I blink away the memory and Mr. Lee’s wife blinks, too. She is still, her eyes scanning me, then Wes, as she uses her I-unit to read the situation.
“It’s a pleasure,” she finally says, holding out her hand to Wes. “Mal-Chin speaks of you often.”
Her voice is soft, with a slight English accent, and though I’ve already memorized her file, I scan her with my own I-unit while Wes takes her hand. Sophia Lee, maiden name Jones. Born in London, England, February 1, 1995.
1995. The year I was born. In another lifetime she and I would have been contemporaries, experiencing the last thirty years at the same time. But here we are in 2049, and I am just barely eighteen, while she is fifty-four.
Not that she looks it. Stem cell technology has advanced significantly, and even ordinary people have access to what it can do. People take it like a vitamin in order to stretch their life spans, and boost their metabolism, with the added benefit of making them appear younger by decades. It is why Sardosky is not considered too old to be president, though he’s pushing eighty-five.
“I trust your flight wasn’t too long.” Wes is smiling at Mr. Lee in a wide, pleasant way I’ve never seen before, and I sip my champagne to cover my reaction. The bubbles fizz all the way down my throat.
“Ahh, these new airplanes.” Mr. Lee waves his hand in the air dismissively. His other arm curls around his wife, a mirror of the way Wes is holding me, and I know it is deliberate. The world may have changed significantly by 2049, but in this moment, Sophia Lee and I are only arm candy to these men. “Even run with solar power, they’re so fast. It only took a few hours to get here. What will they think of next?”
“I hear they’re working on teleportation,” I say, and his eyes shift to me, taking in my dress and working his way up. When he gets to my hair he jerks his head back as though surprised.
Wes catches his reaction and his arm tightens around my waist. “We really should be going.” He is already stepping away from the couple, smiling and nodding. “We’ll talk later.”
“I want to hear what you think about that report I sent last Thursday,” Mr. Lee yells after us and Wes lifts a hand up over his shoulder before we are swallowed by the crowd again.
I want to ask if he knows what Mr. Lee’s reaction was about, but I know I can’t. Wes must sense it though; his hand moves up my back and into my hair, the dark-red strands tangling around his fingers.
He suddenly stops, his hand twisting now, and I have no choice but to look up at him. With my head tilted back, the chandeliers above seem overly bright, like staring straight into the sun. But it is only an illusion; the room is as dim as candlelight, and Wes’s face is framed in shadows.
“Mr. Lee seemed nice.” I cannot think of anything else to say.
Wes smiles, and it is more like him this time, half of a lip tilt, his expression soft. “He’s an ass. But he runs a good business.”
I feel my lips crack too, the unused muscles straining upward, and Wes’s eyes drop to my mouth. I take a deep breath, my chest expanding under the low bodice of my gown. We are so close I know he feels it too, and then he pulls me in toward his body, his head dips, and his lashes lower to half-mast. He is leaning in, leaning down, and I do not pull away. Why shouldn’t I let him kiss me? We are not Seventeen and Eleven right now, not even Lydia and Wes, but Samantha and Michael, two people who think nothing of holding each other in a crowded room. But then someone bumps into me from behind and I fall forward against Wes, one hand coming up and landing on his chest. I feel his muscles flex beneath the crisp white shirt of his tux and I push back, looking down and tucking my hair behind my ear.
Wes clears his throat and carefully pulls his arm away, until we are standing close, but not touching.
“Where did Bea go?” His voice is even but forced. He is trying too hard to sound normal, unaffected.
“I don’t know.” I turn around, grateful for the chance to avoid looking at him. The space is so filled with people that I have trouble seeing past those closest to us. Most of the guests are standing in the center of the room, waiting for the dinner and the speeches to start, but I spot the president seated at a table in the corner. Secret Service agents in black suits stand against the wall next to him, their arms crossed over their chests and their heads turning back and forth as they survey the crowd.
“Bea!” I call out when I see her standing not far from us.
She is already talking to someone, an older gentleman in a tuxedo similar to Wes’s. When she hears her name she waves at me through the crowd. “Coming, Sam!”
She beams up at the man, says something to make him laugh, and then shimmies over to us. Several people turn to watch her walk past, and I wonder where she learned how to be so open and free. It can’t have just been the Project’s training. Maybe this is how Twenty-two would have been without the brainwashing and the time traveling. Maybe she’s just slipping into a role she was always meant
