“You were fucking dating and now you’re married,” Ryke retorts. “Your relationship is informal.”
“We weren’t always dating and we weren’t always married,” I explain now, referring subtly to our days in prep school where we were competitors. “We began as formal and so now we switch between the two whenever we like. We’re well aware of the rules. They just don’t apply to us.”
Rose is grinning from ear-to-ear.
She says she hates when I’m conceited, but I’m more than certain she takes pleasure in the real me, even if I’m an arrogant prick.
Ryke shakes his head like he wishes he didn’t ask, and then Daisy rolls off of him, closer to Rose, and the girls begin whispering together.
I stand off the bed the same time as Ryke, and we exchange a look of recognition.
We have to spend actual alone time together, beyond just passing each other in the morning and conversing sporadically for ten minutes. No Daisy. No Loren. Nothing that bridges us together.
Wonderful.
33
CONNOR COBALT
I finish taking a shower after Ryke. We spoke a few words earlier that basically confirmed we’d be spending the night in this hotel room together. We don’t hate each other enough to hassle the front desk at 4 a.m. for an extra room on St. Patrick’s Day. And I’m not foolish to believe Ryke would just drop his suspicions if we separated.
He’ll bring them up sometime, so he might as well let it out tonight.
After I brush my teeth and put on pajama pants, a light still floods beneath the door. I assume he stayed up to question me, and I never really thought he’d go to sleep without broaching the topic.
I quietly exit, passing a mirror-covered closet and entering the main portion of the modern hotel room: a desk, a chair and one king-sized bed, nothing more. Before Ryke sees me, I catch him on his side of the bed with his knees bent, something hidden behind them.
He’s in gray cotton track pants, bare-chested with a dark tattoo along his shoulder, rib, and hip. When one of his knees falls, I spot his scar from the transplant surgery. It begins right below his sternum in the exact center of his chest, and it stops before his belly button, veering beneath his ribs, almost like the shape of the letter L.
It now accompanies the small scar on his eyebrow from the Paris riot.
I’ve never viewed people as physical canvases for their life, revealing time and memories outwardly like Ryke, whether by choice or by circumstance. I may be a blank slate, but not all people are.
I move closer, and he drops his other knee, his head rising. That’s when I notice the book in his hand. He’s reading. Strangely, I’ve never seen Ryke read before.
He stuffs the book behind his pillow. “I have to ask you something,” he tries to distract me.
My curiosity has escalated, and I’m not about to let it go. I head over to his side of the bed, and he immediately stands and blocks my passage to his pillow, his jaw hardening and features darkening.
I’ve never been intimidated by him.
“I have to seriously fucking talk to you.”
I know. “Why are you so ashamed of what you’re reading?” I question, knowing it’s not about shame.
“Fuck off.” He scowls. “I’m not ashamed of anything, so don’t twist this your way.”
I am twisting it my way, but I’m not done yet. “If you’re not ashamed, then you shouldn’t have any problem showing me the book.”
His nose flares. “What does it matter to you if I read the back of a shampoo bottle or Ulysses?”
“I value intelligence,” I say easily. “I find it agitating that you hide yours.”
“Well there you go.” He gestures between my chest and his. “I don’t rank people above or below me based on whether or not they can outscore me on a fucking math test.”
That’s how he sees me then? I shake my head. “You’ve pegged me wrong. I’m not saying I look down on Lo or Lily because they’re not as intelligent as me. They have other qualities that I admire and value and that I personally lack, but they don’t hide these qualities from anyone.”
“I’m not fucking hiding.”
“Your book is literally sitting behind a pillow, hidden from view.”
His jaw tenses. “And I’m saying that book isn’t me. I could do this all fucking day, Cobalt.”
“It’s nighttime,” I correct.
“You’re so fucking annoying.” He grimaces and sighs heavily. I don’t move a muscle, and it’s irritating him enough that he reaches over and grabs the book. He shoves it in my chest.
I read the title in Spanish. El cuento de la criada by Margaret Atwood, a foreign edition of The Handmaid’s Tale. “Have you read this before?” I ask. I’ve only read the English edition, but it’s largely popular and actually one of Rose’s favorites, a science fiction novel with feminist themes.
“Yes.” He snatches it back. “I’m not having book club with you at four in the fucking morning—or ever.” He returns the book to his backpack.
I wander over to the window, the maroon curtains open to a glittering view of Manhattan. “Your intelligence doesn’t belong to your mother, you know,” I say. “It’s yours. You earned it. She didn’t.” I look over my shoulder, and he’s standing stiffly by the bed, quiet. In the many years we’ve known each other, I can count on one hand our personal heart-to-hearts. I don’t know why I bring it up now.
Maybe to prolong the discussion about my secret with Rose.
Maybe because I think he’ll actually open up tonight.
The longer I look at him, the more I’m certain that I’ve hit the real reason why he shuts down so often. I can see it as he stares off, shaking his head.
“I did everything my parents asked growing up. Every fucking thing. I can’t dissociate learning four languages from the rest of the shit my mom pushed me into.”
I’ve gathered most of these facts through observation, but hearing the grit in his voice starts to churn my stomach. I lean my arm against the window, slightly uncomfortable, and I realize he’s triggering empathy inside of me that only extends to people I care about.
He looks straight at me. “You want the truth. I went to college and I wanted to just be me. I had no fucking clue who that was, but I thought I’d figure it out.” He lets out an angry breath. “I couldn’t determine if I loved Spanish, Italian, French or Russian because she wanted me to love them or because I really did. I switched my majors five fucking times my freshman year, so you fucking laugh that I landed on a thing like journalism that I’ve never used, but I tried almost everything and nothing felt right.”
I digest each of his words and the emotion behind them.
Before I can speak, he continues, “Look, she made it fucking harder for me to find my identity, but if I asked her to rock climb, even when she didn’t really like it, she’d still let me. My mom and dad spun lies and I had to abide by them to protect their reputations. I used to be smarter and athletic for their pride, not mine, but now I read for me. I run for me. I fucking speak for me. But I was conditioned so much that I know some things are just my parents in my head.” He extends his arms. “So there are some languages that I’d like to forget.”
“Which ones?” I question.
“Russian…French.” That’s why it’s like pulling teeth trying to get him to speak French to me.