Page 6 of The Last Love Story

He perches easily on the director’s chair they’ve set up for him in front of a massive aircraft carrier; his dark blond hair is windswept from a hovercopter departing behind him, glowing golden against his dark green fatigues. A sudden need to straighten that lock of hair has me clenching my hands into fists until my fingernails bite into my palms.

I didn’t realize he was serving overseas. But of course he is—no one is exempt, not even the president’s son.

“Thanks for sitting down with us,” a woman simpers off camera. “I know you’re busy, but we have a pressing questionabout international relations only you can answer: you and Amelie Rockwell. Everyone knows you broke up six months ago. Are you still single?”

Callum’s dark blue eyes go tight and cast a glance to the side, to the scorch marks and weapons beside him. When he looks to the woman, it seems like he’s going to push back—elegantly back out of the question, refocus back onto the war that is evidenced around him.

But he stops as a soft cheer andwhoopsounds from somewhere off camera, and a group of soldiers jogs past, whistling in approval at the question. Callum smiles at them, his face relaxing.

“Who wants to know?” he asks. When he hinges forward, he bares perfect teeth in a grin.

A woman next to me drops her tablet. When I glance over at the sound, I notice that a small group has turned their faces up to the screen, hypnotized by the president’s son.

“America wants to know,” the interviewer continues, and it’s not an exaggeration.

“Not you?” Callum teases, and I hear someone next to me make anawwwnoise like he’s a naughty puppy. My stomach twists at the sound.

The interviewer giggles, so high-pitched it seems unnatural. “You’re too charming, Callum Graves. It would be a waste for you to be single.”

Then he winks—something I’ve never seen anyone do outside of DopaMine. It makes my heart jump. “Who saysI’m single?” Suddenly he stands, tugging up his shirt—revealing the contour of a very muscled belly—and yanks at his microphone wire.

I hadn’t noticed the figures behind him, rushing toward a copter, but Callum is suddenly serious as he swoops the lock of hair out of his face.

“Callum! Are you dating someone? Callum!” the interviewer begs, but Callum is already focused on the copter. “With your father finishing his second term... we’re going to miss seeing you on the campaign trail—”

“You’ll be seeing me,” Callum says into the camera, offering a devastating grin before he rushes toward the copter, leveraging himself onboard so smoothly that it looks like he could do it in his sleep.

As he flips the headset on, sliding shiny sunglasses into place, the camera zooms through the copter’s windshield.

You couldn’t pay me enough to have a close-up of my face blown up and plastered across three stories. But Callum was made for the big screen. His jaw clenches as he toggles the controls and the blades begin to whirl.

I stare up at the screen until the rusted metal train cuts the space between me and the face that I know far too well.

Happy eighteenth birthday, Ripley.

I hold my breath over the threshold, unsure if I’m expecting to come home to a platoon of armored guards or a birthday cake. Instead, it’s only darkness that greets me. I stop at thetop of the stairs to knock softly on my parents’ door and then slowly open it. The light of the screen illuminates my mom’s face as she sits in bed. My dad is in his chair in the corner, also looking at his tablet. They must have hit their quotas at the data farm today and unlocked access to their DopaMine channels. I can faintly hear a documentary about different kinds of algae coming from my dad’s speakers. Judging by the studio laughter, my mom must be watching a comedy. Something with a family.

My mother raises her face to me before her eyes reluctantly follow.

“Ripley, sweetie. How was school?” She phrases it as a question, but her eyes dart back to the screen. She didn’t even pause her program. I know she doesn’t want the truth.

I look to my dad, who’s half-asleep already. I want to tell them everything—I want to tell them about the text. I want to ask them if they lied to protect me and if my birthday isn’t actually in September. I want to explain to them about what Hux and I saw on the news. I want to admit how it felt to see Callum Graves on a big screen, winking and racing off to save the world.

I want to be like a girl in a DopaMine video and just sit with my mom, have her put her fingers through my hair and give me advice.

But that isn’t real.

The AI training we do in class is grueling, but it’snothing compared to the real work that happens in the official data farms. The only outlet for them is their DopaMine channel.

So I say what I’ve been saying for years: “Great. You?”

She gives a soft half smile. “Awesome. Did you eat?”

We’re on script now. “About to. You?”

“We did,” she says. I could almost say her lines for her at this point.

“Well. I’ll get to bed,” I half whisper, lowering my voice to see if she’ll respond out of habit.