Silence.

“You said there was nothing out there,” Hero says slowly. Gently.

Still.

Shit.

“If we sail long enough, we might be able to find something,” I say, trying to cover my slip. If the bulk of Celia’s memories can be trusted, then there should be other lands out there with shelters ready for the humans when they reemerge. “And I thought…” I moisten my lips. “Well, I thought we could try finding my sister together.”

I hate this. Hate this hate this hate this.

I have to do this. Saying I don’t care anymore is too suspicious.

Hero frowns. “But what about food?”

And back we circle, to the original reason why I couldn’t take him with me. “We can stockpile.”

Hero glances to the spread on the table. It’s practically all the possible taro recipes under the sky and, more importantly, all the taro. “Sorry. I wouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine. It’s no rush.”

No rush.

My guilt congeals, clotting my heart. Four more days. I can do it. Four. Short. Days. I’ll lock the door every night and make U-me stand guard if I have to. In four days, this indecision will pass, because there will be nothing to decide. I just have to hold out until then … after the pod fails … after she, Kay—no, not-Kay— “Cee?”

My name draws me out of my thoughts, into the present moment, where my fingers are bleached white around the fork handle and Hero’s half risen out of his seat.

I shovel a forkful of taro into my mouth before he can come over. “Mmm. Delicious.”

Slowly, Hero sits back down. I scrunch my face dramatically. “But it’s missing something…”

“What?” he asks, warily, not 100% buying my act.

I’m committed to it. “Butter, I think.”

Hero takes a careful mouthful. Chews, and decides to humor me. “I think garlic.”

“Yuck.”

“Yuck?” He sounds as offended as I was, when he rejected my names. “What’s wrong with garlic?”

“Garlic breath, that’s what.”

“Who cares about that?”

“I would, if you had it,” I say, raising my brows meaningfully.

It’s endearing, how he can still flush. “That’s why you’d have to eat it too.”