“You know I can’t tell you.”
“You can tell me anything,” she counters. “I will keep your secrets. Every one of them. Especially the secrets we make together. I think, no, I know you know that, or you wouldn’t have let Sean take me to the Meetup and give me the choice.”
“Which you haven’t made,” I tell her, hating the direction of this conversation.
“It’s a huge decision.”
“I thought you would run,” I admit honestly. “I’m still wondering why you haven’t, and I’m not going to convince you not to.”
The safest thing she could do is say no and get as far away from us as possible. If I wasn’t so fucking selfish, that’s what I would tell her. What I should tell her.
Self-preservation seems to rank low with her, and maybe she should be told. But her eyes mute me—as does her touch. I don’t want her anywhere right now that’s not with me—looking and touching. It feels too perfect, even as I rob her trust blind and soak in her misplaced loyalty.
“Tell me what this is,” she whispers, running her fingers over the knots between my shoulders.
“It’s frustration.”
“About what?”
I shake my head. “Things I see, what I feel, what I believe, and mostly what I can’t control.”
“Such as?”
Thinking on it, I sink into her massage as she waits patiently for an answer. Even as she caresses me into a lull, my body and senses come alive, aware of every ticking second in the present—the rustling trees surrounding us, the feel of grass at my bare feet, the bees circling beneath a corner of the picnic table. It’s my favorite gift from her—the ability to rope me back from the darkness into acute awareness amongst the land of the living.
Fucking voodoo.
She’s given me so much of herself—her care and attention—that I mull my words over carefully and give her nothing but complete honesty in return.
“It’s like the very first time you take off in a plane . . . you’re speeding down the runway, exhilarated when you’re caught by air, and ascending. Minutes later, you’re so stunned you’re flying through the clouds, taking part in an experience so incredible it’s almost impossible to believe. As that initial buzz runs through you, you stare out the window and get your first good look at the landscape, only to see it’s littered with lines that act as borders. So, you start reasoning with yourself that land itself is owned and measured, but you never once expected to see it and how unnatural it looks. The view of the lines kills the vibe entirely, the impact so jarring it destroys the idea of flying for you.”
Cloud cover sets in, and I catch a glint of embarrassment in her eyes. “I get what you’re saying, but I’ve never been on a plane . . . we never . . . you know, had the money.”
I tip her chin up with my finger before tracing her jaw with my thumb. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Cecelia, I was only a year younger than you are now the first time I got on a plane, and it was to go to college.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, shaking it away, “tell me.”
“I’m glad you told me because it perfectly reiterates my point and is exactly where a ton of my frustration lies.”
“How so?”
“Because of the division—the way the lines were drawn—so many aspects of your life were decided before you were born. Your accent, how and where you would obtain your education, your exposure to religion, hand-me-down bias from those who raise or influence you between your lines, and any advantages. No matter where or who you are, it’s the same scenario for everyone, for better or worse.”
“So, flying is the idea of America?”
“Exactly.”
“But looking down is what? Government?”
“Looking down from above is seeing what many don’t want us to see. Those continually laying down the lines—or controlling the people that do—want to keep us blind. Oblivious to the system that continually sets so many of us up for failure. A lot of us are so caught up in the struggle just to survive between the lines to fucking care where we fit into the grand design. So many others are distracted by fighting on the edge of their line to hold it that they never understand the concept of flying.”
I let out a slow exhale. “It’s so fucked. The mapping was done over two centuries ago, and we got it wrong. The more we forget flying exists, the more lines are drawn, and we get distracted by it, the stronger our cage becomes. It’s because of the lines of control that true division was created in the first place, and it’s escalating.”
She stares at me long and hard. “So, how do we fix it?”
I slide my thumb along her cheek. “Who the hell am I to even begin to think I can solve that . . . but we could start by ignoring the rabbit that has us running in fruitless circles while gunning for each other’s throats. Then maybe we could lift each other up to get a glimpse of the true view.”
“Buy everyone a plane ticket?”
“Exactly, that’s all I’m trying to do.”
“Is that even possible?”
“I don’t know,” I admit honestly, “but it seems like we’re not far away from where we started anymore, so it’s worth trying, isn’t it? Maybe so we can take back charge of the map, but . . .” I swallow.
“But what?”
“From what I’m seeing—what I can prove—it’s fucking terrifying. There’s a powerful group of people, several, who will stop at nothing to make sure we remain blind. We might have a chance if they’re knocked out of the equation.”
“Our country is broken,” she asks, her eyes searching mine, “irreparable, isn’t it?”
“Is that what you think?” A raindrop falls from the sky, skating down her leg, and I trace its path with my finger.
“Sometimes, when I look at you—how angry you are—sometimes, I think that’s what you think. I can feel it from you.”
The helplessness, utter hopelessness I’ve felt over the last months hasn’t gone unnoticed by the one person I’ve refused to show any of my cards to, and still, she sees me.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
Because she does know me.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
The roar in my chest intensifies as she palms my jaw, demanding my eyes.
“Dom, when you . . . feel this way, you can come to me. I’ll be there for you. I’ll be the best friend you’ve ever had.” Her blue eyes fill with concern, “You can talk to me, and I won’t . . . I’ll try not to ask too many questions. I’ll listen, I’ll be here for you, and we can—”
I cut her off with my kiss, so she can’t see what’s brewing in my eyes as light rain begins to pelt us both.
“Dom,” Tobias calls from down the hall before appearing at my bedroom door. Lowering my hardback, he eyes the title. “Freshening up on history?”
“I think of it as more of a ‘what not to do’ and ‘how not to get caught’ for dummies.”
He grins. “Get dressed. I’m taking you out for dinner.”