Unravel Me (29 page)

And I realize, not for the first time, that I have no idea who Warner really is.

“Juliette?”

I freeze.

“What are you doing here?” His eyes are wide, alert.

“I—I came to talk to you—”

“Jesus,” he gasps, jumping away from me. “I’m very flattered, love, but you could’ve
at least given me a chance to put my pants on.” He’s pulled himself up against the
wall but makes no effort to grab his clothes. His eyes keep darting from me to the
pants on the floor like he doesn’t know what to do. He seems determined not to turn
his back to me.

“Would you mind?” he says, nodding to the clothes next to my feet and affecting an
air of nonchalance that does little to hide the apprehension in his eyes. “It gets
chilly in here.”

But I’m staring at him, staring at the length of him, awed by how incredibly flawless
he looks from the front. Strong, lean frame, toned and muscular without being bulky.
He’s fair without being pale, skin tinted with just enough sunlight to look effortlessly
healthy. The body of a perfect boy.

What a lie appearances can be.

What a terrible, terrible lie.

His gaze is fixed on mine, his eyes green flames that will not extinguish and his
chest is rising and falling so fast, so fast, so fast.

“What happened to your back?” I hear myself whisper.

I watch as the color drains from his face. He looks away, runs a hand across his mouth,
his chin, down the back of his neck.

“Who hurt you?” I ask, so quietly. I’m beginning to recognize the strange feeling
I get just before I do something terrible. Like right now. Right now I feel like I
could kill someone for this.

“Juliette, please, my clothes—”

“Was it your father?” I ask, my voice a little sharper. “Did he do this to you—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Warner cuts me off, frustrated now.

“Of course it matters!”

He says nothing.

“That tattoo,” I say to him, “that word—”

“Yes,” he says, though he says it quietly. Clears his throat.

“I don’t …” I blink. “What does it mean?”

Warner shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair.

“Is it from a book?”

“Why do you care?” he asks, looking away again. “Why are you suddenly so interested
in my life?”

I don’t know, I want to tell him. I want to tell him I don’t know but that’s not true.

Because I feel it. I feel the clicks and the turns and the creaking of a million keys
unlocking a million doors in my mind. It’s like I’m finally allowing myself to see
what I really think, how I really feel, like I’m discovering my own secrets for the
first time. And then I search his eyes, search his features for something I can’t
even name. And I realize I don’t want to be his enemy anymore.

“It’s over,” I say to him. “I’m not on base with you this time. I’m not going to be
your weapon and you’ll never be able to change my mind about that. I think you know
that now.” I study the floor. “So why are we still fighting each other? Why are you
still trying to manipulate me? Why are you still trying to get me to fall for your
tricks?”

“I have no idea,” he says, looking at me like he’s not sure I’m even real, “no idea
what you’re talking about.”

“Why did you tell Castle you could touch me? That wasn’t your secret to share.”

“Right.” He exhales a deep breath. “Of course.” Seems to return to himself. “Listen,
love, could you at least toss me my jacket if you’re going to stay here and ask me
all these questions?”

I toss him his jacket. He catches it. Slides down to the floor. And instead of putting
his jacket on, he drapes it over his lap. Finally, he says, “Yes, I did tell Castle
I could touch you. He had a right to know.”

“That wasn’t any of his business.”

“Of course it’s his business,” Warner says. “The entire world he’s created down here
thrives on exactly that kind of information. And you’re here, living among them. He
should know.”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

“Why is it such a big deal?” he asks, studying my eyes too carefully. “Why does it
bother you so much for someone to know that I can touch you? Why does it have to be
a secret?”

I struggle to find the words that won’t come.

“Are you worried about Kent? You think he’d have a problem knowing I can touch you?”

“I didn’t want him to find out like this—”

“But why does it matter?” he insists. “You seem to care so much about something that
makes no difference in your personal life. It wouldn’t,” he says, “make any difference
in your personal life. Not if you still claim to feel nothing but hatred for me. Because
that’s what you said, isn’t it? That you hate me?”

I fold myself to the floor across from Warner. Pull my knees up to my chest. Focus
on the stone under my feet. “I don’t hate you.”

Warner seems to stop breathing.

“I think I understand you sometimes,” I tell him. “I really do. But just when I think
I finally get you, you surprise me. And I never really know who you are or who you’re
going to be.” I look up. “But I know that I don’t hate you anymore. I’ve tried,” I
say, “I’ve tried so hard. Because you’ve done so many terrible, terrible things. To
innocent people. To
me
. But I know too much about you now. I’ve seen too much. You’re too human.”

His hair is so gold. His eyes so green. His voice is tortured when he speaks. “Are
you saying,” he says, “that you want to be my friend?”

“I-I don’t know.” I’m so petrified, so, so petrified of this possibility. “I didn’t
think about that. I’m just saying that I don’t know”—I hesitate, breathe—“I don’t
know how to hate you anymore. Even though I want to. I really want to and I know I
should but I just can’t.”

He looks away.

And he smiles.

It’s the kind of smile that makes me forget how to do everything but blink and blink
and I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I don’t know why I can’t convince my
eyes to find something else to focus on.

I don’t know why my heart is losing its mind.

He touches my notebook like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. His fingers run the
length of the cover once, twice, before he registers where my eyes have gone and he
stops.

“You wrote these words?” He touches the notebook again. “Every single one?”

I nod.

He says, “Juliette.”

I stop breathing.

He says, “I would like that very much. To be your friend,” he says. “I’d like that.”

And I don’t really know what happens in my brain.

Maybe it’s because he’s broken and I’m foolish enough to think I can fix him. Maybe
it’s because I see myself, I see 3, 4, 5, 6, 17-year-old Juliette abandoned, neglected,
mistreated, abused for something outside of her control and I think of Warner as someone
who’s just like me, someone who was never given a chance at life. I think about how
everyone already hates him, how hating him is a universally accepted fact.

Warner is horrible.

There are no discussions, no reservations, no questions asked. It has already been
decided that he is a despicable human being who thrives on murder and power and torturing
others.

But I want to know. I need to know. I have to know.

If it’s really that simple.

Because what if one day I slip? What if one day I fall through the cracks and no one
is willing to pull me back? What happens to me then?

So I meet his eyes. I take a deep breath.

And I run.

I run right out the door.

Just a moment.

Just 1 second, just 1 more minute, just give me another hour or maybe the weekend
to think it over it’s not so much it’s not so hard it’s all we ever ask for it’s a
simple request.

But the moments the seconds the minutes the hours the days and years become one big
mistake, one extraordinary opportunity slipped right through our fingers because we
couldn’t decide, we couldn’t understand, we needed more time, we didn’t know what
to do.

We don’t even know what we’ve done.

We have no idea how we even got here when all we ever wanted was to wake up in the
morning and go to sleep at night and maybe stop for ice cream on the way home and
that one decision, that one choice, that one accidental opportunity unraveled everything
we’ve ever known and ever believed in and what do we do?

What do we do

from here?

Things are getting worse.

The tension among the citizens of Omega Point is getting tighter with each passing
hour. We’ve tried to make contact with Anderson’s men to no avail—we’ve heard nothing
from their team or their soldiers, and we have no updates on our hostages. But the
civilians of Sector 45—the sector Warner used to be in charge of, the sector he used
to oversee—are beginning to grow more and more unsettled. Rumors about us and our
resistance are spreading too quickly.

The Reestablishment tried to cover up the news of our recent battle by calling it
a standard attack on rebel party members, but the people are getting smarter. Protests
are breaking out among them and some are refusing to work, standing up to authority,
trying to escape the compounds, and running back to unregulated territory.

It never ends well.

The losses have been too many and Castle is anxious to do something. We all have a
feeling we’re going to be heading out again, and soon. We haven’t received any reports
that Anderson is dead, which means he’s probably just biding his time—or maybe Adam
is right, and he’s just recovering. But whatever the reason, Anderson’s silence can’t
be good.

“What are you doing here?” Castle says to me.

I’ve just collected my dinner. I’ve just sat down at my usual table with Adam and
Kenji and James. I blink at Castle, confused.

Kenji says, “What’s going on?”

Adam says, “Is everything all right?”

Castle says, “My apologies, Ms. Ferrars, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I confess I’m
just a bit surprised to see you here. I thought you were currently on assignment.”

“Oh.” I startle. Glance at my food and back at Castle again. “I—well yes, I am—but
I’ve talked to Warner twice already—I actually just saw him yesterday—”

“Oh, that’s excellent news, Ms. Ferrars. Excellent news.” Castle clasps his hands
together; his face is the picture of relief. “And what have you been able to discover?”
He looks so hopeful that I actually begin to feel ashamed of myself.

Everyone is staring at me and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.

I shake my head.

“Ah.” Castle drops his hands. Looks down. Nods to himself. “So. You’ve decided that
your two visits have been more than sufficient?” He won’t look at me. “What is your
professional opinion, Ms. Ferrars? Do you think it would be best to take your time
in this particular situation? That Winston and Brendan will be relaxing comfortably
until you find an opportunity in your busy schedule to interrogate the only person
who might be able to help us find them? Do you think that y—”

“I’ll go right now.” I grab my tray and jump up from table, nearly tripping over myself
in the process. “I’m sorry—I’m just—I’ll go right now. I’ll see you guys at breakfast,”
I whisper, and run out the door.

Brendan and Winston

Brendan and Winston

Brendan and Winston,
I keep telling myself.

I hear Kenji laughing as I leave.

I’m not very good at interrogation, apparently.

I have so many questions for Warner but none of them have to do with our hostage situation.
Every time I tell myself I’m going to ask the right questions, Warner somehow manages
to distract me. It’s almost like he knows what I’m going to ask and is already prepared
to redirect the conversation.

It’s confusing.

“Do you have any tattoos?” he’s asking me, smiling as he leans back against the wall
in his undershirt; pants on, socks on, shoes off. “Everyone seems to have tattoos
these days.”

This is not a conversation I ever thought I’d have with Warner.

“No,” I tell him. “I’ve never had an opportunity to get one. Besides, I don’t think
anyone would ever want to get that close to my skin.”

He studies his hands. Smiles. Says, “Maybe someday.”

“Maybe,” I agree.

A pause.

“So what about your tattoo?” I ask. “Why
IGNITE
?”

His smile is bigger now. Dimples again. He shakes his head, says, “Why not?”

“I don’t get it.” I tilt my head at him, confused. “You want to remind yourself to
catch on fire?”

He smiles, presses back a laugh. “A handful of letters doesn’t always make a word,
love.”

“I … have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He takes a deep breath. Sits up straighter. “So,” he says. “You used to read a lot?”

I’m caught off guard. It’s a strange question, and I can’t help but wonder for a moment
if it’s a trick. If admitting to such a thing might get me into trouble. And then
I remember that Warner is
my
hostage, not the other way around. “Yes,” I say to him. “I used to.”

His smile fades into something a bit more serious, calculated. His features are carefully
wiped clean of emotion. “And when did you have a chance to read?”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs slowly, glances at nothing across the room. “It just seems strange that
a girl who’s been so wholly isolated her entire life would have much access to literature.
Especially in this world.”

I say nothing.

He says nothing.

I breathe a few beats before answering him.

“I … I never got to choose my own books,” I tell him, and I don’t know why I feel
so nervous saying this out loud, why I have to remind myself not to whisper. “I read
whatever was available. My schools always had little libraries and my parents had
some things around the house. And later …” I hesitate. “Later, I spent a couple of
years in
hospitals and psychiatric wards and
a juvenile d-detention center.” My face enflames as if on cue, always ready to be
ashamed of my past, of who I’ve been and continue to be.