The Ones We're Meant to Find(70)

“Hero…”

“It’s hard to live for myself if I don’t even know myself. But I do know you. You were there the moment I woke up, driven and strong. You made me want to live for you. And for you, I wish…” He looks away, as if holding my gaze pains him. “I wish I were everything you had hoped for and more.”

My anger grows icy. I’m not strong. And you think I have goals of my own? A past of my own? Well, sorry to break it to you, but it’s all a lie. And I’ve been lying to you. I’m sorry about that, too.

Then the ice melts. And I just feel … sad. For me. For us. We deserve joy. We deserve to live without the guilt of letting anyone down.

To live without guilt, period.

I move, sliding myself between the table’s end and his knees—then onto his knees. The chair comes down on all four legs with a jolt.

I straddle him, looping my arms over his neck so he has nowhere to look but me. “I was never hoping for anyone or anything,” I say. “Not once in these three years. Joules, I didn’t even realize how lonely I was until you showed up.” I rest my forehead against his. There may be lies between us, but right now it’s only the searing truth. “I want you, not everything and more.”

Thunder rumbles outside.

As I wait for a reaction, a lock of hair slips free from my ear. Slowly, Hero reaches up and tucks it back. The brush of his knuckles against my cheek causes memories to resurface, of other boys doing the same thing.

But I’m not Celia. And Hero’s not just some other boy. His fingers are careful but certain. They skim down my sides and stop at my hips.

He pulls me in closer as our lips lock, his grip hardening. I shift—wickedly deliberate—and the nape of his neck heats up under my palm, but he doesn’t break the kiss.

Hooking a leg around the back of the chair for leverage, I move in until we’re practically flush, the negative space between us slimming as we rid ourselves of our sweaters and reveal our true shapes.

“Wait.” He breaks us apart.

“What’s there to wait for?” My fingers are already working on the knotted drawstring to his cargos.

He tries to stop me. “A dance under the stars.”

I bat his hand away. “Cliché.”

“A midnight row on the sea.”

“Cheesy.”

He catches my wrist. “My name is cheesy.”

“You sure?” I don’t think cheesy is the word that comes to mind when I lean in and whisper it—along with all the other things I want—into his ear.

I pull back, satisfied to see the pink in his cheeks and the fluster in his gaze. Then his eyes narrow. In one smooth motion he stands, sweeping me up, his footing sure against the hardwood floor.

We’re nearly at the bedroom before we both remember the mattress is gone. At least we still have the blanket, back to being a carpet, and a door for privacy. Hero presses it shut and sets me down on the ground as it begins to rain. Droplets run down the windowpane as we fumble, hands on fabric, hands on skin. Memories rise with goose bumps in the wake of Hero’s palms—of other palms, other boys. But they belong to Celia.

This is my first.

Our first.

And even if Hero doesn’t have any memories of his own, he’s still asking if this is okay, if I’m okay, if we need protection—all the responsible things normal humans would ask. His innocence makes me ache, and before that ache turns into guilt, I hush him with my mouth and roll over on top.

We sink. Onto, into, subsumed like waves, muscle tendon sinew pulled taut, slickening with each clutch of breath.

Afterward, we lie on the carpeted floor, the rain outside slowing down with the beat of our hearts. The sweat on my shoulders cools. I shiver, and Hero pulls me in. I tuck my head under his chin. The ends of his hair tickle my right cheek, then my own tears. They eek out silently, sliding over the bridge of my nose and pooling in the shell of my left ear. They’re not sad tears. Not happy tears. Just … tears. Warm as the ache between my legs. Real as the ribs beneath my skin. And for a breath, I forget. Everything. I’m just a body nestled against another’s. We’re nothing as timeless as stars in orbit. More like two grains of sand before the tide rushes in. Here, then not. Human.





42


THEY SHARED 50% OF THE same DNA. The same phenotypic expressions—attached earlobes, flat feet, fingernails that ended barely after they began. They had the same personality traits, too, such as an inability to connect with other people and below-average tact.

But when Kasey saw her dad, she wished she shared nothing with him at all.

It was morning in the eco-city. Tuesday, with scheduled rain. David Mizuhara was in his room, sitting at the foot of his and Genevie’s bed. It took up far more functional space than it needed to. All the furniture did; her dad, Kasey knew, could have lived off much less.

She strode in front of him, thinking she might cast him in her shadow, forgetting that as a holograph, she had no consequence in this world. Even if she did, she doubted he would have noticed her.

“You knew.”

As if coming out of a dream, David glanced up. “Kasey?”

She projected the classified P2C file and swiped it to him. “You knew their pipes were leaking.”

“Where did you get this?”

She was the one asking the questions, not him. “Why go through such pains to cover it up for them?”