These Broken Stars Part 20

I force myself to glance at him. He's standing where he was, his face shut down, as impa.s.sive and unreadable as I've ever seen it. I crumble a little, despite my resolve. This isn't just about how he sees me; that s.h.i.+p rocketed away long ago.

It's about how he thinks I see him.

"In the salon, when I dropped my glove, do you really think I didn't know who you were?" My fingers close around the handle of the screwdriver like it's a lifeline. "You were a hero, all over the news vids. I knew who your family was, that you were a scholars.h.i.+p case, all of it. I knew exactly who you were. I just-forgot, for a few seconds, who I was. Because I wanted to talk to you. Because you didn't look at me like I was Lilac LaRoux.

"So yes, I was cruel afterward. I'm cruel because it's the fastest way to get a man to lose interest, and trust me, I've learned how. My father taught me well." I swallow, making sure my tone is even. He'd be proud. "Tarver, you have to understand that everyone who approaches me-everyone-wants something. Men are after my money. Women are after my status. And men will suffer a lot for a rich girl's attentions, but not that level of humiliation. I've had to learn to use it over the years. And maybe I'm cruel because it's easy, and because it's something...something I can be good at."

He's still standing there, motionless. I've run out of things to say, and fall silent. My hand twitches, like it wants to throw the screwdriver at him. Anything to get him to move, speak. Say something. He stands there like he's been hit in the head with the canteen, staring at me, square-jawed and silent.

I toss the screwdriver down. "I'll find us a place for the night."

I can feel his eyes on me as I retrieve the pack of supplies and make my way back toward the stream.

The stream is cloudy where we crossed it earlier, so I follow it, looking for a place to refill the canteen and wash a little. A thread of an idea nags at me, but I push it away, my mind roiling.

Why, why, did I tell him? Why should he be interested in the sad saga of the poor little rich girl who had her boyfriend taken away? It'll be a great story for him when he s.h.i.+ps out, something to laugh about with his platoon. I can just imagine him describing how this lunatic rich girl tried to jump him because of her daddy issues. Something twists uneasily inside me. Tarver isn't the type of person to share the story. But still, he must think me so self-involved. He's seen dozens of his friends blown to smithereens on the front lines, and I'm crying because a boy I once knew got sent away to war.

Still, now he knows. What my father is. What I am. That I'm responsible for the death of a boy whose only crime was falling in love. Now he knows how toxic I am.

I'm so tangled in my thoughts that I almost don't notice the cave. The entrance is narrow, barely wide enough for Tarver's shoulders. The source of the stream must be within it, but I can't hear any bubbling, only the light trickle of water cascading down the rock. I rummage in the pack for the flashlight, climb onto the wet rocks, and ease my shoulders through.

The stream continues back in the gloom through another, wider fissure. I stop long enough to leave a bright red T-s.h.i.+rt from my pack tied around an outcropping of rock, to signal in case Tarver should come looking for me. Then I slip back inside, and head deeper into the cave to see if there's a big enough place for us to sleep.

"Was there any significant time during which you and Miss LaRoux were separated?"

"Define *significant.'"

"Are you able to account for her whereabouts and actions during the entirety of your stay on the planet?"

"You make it sound like we were on sh.o.r.e leave."

"Major."

"We were together the whole time."

"And nothing strange happened to her in that time? She didn't change in any way?"

"I think crash-landing on an unknown planet is pretty strange."

"Maj-"

"No. No notable changes."

TWENTY-NINE.

TARVER.

I PICK UP A ROCK AND CHOOSE A SPOT to slam it against the base of the metal shutters. There's a hollow metallic thunk that tells me there's nothing behind it, so I slam the rock home again, angling my body and finding a rhythm. My head's spinning.

Clerical oversight, my a.s.s. n.o.body's deployed by accident, least of all a rich man's son. I know twenty things that would keep that from ever happening.

Unless he had a girlfriend with a father who didn't like the idea of that connection. Unless the girl he loved was Lilac LaRoux.

Then I can see it happening.

Poor Lilac. She's lived with this secret locked inside for three years. I've never heard her sound so lost-like she really believes it's her fault that that boy was killed. What kind of father lays a burden like that on a fourteen-year-old girl? Lets her live her life thinking she's got blood on her hands?

I wish she'd told me sooner. But what would I have done, if she'd told me back on the Icarus that it was too dangerous to pursue her? Would I have been smart enough to walk away?

I realize that I've been pounding the rock against the same place for at least two minutes without a result. I drop it, abandoning my futile attempt to make a dent in the shutters, and head upstream after Lilac.

What can I even say to her? All I know is that I need to go to her, electricity coursing up and down my spine.

A flash of red jumps out at me, fabric tied around an outcropping. I'm so tired, my head so full of half-formed apologies, that it takes me a moment to spot the opening of the cave.

The Lilac I crashed with would never have thought of that. She'd have just disappeared inside without so much as a second thought as to how I'd find her. But my girl's changed so much since we landed.

The entrance is narrow, but I squeeze through it, splas.h.i.+ng through the stream. The sunlight's fading when I spot the flashlight up ahead. The narrow pa.s.sageway widens out into a larger chamber, like a bubble inside the rock, and I almost miss the big step down.

I stop myself from falling just in time, grabbing at the edge of the opening. She hasn't noticed me yet. She's in the middle of the cave, unpacking our things and carefully laying them out. She's gotten a fire going directly under a break in the ceiling, for the smoke to escape. Did I teach her that, or did she work it out herself? I can't remember anymore.

She's making up two beds, her mouth a thin, fixed line, her shoulders square and determined. She's reaching into the same well of discipline that she found when I was sick, I suppose. The same well that pushed her back into a s.h.i.+p full of the dead to find me medicine.

How did I ever think she couldn't judge the depth of her own feelings?

I climb down carefully into the cave, letting a couple of pebbles click together deliberately. She glances up as I walk over, then returns to her work, pus.h.i.+ng a spare s.h.i.+rt inside the pillow she's making.

"Do you know what I thought, the first time I saw you, when you were telling off those officers?" There's an edge to my voice, a hesitation-I sound nervous. I'm not, though. I've never been so sure.

She looks up at me again, weariness etched all over her face. She lifts her chin a little as though bracing for a blow. "What did you think, Tarver?"

"I thought, that's my kind of girl."

Her expression doesn't s.h.i.+ft.

I let myself smile a little as I ease down to my knees in front of her, every tired muscle protesting the move. "And Lilac, I was right. Forget everything else. Forget everyone else. You're exactly my kind of girl."

"Tarver, you were right to stop me before." Her blue eyes are dark and deep, her hair ablaze with firelight. "This can't happen."

Guilt is written on her features so clearly that it almost breaks my heart. Her breath catches as I reach for her arm to tug her up onto her knees, to my level. "What happened with Simon wasn't your fault. Your father did that-not you. You're not to blame for someone loving you."

She swallows, her eyes meeting mine, uncertain.

I can't stand it anymore, and before I even realize what I'm doing, I'm leaning down to kiss her. A jolt goes through me as our lips meet, and she drops the flashlight with a clatter. She hesitates for a moment, then pulls away from me. I want to lean after her, but I hold myself still, heart hammering. "But-on the plain, you acted like you didn't even want me," she whispers.

"If you really believed that performance, you're crazier than I thought. I've wanted you from the beginning. I thought it was better to keep away, to stay focused on getting us out of here." My voice is hoa.r.s.e, now. "I was scared of having you, then losing you again. But it would be worth it a thousand times over. I was an idiot, I'm sorry."

Her face is flus.h.i.+ng, lips reddening, her fair skin making it easy to see. The urge to kiss her again is overpowering. This time when I lean in she doesn't break away. I bend my head to hers and slide a hand around the small of her back to pull her in. I tease at her lower lip with my teeth and she gasps for a shaky breath.

I pull back a fraction, that tiny distance requiring a monumental effort. "You want me to stop," I manage, barely recognizing my own voice, "you tell me."

It takes me a moment to register her dark eyes, her parted lips, the way she leans after me. Her hand curls around the sleeve of my s.h.i.+rt, trembling. It's then I realize my hands are none too steady either.

"You stop now," she breathes, "and I'll never forgive you."

There's a soft moan as our bodies come together, but I'm not even sure which one of us made the sound.

If a rescue s.h.i.+p landed in the clearing outside just now, I'd keep right on hiding in this cave.

"What about physical changes?"

"Excuse me?"

"Did Miss LaRoux undergo any...physical changes to her person while in your company?"

"I think she got a little stronger from all the hiking."

"Major, to what extent did you act upon your feelings for Miss LaRoux?"

"Medium."

"Excuse me?"

"How am I supposed to answer that question?"

"We are attempting to discover what happened. It's in the best interests of all concerned that you answer with the truth."

THIRTY.

LILAC.

"YOU OKAY?" he lifts his head from my neck, lips grazing my jaw.

I s.h.i.+ver, choosing to answer with a small murmur, content. After a moment I open my eyes to find him watching me. His hair is stuck to his forehead, visible in the half-light from the dying fire.

"Happy," I add, just to see the line of his mouth curve upward, highlighted by the dim glow of the coals.

"Good." He leans down to kiss me, keeping his weight off on one elbow. I tilt my chin up, discovering the way it makes him lean into the kiss harder, uttering a sound of mixed satisfaction and surprise.

When he lifts his head again, he moves his hand from my waist to trail a fingertip along the edge of my brow, down across my cheek, nudging a few stray hairs away from my face.

"You've got no idea how long I've wanted to do that." His voice is still a little hoa.r.s.e, and my stomach lurches in response.

"You took your sweet time." I try for airy and unconcerned, though I know my performance is not convincing.

He laughs, and I watch his mouth, distracted, and almost miss what he says next: "I'm pretty sure if I'd tried to kiss you while dragging you through the forest that first day, you would've thrown one of those ridiculous shoes at my head."

I expect him to put up a fight when morning arrives and I suggest, a little wistfully, that we take a rest day. I don't want to leave our bed, don't want to find clothes, don't want to be apart from him. The way he looks at me now is so different. Clear, unguarded, warm. I didn't even know there'd been a wall between us, until now, seeing it gone.

Instead of putting on his soldier voice and saying something about getting a march on the day, he just stretches and gathers me against him with one arm. The other, he tucks behind his head, looking up at the ceiling of the cave, where a little daylight comes through a crack. The light plays over the cavern walls, revealing formations carved over the ages-stalagmites reaching up from the ground for their twins overhead, vast curtains of gleaming limestone dripping down from the ceiling.

"I can't think of any way inside that building. For now, there's nothing we have to do that requires immediate attention."

I prop myself on my elbow, staring at him. "What do you mean, nothing we have to do?"

"Just what I said, beautiful." He grins at me, making my stomach flutter. No one in my old life would be permitted to grin at me like that. "You think I have any burning desire to get out of bed today?"

I can't help but smile back at him. He leans up and kisses me, a brief thing before he starts to pull away again. He pauses, eyes half closed, thoughtful, before leaning up once more, taking his time, his mouth warm against mine. By the time he pulls away, my heart is pounding.

"I'll get us some breakfast," he says, slipping out of our nest and tucking the blankets back around me. He hauls his pants on but doesn't bother with his belt, letting them hang low on his hips. I curl into the warm s.p.a.ce beside me that he left behind and watch him as he moves around the camp. How is it that I can want him so badly when he's only been gone from me for a minute?

He rummages in his pack, searching for ration bars. After a moment he pauses, staring down at something in the bag. I see only a flash of silver as he picks it up, closing his hand around it, but I know what it is-the case containing the picture of his family.

It's then that I realize something that began to take root the day we climbed the wreck, looking for our next move. When I discovered that the thought of living here didn't hurt. The truth is that I don't want us to be rescued. I wish I could stay here, with Tarver, forever-even if forever is only a few short years, or months, or days, before the savageness of the planet overcomes us. Because the moment the rescue s.h.i.+ps touch down, I'll never see Tarver Merendsen again.

And this is the thing I've been trying to fight, because I know it's not the same for him. I know he couldn't be happy here, not when his heart is in a little garden cottage with a teacher and a poet and the memory of his brother.

I watch as he sets the silver case aside, carefully, tenderly. He returns to his search, but I can see the grief lingering in his expression.

It doesn't matter that being rescued means the end of us-that it means a return, for me, to a life unlived, watched every moment and kept apart from anything that could touch me. All that matters is that he gets home. That his parents don't have to suffer the loss of their second child.

We have to get inside that building. By the time Tarver returns to me, I am smiling, and I wrap myself around him. But even as he murmurs in my ear, kisses my shoulder, twines his fingers in my hair, my mind is working. I'll think of a way.

It isn't until late afternoon that we finally drag ourselves from bed, and only then because we need to refill the canteen from the spring. We locate clothes and take a walk through the woods afterward, making our way back toward the building.

I try the shutters again; he taps at the door to gauge its thickness. We share a few ideas, each more improbable than the last. Tentatively we think about some sort of battering ram, but even if we use the rusted tools to chop down a tree, there's no way the two of us could lift and swing a log big enough to break a steel door. Whatever supplies or equipment might be inside stay firmly locked up.

I hear whispers of sound at the edge of my hearing, rising like rain hissing across the gra.s.s toward me. There's an urgency in the voices that moan in my ear, pleading, pained. They're always coming from the station itself-we're not the only ones who desperately want to find a way to get the station open. The whispers have been leading us here all along, and now they're beseeching us to come inside.

Eventually, as dusk approaches, we give up and return to our cave to rekindle the fire and rea.s.semble our bed, which, over the course of last night, got scattered about the place. As I'm rebuilding pillows and settling blankets, Tarver's crouched by the fire. Tonight he's building it up high. Easier to be naked, he says, when you're not freezing.

"Slumming's not so bad, is it, Miss LaRoux?" he teases, flopping onto our makes.h.i.+ft bed and pulling me down on top of him.