Page 48 of The Last Love Story

“That’s the first thing I was going to show you,” Callum says finally. I must look confused, because he motions to the tree with his chin. “When you came to visit. The first thing I wanted to show you was the tree. I knew you’d love it.”

I don’t know what to say, so I down the rest of the fruity drink with one deep swallow. What if the lie was real, and we’d been talking this whole time? What if we’d never lost touch? I’m trying to figure out how to put that into words when the room goes quiet behind us. Callum and I turn just in time to see President Graves step into the room. He’s followed by a small group: his cabinet members, I remember from the reports on my DopaMine.

President Graves looks smaller in real life than he does on the screen. And he’s shorter than I remember, but it does startle me how unchanged he looks, overall. I realize part of me wanted to see him utterly transformed by the last few years, like he couldn’t have done what he’s done without rotting from the inside out.

But you’d think he was handsome, if you saw him walking down the street. He’s got the same strong jaw as Callum, high cheekbones, and a narrow nose that’s been broken a few times, if the stories he likes to tell about college rugby are true. He has an easy smile and striking amber eyes; the russet hair I remember so vividly is streaked with gray.

I barely notice as Mrs. Graves comes in after, her white-blond hair and pale skin making her look more like a ghost than a first lady. Her lipstick is bright (too bright, Kaleb would probably say), and she rushes to the table, fiddling with the placement of the cutlery and how each flower falls in the massive centerpieces, as if an entire staff didn’t just arrange everything perfectly. I suppose, to the first lady, there’s something better than perfect.

I tense, waiting for them to approach, to greet their son and me, their future daughter-in-law, but they instead beeline for a suited couple by the far end of the table. I glance at Callum just in time to watch the smile drip off his face, the disappointment apparent before he quickly affixes a new grin, as brittle and fake as a mask.

“Hey,” I murmur. “Do you—?”

He cuts me off by sliding a hand into mine and squeezing gently. “Thanks,” he replies, his voice just as low. “The show must go on, right?”

My stomach falters. He wasn’t reaching for me for comfort. It’s all for show.

I’m not sure I want it to be.

The questions in my mind are cut short as the president looks directly at me, hawk-like eyes piercing. They widen at the sight of me as if in surprise. But isn’t the whole point of this dinner to welcome me?

As he strides over, he doesn’t drop his gaze, and I’m too terrified to move, even as his smile widens, wolfish.

“Ripley Hart. So good to see you again,” he says. All eyes in the room swing to me. Panic grips me.

Oh, shit. Do I curtsy? Shake his hand?

He must realize that I don’t know what to do, as I’m justthe girl next doorafter all. So he holds his arms out to signal that the right answer is a hug.

Callum’s grip tightens on mine, almost like a reassurance.

I force a smile of my own and lean into his embrace with my free arm. He smells good, but it’s an unnatural kind of good. Like it was tested with a focus group and carefully selected.We’ll make it woodsy to imply that he’s grounded... a hardworking man. And then a hint of citrus to signal wealth.

And then my heart stops because I’m hugging PresidentGraves. The man who sent my friends to war. The man who banned reading. The man who, according to Becka, wants to end democracy as we know it.

When he pulls back, he shifts both hands to my shoulders. “It is lovely to see you after all these years. Although I’m not sure if I can forgive my son for keeping you secret this long.”

His gaze bores into mine, and I realize I’m in a game with him now. I’m only eighteen, but I need to spar at his level.

“It’s been too long,” I reply. It seems safe. Noncommittal.

“And we do regret that your parents couldn’t be here. I hope three months will be long enough for your mother to recover? I’d hate for them to miss your wedding.” He leans in, with the excuse of fixing my hair, and murmurs, just for me, “Think of the optics.”

I go very still at this, trying to read between the lines without giving away the alarm bells ripping through my mind.What happened to my mom?

And another siren starts somewhere near the base of my skull.Three months.

“The optics,” I repeat weakly, not trusting myself to say anything more.

“Ripley,” a female voice singsongs, and then Mrs. Graves is pulling me into a similar hug. I eye Callum overher shoulder. Those blue eyes are stormy and locked on his father, who is now walking to the head of the table.

“Come, let’s eat!” President Graves calls out. Mrs. Graves scuttles away, and Callum comes up behind me. His hands slot naturally over my shoulders, guiding me, steadying me. Holding me just as his father did.

Since President Graves has essentially introduced me to the entire room by virtue of greeting me, dozens of eyes fix on me. I try a shy smile and fold back into Callum, nuzzling into him in a way that seemed romantic when computer-generated characters did it on my DopaMine but probably looks super awkward when I do it.

Still, it brings my lips close enough to his ear to whisper without fear of being heard. “What did he mean by that?”

“I don’t know,” he answers. “But I will find out.”