Wes hides the comic book again, and we leave. I go first, pretending not to notice how he lingers in the doorway.
Soon we are in the subway tunnel, walking back toward the station. We reach the complicated point where the subway tracks cross in a mess of rails. I watch Wes again, copying where he steps. I’ve almost reached him when my foot catches on an exposed rock and I begin to fall. I raise my hands instinctually. I’m about to smash into one of the tracks, when I feel myself come up against something hard. Wes’s arms close around my body and he pulls me to the side of the tunnel, pressing my back to the rough wall.
I wonder why he doesn’t let go, until I feel the walls start to shake. There’s a low grating noise that gets louder and louder, accompanied every now and then by a long screech. Suddenly a white light is facing us, coming closer. A warm wind picks up and then the train is on top of us, speeding past, faster than I could have imagined, loud and bright and so close that I could touch it if I reached out.
Wes tightens his hold on me. I feel one of his hands on the back of my head, pulling me into his chest. Both of my arms are around his waist, my hands resting on his cotton blazer. He shifts and his fingers weave through my hair, tugging on it gently until my head is tilted all the way back. His face is distorted in the flashing light of the train, but I can see his eyes—so black they look like liquid. He leans in. I keep my eyes open, locked on his, closer and closer. He hesitates for a second, only an inch or two away. I can feel his fingers hard against the back of my head, and I bite my bottom lip. His gaze drops down at the movement, and then his mouth is on mine.
I grip his jacket tightly in my hands and press closer to him. He deepens the kiss, and I feel his tongue touch mine. His hand frames the side of my face, fingers lightly tracing my cheek, and I can’t help but sigh against his lips.
We kiss as the train rushes by: the screaming noise, the interior lights of the cars, the passengers standing against the doors holding newspapers and wishing they were already home. We kiss as sparks kick up when the train turns the corner, yellow spots of light that die out before they can even reach the ground.
It feels like both a second and a hundred years. We finally come up for air, gasping a little, and I realize that the subway tunnel is dark and quiet again. Wes must realize it too, because he pulls away. I stare up at him, not sure if my ears are ringing from the passing train, or from the feeling of being pressed against him.
I was afraid I had forgotten what it felt like to be kissed by Wes—the soft pressure of his lips, the low sound he makes in his throat. But as soon as his mouth touched mine, it all came flooding back.
He steps backward until he’s close to the tracks. My breathing sounds loud now in the empty tunnel, and I press one hand to my chest.
“We need to keep going. You must be tired.”
“Wes—”
He shakes his head as if to clear it. “We have to get some sleep. There’s a lot to do tomorrow.”
I suddenly feel cold, even though it’s like a sauna down here. I take a shaky breath, and Wes turns away from me.
Why is he acting like this? Why does it feel like he’s pulling away, right when we found each other again?
I follow him out of the subway tunnel.
CHAPTER 7
As soon as we reach 106th Street, Wes stops. We are near the entrance to Central Park, and three sets of stairs lead into the trees beyond. “Stranger’s Gate,” I say, reading the mossy-covered word that’s carved into the adjacent stone wall.
“Fitting, I think,” Wes responds softly. He holds his body separately, stiffly, in a way that I don’t quite understand. He brought me on this mission. He trusted me enough to show me his old home. Why would kissing me change that?
I assumed that when we came to 1989 together, it would mean we would be together. But maybe I was making assumptions I shouldn’t have.
“The access point is over there.” Wes gestures toward a small stone building near the gate.
“Let’s go then.” I try to keep any emotion out of my voice.
“Wait—” He grabs my arm and I freeze at his touch. “The Center is a big place. It’s watched and monitored like the Facility, but there are a few spots where we can speak freely, if we’re careful. I’ll let you know.”
“Okay.”
He pauses, and I wait to see if he’ll say anything else. But he just releases my arm and turns to face the park.
We walk up the first set of steps, then veer off the path and over to the small stone building. If I didn’t know any better, I would think it was an abandoned toolshed or something. I glance around us, but the sidewalk is mostly empty and the streetlight overhead has been vandalized, the bulb hanging in tattered pieces of glass. It’s probably deliberate, a way to keep people from noticing the recruits entering and exiting.
We circle the building until we’re in the shadows, not visible to anyone from the park or the street. There is a heavy black metal door on the side. It appears to have no handle and no way to open it. Wes takes out his ID badge and slides it into a slot between the stones. The door pops open. We quickly enter the small space, sealing the entrance behind
