Authors: Tahereh Mafi
Our lips
touch
and I know I’m going to split at the seams. He’s kissing me like he’s lost me and
he’s found me and I’m slipping away and he’s never going to let me go. I want to scream,
sometimes, I want to collapse, sometimes, I want to die knowing that I’ve known what
it was like to live with this kiss, this heart, this soft soft explosion that makes
me feel like I’ve taken a sip of the sun, like I’ve eaten clouds 8, 9, and 10.
This.
This makes me ache everywhere.
He pulls away, he’s breathing hard, his hands slip under the soft material of my suit
and he’s so hot his skin is so hot and I think I’ve already said that but I can’t
remember and I’m so distracted that when he speaks I don’t quite understand.
But it’s something.
Words, deep and husky in my ear but I catch little more than an unintelligible utterance,
consonants and vowels and broken syllables all mixed together. His heartbeats crash
through his chest and topple into mine. His fingers are tracing secret messages on
my body. His hands glide down the smooth, satiny material of this suit, slipping down
the insides of my thighs, around the backs of my knees and up and up and up and I
wonder if it’s possible to faint and still be conscious at the same time and I’m betting
this is what it feels like to hyper, to hyperventilate when he tugs us backward. He
slams his back into the wall. Finds a firm grip on my hips. Pulls me hard against
his body.
I gasp.
His lips are on my neck. His lashes tickle the skin under my chin and he says something,
something that sounds like my name and he kisses up and down my collarbone, kisses
along the arc of my shoulder, and his lips, his lips and his hands and his lips are
searching the curves and slopes of my body and his chest is heaving when he swears
and he stops and he says
God you feel so good
and my heart has flown to the moon without me.
I love it when he says that to me. I love it when he tells me that he likes the way
I feel because it goes against everything I’ve heard my entire life and I wish I could
put his words in my pocket just to touch them once in a while and remind myself that
they exist.
“Juliette.”
I can hardly breathe.
I can hardly look up and look straight and see anything but the absolute perfection
of this moment but none of that even matters because he’s smiling. He’s smiling like
someone’s strung the stars across his lips and he’s looking at me, looking at me like
I’m
everything
and I want to weep.
“Close your eyes,” he whispers.
And I trust him.
So I do.
My eyes fall closed and he kisses one, then the other. Then my chin, my nose, my forehead.
My cheeks. Both temples.
Every
inch
of my neck
and
he pulls back so quickly he bangs his head against the rough wall. A few choice words
slip out before he can stop them. I’m frozen, startled and suddenly scared. “What
happened?” I whisper, and I don’t know why I’m whispering. “Are you okay?”
Adam fights not to grimace but he’s breathing hard and looking around and stammering
“S-sorry” as he clutches the back of his head. “That was—I mean I thought—” He looks
away. Clears his throat. “I—I think—I thought I heard something. I thought someone
was about to come inside.”
Of course.
Adam is not allowed to be in here.
The guys and the girls stay in different wings at Omega Point. Castle says it’s mostly
to make sure the girls feel safe and comfortable in their living quarters—especially
because we have communal bathrooms—so for the most part, I don’t have a problem with
it. It’s nice not to have to shower with old men. But it makes it hard for the two
of us to find any time together—and during whatever time we do manage to scrounge
up, we’re always hyperaware of being discovered.
Adam leans back against the wall and winces. I reach up to touch his head.
He flinches.
I freeze.
“Are you okay …?”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “I just—I mean—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.” Drops his voice.
His eyes. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”
“Hey.” I brush my fingertips against his stomach. The cotton of his shirt is still
warm from his body heat and I have to resist the urge to bury my face in it. “It’s
okay,” I tell him. “You were just being careful.”
He smiles a strange, sad sort of smile. “I’m not talking about my head.”
I stare at him.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Pries it open again. “It’s—I mean,
this
—” He motions between us.
He won’t finish. He won’t look at me.
“I don’t understand—”
“I’m losing my
mind
,” he says, but whispers it like he’s not sure he’s even saying it out loud.
I look at him. I look and blink and trip on words I can’t see and can’t find and can’t
speak.
He’s shaking his head.
He grips the back of his skull, hard, and he looks embarrassed and I’m struggling
to understand why. Adam doesn’t get embarrassed. Adam never gets embarrassed.
His voice is thick when he finally speaks. “I’ve waited so long to be with you,” he
says. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted
you
for so long and now, after everything—”
“Adam, what are y—”
“I can’t
sleep
. I can’t sleep and I think about you all—all the time and I can’t—” He stops. Presses
the heels of his hands to his forehead. Squeezes his eyes shut. Turns toward the wall
so I can’t see his face. “You should know—you have to know,” he says, the words raw,
seeming to drain him, “that I have never wanted anything like I’ve wanted you. Nothing.
Because this—this—I mean, God, I
want
you, Juliette, I want—I want—”
His words falter as he turns to me, eyes too bright, emotion flushing up the planes
of his face. His gaze lingers along the lines of my body, long enough to strike a
match to the lighter fluid flowing in my veins.
I ignite.
I want to say something, something right and steady and reassuring. I want to tell
him that I understand, that I want the same thing, that I want him, too, but the moment
feels so charged and urgent that I’m half convinced I’m dreaming. It’s like I’m down
to my last letters and all I have are
Q
s and
Z
s and I’ve only just remembered that someone invented a dictionary when he finally
rips his eyes away from me.
He swallows, hard, his eyes down. Looks away again. One of his hands is caught in
his hair, the other is curled into a fist against the wall. “You have no idea,” he
says, his voice ragged, “what you do to me. What you make me feel. When you
touch
me—” He runs a shaky hand across his face. He almost laughs, but his breathing is
heavy and uneven; he won’t meet my eyes. He steps back, swears under his breath. Pumps
his fist against his forehead. “Jesus. What the hell am I saying. Shit.
Shit.
I’m sorry—forget that—forget I said anything—I should go—”
I try to stop him, try to find my voice, try to say, It’s all right, it’s okay, but
I’m nervous now, so nervous, so confused, because none of this makes any sense. I
don’t understand what’s happening or why he seems so uncertain about me and us and
him and me and he and I and all of those pronouns put together. I’m not rejecting
him. I’ve never rejected him. My feelings for him have always been so clear—he has
no reason to feel unsure about me or around me and I don’t know why he’s looking at
me like something is
wrong
—
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m—I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just—I’m—
shit
. I shouldn’t have come. I should go—I have to go—”
“What? Adam, what happened? What are you talking about?”
“This was a bad idea,” he says. “I’m so stupid—I shouldn’t have even been here—”
“You are
not
stupid—it’s okay—everything is okay—”
He laughs, loud, hollow. The echo of an uncomfortable smile lingers on his face as
he stops, stares at a point directly behind my head. He says nothing for a long time,
until finally he does. “Well,” he says. He tries to sound upbeat. “That’s not what
Castle thinks.”
“What?” I breathe, caught off guard. I know we’re not talking about our relationship
anymore.
“Yeah.” His hands are in his pockets.
“No.”
Adam nods. Shrugs. Looks at me and looks away. “I don’t know. I think so.”
“But the testing—it’s—I mean”—I can’t stop shaking my head—“has he found something?”
Adam won’t look at me.
“Oh my God,” I say, and I whisper it like if I whisper, it’ll somehow make this easier.
“So it’s true? Castle’s right?” My voice is inching higher and my muscles are beginning
to tighten and I don’t know why this feels like fear, this feeling slithering up my
back. I shouldn’t be afraid if Adam has a gift like I do; I should’ve known it couldn’t
have been that easy, that it couldn’t have been so simple. This was Castle’s theory
all along—that Adam can touch me because he too has some kind of Energy that allows
it. Castle never thought Adam’s immunity from my ability was a happy coincidence.
He thought it had to be bigger than that, more scientific than that, more specific
than that.
I always wanted to believe I just got lucky.
And Adam wanted to know. He was excited about finding out, actually.
But once he started testing with Castle, Adam stopped wanting to talk about it. He’s
never given me more than the barest status updates. The excitement of the experience
faded far too fast for him.
Something is wrong.
Something is
wrong
.
Of course it is.
“We don’t know anything conclusive,” Adam tells me, but I can see he’s holding back.
“I have to do a couple more sessions—Castle says there are a few more things he needs
to … examine.”
I don’t miss the mechanical way Adam is delivering this information. Something isn’t
right and I can’t believe I didn’t notice the signs until just now. I haven’t wanted
to, I realize. I haven’t wanted to admit to myself that Adam looks more exhausted,
more strained, more tightly wound than I’ve ever seen him. Anxiety has built a home
on his shoulders.
“Adam—”
“Don’t worry about me.” His words aren’t harsh, but there’s an undercurrent of urgency
in his tone I can’t ignore, and he pulls me into his arms before I find a chance to
speak. His fingers work to zip up my suit. “I’m fine,” he says. “Really. I just want
to know you’re okay. If you’re all right here, then I am too. Everything is fine.”
His breath catches. “Okay? Everything is going to be fine.” The shaky smile on his
face is making my pulse forget it has a job to do.
“Okay.” It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Okay sure but—”
The door opens and Sonya and Sara are halfway into the room before they freeze, eyes
fixed on our bodies wound together.
“Oh!” Sara says.
“Um.” Sonya looks down.
Adam swears under his breath.
“We can come back later—,” the twins say together.
They’re headed out the door when I stop them. I won’t kick them out of their own room.
I ask them not to leave.
They ask me if I’m sure.
I take one look at Adam’s face and know I’m going to regret forfeiting even a minute
of our time together, but I also know I can’t take advantage of my roommates. This
is their personal space, and it’s almost time for lights-out. They can’t be wandering
the corridors.
Adam isn’t looking at me anymore, but he’s not letting go, either. I lean forward
and leave a light kiss on his heart. He finally meets my eyes. Offers me a small,
pained smile.
“I love you,” I tell him, quietly, so only he can hear me.
He exhales a short, uneven breath. Whispers, “You have no idea,” and pulls himself
away. Pivots on one heel. Heads out the door.
My heart is beating in my throat.
The girls are staring at me. Concerned.
Sonya is about to speak, but then
a switch
a click
a flicker
and the lights are out.
The dreams are back.
They’d left me for a while, shortly after I’d been freshly imprisoned on base with
Warner. I thought I’d lost the bird, the white bird, the bird with streaks of gold
like a crown atop its head. It used to meet me in my dreams, flying strong and smooth,
sailing over the world like it knew better, like it had secrets we’d never suspect,
like it was leading me somewhere safe. It was my one piece of hope in the bitter darkness
of the asylum, just until I met its twin tattooed on Adam’s chest.
It was like it flew right out of my dreams only to rest atop his heart. I thought
it was a signal, a message telling me I was finally safe. That I’d flown away and
finally found peace, sanctuary.
I didn’t expect to see the bird again.
But now it’s back and looks exactly the same. It’s the same white bird in the same
blue sky with the same yellow crown. Only this time, it’s frozen. Flapping its wings
in place like it’s been caught in an invisible cage, like it’s destined to repeat
the same motion forever. The bird
seems
to be flying: it’s in the air; its wings work. It looks as if it’s free to soar through
the skies. But it’s stuck.
Unable to fly upward.
Unable to fall.
I’ve had the same dream every night for the past week, and all 7 mornings I’ve woken
up shaking, shuddering into the earthy, icy air, struggling to steady the bleating
in my chest.
Struggling to understand what this means.
I crawl out of bed and slip into the same suit I wear every day; the only article
of clothing I own anymore. It’s the richest shade of purple, so plum it’s almost black.
It has a slight sheen, a bit of a shimmer in the light. It’s one piece from neck to
wrists to ankles and it’s skintight without being tight at all.
I move like a gymnast in this outfit.
I have springy leather ankle boots that mold to the shape of my feet and render me
soundless as I pad across the floor. I have black leather gloves that prevent me from
touching something I’m not supposed to. Sonya and Sara lent me one of their hair ties
and for the first time in years I’ve been able to pull my hair out of my face. I wear
it in a high ponytail and I’ve learned to zip myself up without help from anyone.
This suit makes me feel extraordinary. It makes me feel invincible.