“Raw fish. Lovely.”
“It’s better than starving,” Wes says softly.
“I’m not complaining.” I don’t look at him, staring down at the fish instead. The mouth is open, the eyes like small marbles. It died in the middle of gasping, struggling to breathe again.
“I’m not saying you were.”
Tim pauses from wringing the water out of his pant leg. He looks between the two of us and clears his throat. “Why don’t I take the fish back to the clearing? You can get water, or, you know, whatever.”
“No, it’s—”
“Yes,” Wes cuts me off. “Take the fish back; we’ll be there in a minute.”
“Sure thing.” Tim grabs the tail from Wes, then reaches down to take the shotgun. As he straightens he winks at me. I frown, but he has already turned around, is already disappearing into the trees.
For the first time in days, I am left alone with Wes.
Chapter 9
Wes kneels down to wash his hands in the stream, the blood slowly dissipating in the clear water. My feet itch to walk up the steep bank, to disappear while I can. But I can’t seem to make myself move.
He stands again and slowly turns to face me. I stare at the bump on the bridge of his nose, at the long slope of his forehead. “Are you holding up okay?” he asks. “It’s been a rough few days.”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
He steps forward on the rocky shore. We are almost close enough to touch, though I keep my hands near my sides. How can he smell so good after hiking for days without a shower? I am streaked with dirt, my heels are rubbed raw from the large boots, and my hair is looped in a knot on the top of my head that I’ve tied with the same type of string I’m using to hold my pants up. He is just as dirty, but somehow it looks good on him—the waves of his hair are more defined, his cheeks are tanner than usual. Only his eyes show how weary he is.
“I always worry about you.”
He sounds sincere, but how do I know if it’s real? Keeping my head down, I walk around him toward the water.
“You don’t believe me.” His voice is flat.
I lay the plastic jug in the stream and concentrate on the way the water rushes in, tumbling over itself. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“Lydia.”
The jug grows heavy in my hands and I crouch to set it down on the rocks. “What do you want me to say?”
He runs his wet fingers through his hair, making the strands slick against his head. “Look at me. Please.”
I stand up again. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
“I want us to be like how we used to be.”
“Are you kidding?” I stare at him. “How could we ever go back to that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. But it’s what I want.”
I twist away until I’m facing downriver, the point where the water disappears into the trees. “I don’t trust you anymore. I don’t know who you are. Maybe I never did.”
“You did, more than anyone.”
“The Wes I knew never would have been capable of using me for a mission. I thought that I got through to you, that I changed you. I was an idiot. I should have listened when you told me you weren’t capable of loving someone.”
I feel him take a step forward.
“You did change me.” His voice is pleading. “Let me explain, Lydia.”
I shake my head. “I thought I wanted to hear your explanation. For months, I waited for you to find me, to tell me what happened. But you were never there. And now . . . I don’t think I want to hear it anymore.”
“What does that mean?”
I turn. He is closer than I thought, only a step or two away, and the weak light of early evening makes the angles of his face seem sharper. “It means that you broke my heart. And I’m not sure I want to trust you with it again.”
He frowns, a deep line appearing between his eyes. “You don’t mean that.”
“I had to move on as much as I could, without you. The Project still has my grandfather locked up somewhere. That’s all I’m focused on right now. I need to keep my head down so they don’t kill him.”
“Lydia—”
“It doesn’t matter what happened nine months ago. You’ve been lying to me from the beginning.”
“I haven’t been.”
“You have.”
He looks away, staring down at the rocky shore. “It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You don’t care what the truth is.”
“I know what the truth is.”
“You don’t.”
“Here’s my truth, Wes.” It is the first time I have said his name and I hear him take a ragged breath. “You always knew I was destined to be a recruit. You knew what the polypenamaether scar looked like, and you knew I had it on my arm. They sent you after me, and that was why you followed me to nineteen forty-four, not because you saw something special in me. Maybe it turned into something more, I don’t know. Maybe you did have a good reason for giving me up to General Walker in the end. But remember that day with LJ?”
He runs his hand over his jaw and I know he is picturing that sweltering, small space in the East Village, LJ—Tag’s roommate—leaning over his computer as he and I both realized we were always destined to become recruits.
“You were lying then. You were lying even before that. How do I separate the truths from the lies?”
“You’re right.” He raises his eyes to mine. “I always knew you were supposed to be a recruit.” His voice is different now, resigned and soft. “I was tasked with bringing you in, and that’s why I followed you to nineteen forty-four. I had been watching you for months, with your friends in school, with your grandfather when you visited Camp Hero. I knew everything about you.
