“Of course,” Wes responds, and Twenty-two narrows her eyes at him, hearing the same strangled quality in his voice that I do. But he folds himself into the chair next to Tierney and doesn’t try to stop me from walking over to a smiling Sardosky.
When I get closer, the president stands. “Samantha, why don’t you sit by me? They’re about to start the speeches.”
I take his outstretched hand, lowering myself into the seat next to his. Beside me, Wes whips out his napkin with more force than is necessary, but then Tierney says something on his left, capturing his attention.
The president turns to me. “Bea tells me you grew up in Boston.”
I nod. “Yes, I miss it.”
“It’s a beautiful city.”
We continue to make light conversation, and Twenty-two excuses herself, turning to flirt with the older man on her right. The president pours me a glass of champagne himself, even though there are several waiters hovering behind us.
He asks me about my family, where I went to college, even how I met Michael, which I’m surprised by. I give him the answers I’ve memorized, and for a minute I pretend that Samantha is real, and that her life is mine, and I almost enjoy talking with him. I’ve spent the last nine months alone, with the Project hurling instructions at me. Classes and combat and orders. No friends. No Wes. Sardosky is attentive and focused, and there’s something about him that reminds me of my grandfather. It might be his bushy hair, laced with strands of gray and white, or the wire-rimmed glasses he puts on to read the menu that one of the waiters places in front of him, or maybe it’s just that he’s paying me attention, in a way that makes it seem like he doesn’t want anything back in return.
That can’t be right. I must be reading the situation wrong, lulled by the friendly way he offers me some of the organic freshwater trout on his plate. I was told that, based on his reputation with women, the only interest he would show in Twenty-two or me would be sexual. But his attention doesn’t feel like how I thought it would. It’s politely friendly, not sleazy. Which might present a problem. Now that I’ve switched roles with Twenty-two, I am the one who is supposed to get him alone.
I lean in to him, making sure my side brushes against his arm. “Why don’t you tell me more about yourself, Mr. President?”
He pulls away, reaching for his glass of whiskey. “Oh, there’s not much to tell.”
We are no longer touching, and I sit back again, defeated. Behind Sardosky’s back, Twenty-two is watching me. When our eyes meet she raises one of her small shoulders. I give a tiny shake of my head, and I see her look down at the table as she sighs.
Sardosky turns to me and I smile, but we both jump when Twenty-two abruptly stands, pushing back her chair with a long scrape against the marble floor. “Michael, dance with me.”
Her voice is loud enough to carry halfway across the table, and most of the conversations around us trail off. I feel a rush of gratitude for her, that she would try to help me complete my part, that she would recognize how Wes’s presence might be a distraction for Sardosky.
Wes shifts in his seat, his body finally angled toward mine. He has spent the entire dinner physically turned away from me, as if he is trying to block out what is happening at his back. Now he takes in the way I’m twisting my fingers together in my lap, the way Sardosky is staring into his whiskey and turning it around and around until the liquor is a mini-tornado trapped in the glass.
I watch as Wes’s eyes close for a second, as he realizes that he needs to leave in order for me to get Sardosky to make a move.
“Go dance. I’ll be fine here,” I say.
He hesitates, both of his hands coming up to rest on the table in front of him. That’s when I see that his fingers are shaking. It’s just a minor tremble, but I look up at him in alarm. This was one of the symptoms that suggested his body had started to fall apart because of the damaging trips through the TM and that he didn’t have much time left. Once the Project noticed, they would experiment on his body while he was still alive to try to learn more about the long-term effects of time traveling on a recruit. He would eventually die, but it would be slow and agonizing. It was why I wanted us to run away together—to get him away from the Project and to save his life.
Who knows how many times Wes has traveled through the TM since the last time we were together, feeling the way it tears through your skin, separating molecules and shoving them back together again? It is why the Project uses only young people—our bodies are able to hold up longer, to take the abuse more easily. But even then we need a special serum in our blood, called polypenamaether.
If the TM is hard on a new recruit, leaving us white and shaking, what is it doing to Wes, who’s been through it hundreds of time?
I put my arm out, but before I can touch him he clenches his teeth together, his hands slowly steady, and he gets up from the table in that careful, measured way of his. “Let’s go, Bea.” He offers Twenty-two his arm and bows slightly toward Sardosky. “Mr. President, please excuse us.” His voice sounds strained, and he won’t look either of us in the eye.
Sardosky inclines his head. Twenty-two pulls Wes away, and they disappear into the crowd. I stare at their backs,
