turned away and finished drying off with the skimpy motel towel. I slipped into a pair of navy sweatpants with a big “I Lucas. I winced, like I did every time my thoughts turned to the guy who’d been injured helping me escape from General Holland’s secret SMART Ops compound. Lucas, the nerdy proctor of my insane tests—the budding scientist with a heart of gold. Thanks to him, I not only had my life, such as it is, but I also didn’t have to strut around in an outfit I’d bought off a homeless woman in D.C. That shirt had been covered in stains that refused to yield—at least not to the tiny packets of detergent provided by the coin dispenser downstairs.
I caught another glimpse of myself in the mirror and grimaced. Procrastination, thy name is Mila. After sticking out my tongue at my bedraggled reflection, I reached for the door and opened it with what I hoped was a confident smile. Time to face Hunter and his questions. Time to face the truth. I had this.
Or not. I barreled forward, only to feel my resolve fizzle when I caught sight of his lanky form, sprawled across the bed by the window.
“Ahem.”
He bolted upright; as if the state of Virginia had just broadcasted that motel-room reclining was illegal. He snagged the remote from between folds of the crumpled comforter and turned down the volume, then scooted to the edge of the bed. Very proper, with his feet on the ground and hands in his lap.
O-kay. I sat opposite him, combing my fingers through my wet hair to give myself something to do. The quiet thickened, so I distracted myself by counting red circles on the curtains—fifty-two.
He looked at me before quickly averting his eyes. “I forgot to tell you, I like your new haircut,” he finally blurted to the remote in his hands.
“Thanks.” No need to tell him I was on version two already since the last time we’d met.
At least not yet.
The bed creaked like an old floorboard when he shifted his weight. His gaze skimmed me again, taking in my bare shoulders, dampened from where my hair dripped down, and then his eyes dropped to his lap again. He cleared his throat and that tiny “ahem” crackled between us.
I crossed my arms, his unease making me all too aware of the fact that I was in a motel room with a boy, not a chaperone or parent in sight, and oh by the way, we were going to spend the night together.
For the second time in under two minutes, heat crawled up my cheeks. Not spend the night, spend the night. But still. When I’d called Hunter and begged him to come help me, the potential for extreme awkwardness hadn’t really been front and center in my mind. I’d been consumed with grief and panic. Thoughts of Hunter had gotten me through some of the darkest moments—before my mother died in my arms. Then thoughts weren’t enough. I needed someone I could trust. Even though we’d only known each other for a few weeks, the way Hunter looked at me as though I were important, as though I mattered … it made me feel safe. There was no one else I could call.
Hunter started tapping a drumbeat on his thigh—a nervous habit I’d noticed when I’d first met him—and even though his nearness made my artificial nerve endings fire and my synthetic heartbeat quicken, I felt the tension between us like a concrete wall.
Oh, wow. This was going so well.
“Is it just me, or is this cohabitating thing kind of weird?”
“Not just you,” I replied in a rush. So fast that his lips lifted into that familiar, quirky smile. Something sizzled down my spine, once more making me want things that could never be mine. Things I could have if I were more than a bundle of circuits and transmitters. Things like a normal life.
Things I could maybe have if I chose not to follow through on Mom’s dying words.
We faced each other across the short gap between the beds, our knees close to touching.
“How about we make a pledge?” he asked. “I’ll start. I, Hunter Lowe, solemnly swear to stay in my own bed, except in case of emergencies. Or if you’re snoring really loud—then I can come over and elbow you. Or, you know, if you invite me over—just to watch TV or something,” he tacked on hastily, when my eyes widened. “Wow, I never realized that you had a gutter mind. Tsk.” He shook his head.
“Whatever.” I grinned back, then remembered my exact thoughts in the bathroom and tried not to cringe in embarrassment. “And I pledge to stay in my own bed, unless you make more terrible jokes like that. In which case I’m going to clobber you with your own pillow.”
“You drive a hard bargain, but deal. And now that the horribly awkward moment is over, are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”
His smile didn’t waver, but that was because he was totally clueless. The truth was sure to slap that smile right off his face. I’d had a difficult time believing it. I still hadn’t accepted it. How could I expect him to?
I bunched my hands into the comforter, rough from multiple washings, and squeezed. I could do this. I could do this. I could—
The words congealed in my throat. I swallowed hard.
“I promise not to judge,” he said.
So many things about him got to me: The softness of his voice. The way he leaned toward me, as if his life hung on my every word. The slowness of his hand sliding down my hair. The way he twirled several errant strands around his finger.
My eyes fluttered shut. There was something about his sincerity, and how it mingled with the sparks his touch ignited, that filled a tiny bit of the void inside me. I couldn’t lose that, and being honest with him might lead to him walking out the door without ever looking back.
I know this is going to sound crazy …
What would I do without him to remind me that a part of me, at least, was alive?
You see, the thing is …
And what if he left and told someone what I really was?
The secret I’ve been hiding all along …
I opened my mouth to tell him the truth, but my backup story came pouring out instead. “Mom and I got in a huge argument …,” I started, then faltered.
Was I really doing this? Lying, to the one person I had left in the world?
“Because you were moving to Germany, right?”
The attentive tilt of his head encouraged me to continue, but I was momentarily blindsided. I remembered the frantic phone call I’d made to Hunter from the airport in Canada, before Mom and I were snagged by Holland’s men. I’d told him I was leaving Clearwater, and that was probably the last time I’d told him the truth.
I willed myself again to set things right with him, but failed.
“No, she … she told me I was adopted.”
It
