Page 64 of The Last Love Story

A submarine.

“I’ve actually never seen Manhattan,” Callum says from behind me, and I jump, startled. He laughs, holding his hands up, both of which hold more coffee. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

My whole body relaxes once my brain realizes that it’s him. My Callum, in yet another perfect outfit, his shiny golden button on his chest. Even though there are dark circles under his eyes, a puffiness even his own glam team can’t entirely hide, there’s an openness to his smile that could never be anything less than breathtaking.

“You scared me,” I say as he joins me at the metal railing. Engines hum and the ocean crashes; I feel a strange safety in knowing that no microphone is going to be able to hear us.

“Why are you jumpy, Ripley? Something happen?” Callum jokes, holding the coffee out to me. The hot cardboard feels good on my frozen fingers, and I sigh out a humorless laugh as I look up at him.

“Did you sleep at all?”

I tell myself the cameras might be watching as I reach up and brush his hair off his forehead, but I know I don’t really care about that.

Callum closes his eyes and leans into my touch, a low hum on his lips. I trace my fingers down his cheekbone, and he grabs my hand with his and presses my palm over his mouth.

I shiver at the kiss.

Three days. I should use this time to talk to him—who knows how much uninterrupted time I’m going to have. But there’s something so peaceful and real about the way his eyelids flutter as he pulls my hand back. It’s like there’s a spell on us, and I’m selfish enough to not want to break it.

“Not really. You didn’t either, I know,” he murmurs, releasing my hand and thrusting his chin at the coffee, motioning for me to drink.

I take a sip to stall. He can’t possibly know about my meeting last night, right? The drink is hot and sweet, and I’m hoping the caffeine and sugar will perk me up as I shift gears to his previous comment. “Wait. Manhattan?”

It all comes together as I look down.

Manhattan has been underwater for fifty years. The only way to access it is—

“So that’s our submarine,” I say out loud.

“Yup,” Callum says, letting theppop on the word.

“We almost died yesterday,” I laugh, half joking. He smiles, and it slowly gives way to a chuckle. I’m feeling exhausted and a bit manic, so I lean closer to him. “They think the best thing to do for our PTSD is to shove us into an oceanic death tube?”

Callum snorts deliriously as he swigs his coffee. “Now, now, Ripley. PTSD can only be diagnosed after six months. We don’t have PTSD. We still have what is clinically referred to asshock.”

The wind changes direction, and it’s so sharp I almost lose my coffee over the railing. I redouble my grip as Callum launches his hand out to help me. His concern and his touch warm me more than a drink ever could. That can’t be faked. It’s an instinct—no thought, just feelings.

Hehasto feel the same way about me. The entire world depends on it.

“You’re a doctor now?” I mumble out.

“No, but I heard about it on my DopaMine feed this morning.”

I stop, reality slipping over my shoulders like a sopping wet blanket. “They were talking aboutuson your DopaMine feed this morning,” I correct.

Callum gives a curt nod. Below us, the submarine crew flutters around to prep for our journey, small as ants. In my peripheral vision, I can see Callum watching me.

Finally, he sighs. “If you don’t want to do this, I’ll tell them no.”

I stare down at the frothing water. I’ve heard stories of Manhattan. There are still some pictures of it when Alba shows results of “cityscape” and “skyscraper.”

Just a couple of days ago, I was excited at the thought of getting a glimpse of the sky. No matter how I wound up in this situation... I will never get the chance to see Manhattan again.

“?‘It’s a dangerous business,’?” I murmur nervously. “?‘Going out of your door.’?”

Behind us, one of the handlers calls to Callum. It’s time to go.

“Did you read that in one of your books?”