Page 37 of The Last Love Story

Callum isn’t the fiancée the announcer was talking about.

I am.

Chapter 10

A whirlwind, that’s what it is. I can’t see a thing, blinking so much against the constant camera flashes that seem to explode in my face.

The announcer steps up onto the stage, drawing raucous cheers from the crowd. He talks about Callum’s new philanthropic endeavor, Legacy Outreach, which, from what I can gather in my strange, disassociated state, seeks to give aid to victims of the climate crisis and is the reason for his furlough. Callum’s hand is tight around mine, squeezing intermittently as though to tell me he’s still there, even when he’s answering the announcer, whose name is something like Gary. Or Larry. Knowing who he is is the least of my worries, honestly.

My parents, I think, trying to keep my face as neutral as possible as my mind spirals.

I don’t know what the hell is happening, but I know that they are going to be worried.

Nef.

Lyceum.

“...and that’s my goal, really. Well.Ourgoal,” Callum says, lifting our interlaced hands to his chest.

The crowd lets out a soft sigh of approval, and I try to coach my face into something like a smile in his direction. If the expression stutters, I can only hope they read it as infatuation. What had they called me?The Girl Next Door.

There are more questions, more lights, and then we’re backstage. The dress comes off in a flurry of hands and the whisk of zippers. I want my clothes back—my worn-in training pants and black top—but Kaleb just makes a noise like a computer error that tells me that’s not going to happen. Instead, they slip me into a powder-blue dress with floofy sleeves that cut into my biceps. At least the fabric is softer—maybe this is what passes for casual here.

“And to finish off the look,” one of the girls says, holding out a pair of pearl-drop earrings and sand-colored wedges. I miss my boots.

“Sure. The look,” I answer back. I’ve never worn anything but silver studs, so this will be interesting.

Though it is not the strangest bit of new jewelry I’m sporting. I look down at the ring that sparkles on my left hand. I wouldn’t know a fake diamond from a real one, but this thing is heavy. I clench my fist, afraid that it will slip off. I can’t imagine how much it costs. If they made me pay for areplacement, how many extra hours would my parents have to log? How many mindless images would they have to sort through?

Before I have a chance to even comprehend the strange girl in the mirror, the gentle waves in her hair and the petal smudge of her lips, they’re shuffling me out of the room again, taking me down another nondescript hallway and into a sort of parking garage.

“Wait here,” one of the guards says, seeming to open a section of the hall. The handleless door nearly hits me in the face.

I don’t have a choice, so I step inside, coming to such an abrupt halt that I fear for my ankles in these shoes. Because I’m not alone.

Callum stands as I enter, his hands coming up to absentmindedly button his jacket out of habit.

I blink, my breath coming faster as I look at him.

He’s beautiful. In the stage lights, he seemed like an alien creature, something made for the DopaMine screens. And he is, still. But here, I can see that eleven-year-old kid if I look closely enough, in the straight edge of his nose, in his ice-blue gaze. Those eyes ping between mine, like he’s begging me to say something. I want to say something, but I don’t know if I can speak.

Where are we? Where are my parents? Are they safe? Did I expose Lyceum? A thousand questions split off in mysynapses at once, and I don’t know which one to chase, as the strange weight on my hand draws my gaze to the gigantic rock there, and one question pulls me.

We’re engaged.

We’re engaged?

Tears spring up in my eyes, unbidden, and I let out a soft breath. One thing isn’t a question: He’s here, in front of me. Callum.My Callum.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” I whisper.

The sight of me almost crying seems to catch him off guard. The media-ready mask seems to shatter, his brows peaking and mouth turning strangely soft. He crosses the room in two strong strides and pulls me into a hug, crushing me to his chest.

He’s warm. His chest holds me firm, and against my cheek his heart beats, a slow, steady thrum. Sometime since the taping he’s discarded his jacket and repinned that golden button to his chest; it cuts against my face. The weight on the crown of my head must be his cheek.

My body goes taut and for a moment he freezes, every muscle locking, as I feel him question his decision to touch me. The pressure on my head lifts.

And I wrap my arms around him, almost on instinct, melting into his frame. He sighs, pulling me closer still.