Page 16 of The Last Love Story

“A full sentence. I’m satisfied,” he whispers back.

Something flickers in my chest, and I bounce my knee again as I look away. Too much caffeine.Thatis what sends my heart racing in my chest.

I think this is his way of apologizing. I wouldn’t know, really. I’ve never seen him apologize.

“A whole pot. Blond roast,” I whisper finally. If that’s his way of apologizing, I guess this is my way of starting to think aboutmaybeaccepting it.

“Woof,” he says back, and I feel myself starting to smile before I can make myself stop.

For a moment—just a moment—I wonder what it would be like to tell Hux everything. What would he do if I told him? If I introduced him to Lyceum? We have been told our whole lives that there were only two possible paths into adulthood, and neither was good. For the first time, I feel hope. We might actually have a future.

An alarm beeps, and Ms. Astor stands and announces that it’s time for weapons training.

Everyone files out of the classroom quickly—the first ones to the recreation area get their pick of the grappling gear, and no one wants to get stuck with the shin guards that are kept together by electrical tape.

But I have something else I want more.

Hux takes his time, and I half wonder if he can tell I’m stalling. With one more look over his shoulder, he follows Nef out the door and down the hall.

I wait a beat, pulling my mouse from my monitor and making a beeline for Ms. Astor’s desk.

“I think this is broken,” I say loudly, giving us cover for the conversation. Every single one of these computers is outfitted with a camera and microphone, constantlypushing data through Alba. Any red flags go straight to the Hammers.

Ms. Astor makes a face and reaches for my “broken” mouse, and I lower my voice: “I finished it. I finished the book.”

Her eyebrows jump. Here, she’s careful. Measured. But I can see the glimmer of excitement in her eyes at my announcement. Maybe she didn’t think I’d actually read it.

“And?” she whispers back, pretending to inspect the mouse.

“I loved it. I brought it in my gym bag so I can give it back. Can I have another?”

She lowers the mouse and roots around her desk. “Yes.”

My chest fills as I half expect her to pull a book out of her drawer. Instead, she withdraws a wire, cracking the plastic paneling off the mouse and replacing it as she talks.

“But not here.” Her eyes meet mine and fill with warning. “From now on, Ripley,neverspeak about it here. We keep these lives separate, which keeps us safe. Tonight, Pasadena City College.”

I look around as the realization of what I’m asking andwhereI’m asking it dawns on me. A room full of cameras and microphones. Alba always listening. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s okay, Ripley. It’s okay,” Ms. Astor says. She holdsout the mouse. “This should work,” she says loudly. As I take the mouse and set it on my desk, Ms. Astor puts an irritated look on her face. “They don’t have all day, Ms. Hart. Please hurry.”

I nod, acting chastened as I hurry into the hallway.

The blue tape stretches against the cracking plastic as I try to pull the shin guards tighter.

“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” Nef says, resecuring her wrist wraps with the crisp bite of Velcro. “Those are always the last pair, and you were so late.”

We’re sitting with the girls on one side of the old gymnasium. Across the way, the boys stretch and warm up. Between us rests a massive black wrestling mat. The gymnasium feels smaller with everyone packed inside of it, and it smells worse too.

I lean in and sniff the guards on my shin as I stretch, wincing. No, no. It’s not the gym. It’s the pads. After long hours of refining, the chance to do something active feels good. The fact that wealsoget to beat the shit out of each other is a perk.

“I had to tell her about the mouse. I didn’t want to get my DopaMine docked again,” I lie.

Nef nods, tangle of curls bouncing in their high bun. From this angle, I can see the slight pock of a scar along the light brown skin of her cheek—I bandaged that cut duringthe fencing practicum last year, and then volunteered to spar against the guy who gave it to her. I stabbed him in the thigh, and the tip of the foil had mysteriously fallen off.

So weird.

“Prepare for first pairing,” Alba says through the speakers, jarring me. I’m still half hoping for Mr. Avilas and his whistle.