Across the Universe - Beth Revis [64]
The rain is pouring now, but neither one of us cares. Amy looks at me expectantly, as if she’s waiting for me to prove to her I’m not Eldest.
Instead, I reach around and pull out the paintbrushes holding up her hair in a knot. A flash of red as her hair cascades down, then the rain drenches her heavy locks, darkening them so much that her hair almost looks brown like mine. Almost. I reach up and tuck one orange-gold strand behind her ear. She flinches as my fingertips brush her skin.
“Eldest is a great leader,” I insist, my voice soft. “But,” I say before Amy can protest, “we disagree on the issue of differences. I happen to like differences. Quite a lot.” I swallow, hard. My mouth feels too wet, my throat too dry.
And then—I’m not sure how it happens—but she takes a step closer and I take a step closer, and then we’re both just entirely too close.
And there is nothing between us but rain.
Then there is nothing between us at all.
My lips melt into hers. A drop of rainwater slips around the edge of my mouth, and then her lips part, and so do mine. The raindrop falls on my tongue, and then it’s lost on hers.
My body is drenched; I should be cold. But the warmth of her fills me.
My arms snake around her body, pulling her hard against me. I want to crush her into me.
I never want this to end.
And then—
—She’s pulling away.
She’s stepping back.
Her fingers are on her swollen lips.
Her eyes are wide and sparkling.
Raindrops drip down her cheeks, but it’s not rain, and for the first time, I taste salt on my tongue.
“It’s always in the rain,” she murmurs. “With Jason, too.”
And whoever this Jason is, I want to kill him.
“I’m sorry,” she says, taking another step back. “I never meant to—”
And no, no, it’s not supposed to be like this.
I shouldn’t have kissed her. She has too much else in her mind and heart to bother adding me.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
I reach for her, but she pulls back.
And then she’s gone.
Water pours from the metal ceiling overhead. In my hand, forgotten until they were all I had left, are the paintbrushes Amy had used to keep her hair in place. Harley’s paintbrushes.
I snap them in half and toss them into the pond.
33
AMY
A SPLATTER OF RAIN ON MY SKIN. AND JASON’S THERE, AND WE almost kiss. But it’s not rain, it’s my steamy shower, and it’s not Jason, it’s Elder.
My head thunks on the tile of the shower stall, warmed by the steam.
I don’t know what to do.
I wrap a towel around myself as I leave the bathroom. The chart I painted on the wall grabs my attention, and I stand, dripping shower water on the matted carpet as I stare at it. It doesn’t help. I still can’t see any connection between me and Mr. Robertson.
I have never felt this lost—this alone—before in my life. All the people who should be with me—my parents, Jason, my friends—are gone. Without them, the ship feels empty and small—I feel empty and small.
I should go to the cryo level and guard my parents. I shouldn’t have left Harley there. It’s my parents down there, not his. He has no ties to this.
But I saw the longing in his eyes when we left, and I don’t want to be the one to pull him from the stars.
And I don’t want to be the one alone down there, in the coldness of death.
I sit on the edge of the bed, unwilling to lie down.
I cross the room to the chair by the window. I glance back at the bed, the covers wrinkled but not pulled back. My first night here, Elder sat in this very chair while I slept there.
I pull my feet up into the chair and wrap my arms around my knees. I fall asleep facing the window.
There is no sunrise. The big yellow lamp in the center of the ship’s roof flicks on like a light, and it is day.
My head feels fuzzy, like I can’t wake up all the way. I grab a glass of cold water from the bathroom, but it doesn’t help. If anything, the world is fuzzier. I’m so tired. Of thinking, of worrying. There’s only one way I know to stop the babble in my head.
Luthe, the tall man who watches me too closely, is the only person in the common room when I go through it to the