Tierney and Twenty-two both laugh, but President Sardosky shakes his head. “You shouldn’t. It reminds me of . . .” His voice trails off and the corners of his lips drop. He reaches back toward the table. One of the men there shoves a glass of dark liquid into his hand, and he quickly swings it up to his mouth.
No one says a word while he drinks, slowly chugging the entire glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down against the weathered skin of his neck. When the cup is empty he pulls it away with a gasp, and his eyes find mine again.
Wes’s arm presses into my shoulders and I smile tightly. This is not good. Sardosky is supposed to be noticing Bea by now, not paying so much attention to me.
“Mr. President,” Twenty-two cuts in smoothly. She takes a small step forward, subtly angling her body in front of mine. “I’d love to hear more about your memories of Peaksville. Perhaps we have acquaintances in common?”
“Perhaps.” The president seems flustered, his eyes slightly glassy, but he turns toward Twenty-two. “I haven’t been back there in years.”
Wes looks at Tierney. “Would you please excuse us? My fiancée wanted to dance before they serve dinner.”
“Of course.”
“You’ll sit at our table,” Sardosky says before we can leave. “I’d love to have you as my guests.” He is addressing Wes, but he glances at me as he speaks.
Wes nods and turns us both. It’s not until we’re a few feet away from the table that I feel him relax.
“I can’t dance holding this.” I shake the purse in my hand, trying to distract him. We need to pass the vial off to Tim before Bea can get the president alone.
Wes nods and I watch his eyes come back into focus. I hand him the clutch and he holds it up a little. Suddenly Tim is there, pushing through the crowd. “Excuse me!” I hear a woman gasp as he nudges past her.
“Can I help you with something, sir?”
“We seem to have forgotten about this when we were at the coat check. Would you mind taking care of it for us?”
“Certainly.” Tim bows slightly and takes the bag. He is gone as quickly as he came, and finally this mission feels real. We are not just playing dress up—Twenty-two is with the president, Tim is getting ready to poison his drink, and soon I will need to do my part in killing a man who just admired my hair.
Not many people are dancing yet, and Wes smoothly slides his arm around my waist as we join the slowly moving couples. Everyone waltzes as though it has been choreographed, twisting in a wide, orderly circle on the floor in front of the orchestra. The music is staccato and the strings get louder, then soft again, the uneven tones making it hard for me to find the beat. It feels like we are in some eighteenth-century novel, but for 2049 this is the latest fashion. Children learn how to waltz at a young age, and even public high schools have formal dances now.
Wes moves me through the box step, one hand at my waist, the other kept stiffly in the air. There’s a foot of space between us, but he is holding me in the circle of his arms and I can smell him—pine needles, the forest, a heavy rain. We have been on a dance floor in every era we’ve been to and each time has been different. I remember him holding me close in 1944, kissing me in the club in 1989. I turn my head so that I don’t meet his gaze. This is too confusing, and now I’m the one who doesn’t know where the acting starts and ends.
“I wonder what they’re serving for dinner,” he says after a moment of silence.
I stare at the pale curve of his ear, partially hidden by his black hair. “I’m sure it will be delicious.”
“Maybe chicken. It’s been so long since I had American food.”
“Then you’ll probably want it to be hamburgers.”
He laughs, though I hear how fake it sounds, how forced. Now that we’ve been seen talking to the president, security will be monitoring our I-units even more closely. We’ll need to be careful. We cannot say what we’re really thinking—that the president’s interest in me could present a problem.
And so, as usual, we do not speak as Wes leads me in a stiff arc across the floor.
Chapter 5
Twenty-two is sitting next to the president when we return, both elbows resting on the white tablecloth as she cradles her chin in her hands. Sardosky bends down closer to her and some of the tension leaves my body at how attentively he is listening to whatever she has to say. But then she catches my eye and runs her index finger down the edge of her cheek. Wes goes solid, and my breath leaves my body in a long, low rush.
It is a nonverbal code—one of many we have for this mission—indicating that the plan has changed. Twenty-two is telling me that she doesn’t believe she can successfully distract the president, and now she and I have to switch roles.
“We’ve been waiting for you!” Twenty-two’s voice is still bright, cheerful. “I’ve been telling the president all about you, Sam. He’s very curious.”
Sardosky looks up at me. “Sam? Is that your nickname?”
I take a small step away from Wes. “Only for my closest friends.”
He smiles. “Something to strive for.”
Wes keeps his arms tight against his sides, not reaching for me even though I can tell he wants to. But what I don’t know is why. Is he just acting as my doting fiancé, bothered by the interest of another man? Or is there another reason, one that’s tied to that moment in the hallway where he pulled the future me flush against his body and she never seemed to doubt his love?
I
