I tilt my head back and our eyes meet. And then his mouth comes down hard on mine, so quickly that I jump a little before sinking into it. This is not a slow kiss. This is hands twisting in hair, tongues molding together, lips and teeth and gasping for air. He grabs my hips tight and pulls my body up against his.
He rips his mouth away and kisses my chin, my collarbone. “I won’t let them take you,” he repeats over and over against my skin.
“I know. I know.”
Someone shouts, loud enough to hear over the music. A murmur spreads through the crowd. Wes lifts his head up.
“Cops!” I hear a girl next to me scream.
People start running for the exit in a stampede. I am thrown against Wes. He curls his hand around my elbow.
I can’t see anything except for random bodies moving in every direction, but the crowd is getting louder. Wes and I move in the opposite direction, toward the back of the room. There is a hallway connected to the back wall; a few planks of wood are nailed across what used to be the doorway. I can’t see what’s beyond it; everything is in shadow.
Without a word of warning, Wes lifts me up and over the wood. I land on my feet with a gasp and turn to see him vault over. He takes my hand again and we run down a long, dark hallway.
We climb a staircase and reach a locked door. Wes shoves his shoulder into the rotted wood until it breaks free. I hear shouting and loud banging noises that travel up from the basement, though it doesn’t sound like anyone followed us.
The door is connected to the main part of the old church, and Wes and I enter a huge room with cathedral ceilings and broken stained-glass windows. We are standing by the altar, near where the priest used to deliver his sermons. I walk slowly down the steps until I reach the aisle. Only a few pews are left on either side; most of the room is empty, covered in debris. There are piles of dirty tarps along one wall, discarded by workmen who abandoned this place years ago.
“We should stay here for a while,” Wes says. His voice sounds louder than normal as it bounces off the high ceilings. “There are probably cops outside, arresting whoever comes out of the building.”
“Okay.” I press my fingers to my lips, thinking of that kiss. It it felt different from any other kiss I’ve had with Wes. Like it was with someone else entirely.
I glance over at him, and the events of the last few days start flitting through my head: Wes telling me we can’t be together, shaking in the bathroom, his too-bright smile at the fountain.
Something is off about him, and it has been since that first night he stole into my bedroom. I’ve been letting him tell me he’s fine, afraid that he’ll push me away if I pry too hard. But I can’t keep pretending that everything is okay when it’s clearly not.
“We need to talk,” I say softly.
He walks down the steps too, until he’s standing near the pew opposite me, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Wes?”
“I . . . there’s nothing to talk about.”
“There is. I think you’re hiding something from me and I think you have been for a long time.”
“There’s nothing—”
“Stop.” My voice is firm. “You’re acting so different lately. Erratic. It’s like you have no control over what you’re feeling. And that shaking . . . I’m worried about you.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Fine, then I’m angry with you.” And I am, I realize. Wes is the only person left I can count on, but I don’t even know how he feels about me. When he brought me to 1989, I thought we would be together. But every move he’s made since then has been unpredictable.
“You can’t keep pushing me away and then pulling me closer,” I say to him. “You’re jerking me around and it has to stop.”
He clenches his hands together, maybe in an effort not to reach for me, maybe because he’s starting to get angry too. “I’m not jerking you around.”
“What do you call that back there? Last night you said we can’t ever be together. Earlier today you spun me into a fountain, and now you kiss me on some dance floor.” I step closer to him. “Did that kiss change anything? Do you want to be with me?”
He doesn’t answer.
I whirl around until my back is to him and cross my hands over my chest. I am facing one of the few stained-glass windows that hasn’t been cracked or smashed, and I stare at the Virgin Mary on her knees with her hands folded. “It’s more than just that, Wes. Something is wrong, and I think it’s bigger than you and me. There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“It’s complicated.”
I turn to face him again. “Then make me understand.”
He moves toward me, and I flinch at the fierce look in his eyes. “Why do you have to push so much all the time? Why can’t you leave anything alone? You wouldn’t even be in this mess if you hadn’t inserted yourself into the Project, yet again.”
“It doesn’t even matter!” I shout the words, and then hear them repeated back as they echo through the empty space. “They’re going to find me in the end. I was always destined to become a recruit. Why can’t we enjoy the last few days or weeks we have together?”
“Is that what you really want?” Now he’s practically shouting too. “A few minutes of happiness before you’re condemned to a lifetime of slavery?
