Kay is speaking now. Her voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “We can still stay in touch. Through messages, or holo.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My eviction.”
She doesn’t pad the statement. She says it as it is. Without fear. She’s accepted it, and I remember why it was so hard, after Mom’s death, to be around her. Seeing her so self-sufficient only made me feel more broken. I’m used to being the one people rely on and I hated the way Kay exposed me for who I really was: a girl shattered by vaporous things. Like Mom’s love. I hadn’t lost it so much as I’d lost my ability to earn it, to be a daughter worth her notice in a world competing for it.
Still. What I said to Kay in that moment, when I saw her dry, uncrying face, was unforgivable, and if we’ve drifted, that’s on me. It’s easier to lose myself in other people than it is to see Kay and know that even if I apologize again and again, it’d be only to comfort myself. She won’t recognize ever being hurt when she has been—hurt enough, apparently, to linger on my words and build a bot version of Mom. And that makes me feel extra shitty. I’ve taken back what I said, but I wish I could do more. “You’re not going to be evicted,” I say now.
“It’s the law.”
“The law serves the people.” Kay doesn’t reply. “Kay. Listen to me. You belong here, you hear that?” Her eyes shut, and I pull her close. “You belong here,” I say, cupping the back of her skull in my hand. It feels small. There’s so much brilliance in there, but at the end of the day, she’s just an eleven-year-old kid. When she needed me, I wasn’t here for her.
That changes now. From this point onward, I’m going to be a better sister.
I wait until she falls asleep, then shimmy off the bed, careful not to wake her.
Dad’s not in his room. I go into mine, step into my stasis pod, and holo to P2C headquarters. There, I find him still at his desk. Its surface glows with all of Mom’s legislation. I used to think of his determination to finish it as noble. Now I only feel disgust. We, his flesh-and-blood children, were left behind too, and I doubt he’s even aware of the trouble Kay’s in when I grab his chair by the back and spin it around.
“What—Celia?”
“You have to help her,” I say.
“Wake up,” I say.
I grip the arms of his chair and shake it. “Do you want to lose her, too?”
* * *
Sunlight streams past the curtains, burning away the dream like mist over the sea. But it doesn’t burn away the lump in my throat—or the tears on my face. Fresh ones, already cooling as I lie on the floor of M.M.’s bedroom, among the isles of clothing we shed last night. The skin dries tight.
Right. Happiness leads to memories.
At least I’m still in the house. To think I used to be scared of waking up in the ocean. Now I’m scared I’ll find her in my sleep—physically, and figuratively. I’m scared of seeing her eyes whenever I close mine. Scared I made the wrong choice—that despite everything, she is my Kay and I’m not Cee, but Celia. My hand can still feel the curve of Kay’s skull. The silk of her hair. My heart takes to the false memories like a sponge, absorbing them until it feels like I might burst, and I’d bolt to the sea right then and there if not for Hero’s arm, a weight around my waist, and the weave of our legs.
I wiggle around to face him, the boy who anchors me. His bangs cover his right eye. His lips are parted slightly in his sleep. I run a fingertip over the bottom one, smile when I remember the way I judged his face, the first I’d seen in three years. Then my smile fades.
I must have been made to look like Celia. Was Hero modeled after someone too?
So what if he is? If he isn’t? His face belongs to him. He gives it life, not the other way around, and it’s grown on me, becoming as beautiful as his voice. I drink in its sight for a minute, then disentangle myself, grabbing a bathroom towel and wearing it like a strapless dress as I head into the kitchen, where I brew some dandelion-leaf tea. I drink it as if it’s served in a china cup. The hot ceramic against my knuckles borders on painful, but even pain is sensation. I can’t imagine ever being without. To not be able to feel the steam on my face, or the sea wind, brisk when I open the door to a bright blue sky, stitched with white seagulls.
My days of seeing in black-and-white feel like a strange dream. Maybe this unease in my gut will too, along with the guilt of lying to Hero, once it no longer matters if we’re human or not. We’ll be the only ones in the world.