Page 51 of The Last Love Story

Whatever. It’ll be fine.

I unzip my dress and let it pool to the ground. I have no idea how expensive this thing is, but I know it’s more than my parents make in a year. Even though I want to hate it, smash the mirrors, destroy everything that belongs to this administration, I find myself lifting it and hanging it on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. Yawning, I feel around for the bundle of folded pajamas on the end of my bed that someone must have left when I was at dinner. They’re softer than anything I’ve ever felt, and I can’t help but shiver as I button up the striped shirt and step into the matching pants. They’re so comfortable that I can get past the fact that they’re navy and cream, the presidential colors.

A squeak in the corner of the room makes me jump, and I cover my mouth to stop myself from screaming as a figure slips in through an open French door I hadn’t even noticed. I am about to sprint for the door to the hallway when the figure looks up. Blue eyes, blond hair falling from its coif: Callum.

My hands drop to my chest. “You scared me!”

Callum closes the French doors that lead to the courtyard, taking one second to peek out once more to make sure the coast is clear. He holds his hands up in apology. “I’m sorry.” He’s in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, and it’s very different from the tux, a thin fabric that clings to his body, strains against the broadness of his shoulders, the bulge of his arms. My breath catches in my throat at the sight ofhim. He’s in my bedroom. We’ve been alone a million times as kids, but somehow this feels different.

I reach over and flick off the bathroom light so that no one will be able to see us through the windows, but he’s cast in the warm glow of the holoscreens outside. A sinking feeling roils in my gut as I realize that he can seeme, too: my smeared mascara, hair in a topknot, my striped pajamas. I cross my arms over my chest, and Callum looks up at the ceiling. Suddenly, the weight of today comes crashing down. Words seem to rush out of me.

“You’re in my bedroom” is all I can think of.

His gaze remains fixed on the ceiling. “I didn’t think you’d be in your pajamas yet.” And I’m not imagining the faint redness creeping up his neck.

“Pajamas make you blush but you want to walk down the aisle with me in three months?”

I step closer to him. Callum squints up as though there’s something really interesting up there. “You’re tired. I just wanted to say thank you. And—and it was good to see you. We can talk tomorrow.”

“No, we can’t. You know we can’t. That’s why you snuck in here.” I remember Becka’s warning. At least here, we only have to worry about the Hammers hearing us. There’s no risk of it getting out to the press. “Outside of this room, we have to smile and kiss for the camera.” He flinches at that. “So whatever you’re going to say... say it, okay?”

He sighs, eyes still pitched upward.

“Callum. Look at me. We used to have sleepovers.” I fight to keep my voice even against the thrill. “You’ve seen me in pajamas.”

Slowly, he lowers his gaze until his eyes are locked on mine. “We were six.”

“You were awkward then, too,” I joke, perching on the edge of the bed. I jut my chin out, a wordless offer. He sits. Once again, our eyes find the window, the trees stretching across the glass.

“This is my fault,” he says finally. “I picked you. I didn’t know that they were going to do it likethis, Ripley. Believe me. I thought that they’d give me a chance toaskyou if you wanted to do this. But I should have known better. My dad does what he wants, when he wants. And I’m so sorry, Ripley. I should have known that it would be awful to ask this of you. Especially when your parents fought hard against getting him elected in the first place. And here I am, asking you to lie to make him look better to the public.”

I blink back tears as I smile, though there isn’t any real reason to.

If Lyceum put me here, I don’t know what they want me to do. Do they really believe that people will read pamphlets about democracy and term limits when their DopaMines are brimming with footage of the “royal wedding”?

“I’m not here for your dad, Callum.” He glances up at that, and for a moment he looks so much like that kid I fellin love with. “I’m here foryou. I’ve missed you every single day since you left. Seeing you is...” My heart beats faster. The truth is right there on my tongue, but I swallow it back. “It’s amazing. But I don’t want to help your father. Ican’thelp him.”

Callum hangs his head. “Why not?”

I bite my lip. How honest can I be? “What would happen if I tried to leave?”

He winces again at that, and I reach out to steady him with a hand that falls loosely on his knee. “I mean, I know I can’t. Wouldn’t he just send me to the front in Europe? The data mines in Oklahoma? I mean, it could be bad, but I don’t care about that as much as I care about what he could do to my parents. And youknowhe could do something bad.”

Callum’s face is even more stark in the shadow, and he takes a deep breath as he absorbs my words. His eyes dart around; I can see the glow of dozens of screens reflecting in them as he searches for an answer in the dark.

Part of me wants him to tell me that his father wouldn’t hurt my parents. Wouldn’t hurtme. But he doesn’t deny it. Even as nausea rises in my throat at the idea, there’s something steadying. He won’t lie to me, not even when it’s clear I need him to.

Finally, Callum clears his throat. “I’m going to get you out of this, okay?” he says. “I don’t know how. But I’m going to get you out of this.”

He reaches over and holds his hand out, palm up.

In the low light, I can see the scar from the tree. Eight stitches.

They’ll have to go through me.

I reach over and rest my hand on top of his, interlacing our fingers. My body hums with the awareness of his warmth.

Callum is here, and he’s still good. He’s still my Callum.