by Tahereh Mafi
“He was an innocent man,” I tell him. “He didn’t deserve to die. Not for that. Not like that.”
“Seamus Fletcher,” Warner says calmly, staring into his open palms, “was a drunken bastard who was beating his wife and children. He hadn’t fed them in two weeks. He’d punched his nine-year-old daughter in the mouth, breaking her two front teeth and fracturing her jaw. He beat his pregnant wife so hard she lost the child. He had two other children, too,” he says. “A seven-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl.” A pause. “He broke both their arms.”
My food is forgotten.
“I monitor the lives of our citizens very carefully,” Warner says. “I like to know who they are and how they’re thriving. I probably shouldn’t care,” he says, “but I do.”
I’m thinking I’m never going to open my mouth ever again.
“I have never claimed to live by any set of principles,” Warner says to me. “I’ve never claimed to be right, or good, or even justified in my actions. The simple truth is that I do not care. I have been forced to do terrible things in my life, love, and I am seeking neither your forgiveness nor your approval. Because I do not have the luxury of philosophizing over scruples when I’m forced to act on basic instinct every day.”
He meets my eyes.
“Judge me,” he says, “all you like. But I have no tolerance,” he says sharply, “for a man who beats his wife. No tolerance,” he says, “for a man who beats his children.” He’s breathing hard now. “Seamus Fletcher was murdering his family,” he says to me. “And you can call it whatever the hell you want to call it, but I will never regret killing a man who would bash his wife’s face into a wall. I will never regret killing a man who would punch his nine-year-old daughter in the mouth. I am not sorry,” he says. “And I will not apologize. Because a child is better off with no father, and a wife is better off with no husband, than one like that.” I watch the hard movement in his throat. “I would know.”
“I’m sorry—Warner, I—”
He holds up a hand to stop me. He steadies himself, his eyes focused on the plates of untouched food. “I’ve said it before, love, and I’m sorry I have to say it again, but you do not understand the choices I have to make. You don’t know what I’ve seen and what I’m forced to witness every single day.” He hesitates. “And I wouldn’t want you to. But do not presume to understand my actions,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. “Because if you do, I can assure you you’ll only be met with disappointment. And if you insist on continuing to make assumptions about my character, I’ll advise you only this: assume you will always be wrong.”
He hauls himself up with a casual elegance that startles me. Smooths out his slacks. Pushes his sleeves up again. “I’ve had your armoire moved into my closet,” he says. “There are things for you to change into, if you’d like that. The bed and bathroom are yours. I have work to do,” he says. “I’ll be sleeping in my office tonight.”
And with that, he opens the adjoining door to his office, and locks himself inside.
EIGHT
My food is cold.
I poke at the potatoes and force myself to finish the meal even though I’ve lost my appetite. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve finally pushed Warner too far.
I thought the revelations had come to a close for today, but I was wrong again. It makes me wonder just how much is left, and how much more I’ll learn about Warner in the coming days. Months.
And I’m scared.
Because the more I discover about him, the fewer excuses I have to push him away. He’s unraveling before me, becoming something entirely different; terrifying me in a way I never could’ve expected.
And all I can think is not now.
Not here. Not when so much is uncertain. If only my emotions would understand the importance of excellent timing.
I never realized Warner was unaware of how deeply I’d detested him. I suppose now I can better understand how he saw himself, how he’d never viewed his actions as guilty or criminal. Maybe he thought I would’ve given him the benefit of the doubt. That I would’ve been able to read him as easily as he’s been able to read me.
But I couldn’t. I didn’t. And now I can’t help but wonder if I’ve managed to disappoint him, somehow.
Why I even care.
I clamber to my feet with a sigh, hating my own uncertainty. Because while I might not be able to deny my physical attraction to him, I still can’t shake my initial impressions of his character. It’s not easy for me to switch so suddenly, to recognize him as anything but some kind of manipulative monster.
I need time to adjust to the idea of Warner as a normal person.
But I’m tired of thinking. And right now, all I want to do is shower.
I drag myself toward the open door of the bathroom before I remember what Warner said about my clothes. That he’d moved my armoire into his closet. I look around, searching for another door and finding none but the locked entry to his office. I’m half tempted to knock and ask him directly but decide against it. Instead, I study the walls more closely, wondering why Warner wouldn’t have given me instructions if his closet was hard to find. But then I see it.
A switch.
It’s more of a button, actually, but it sits flush with the wall. It would be almost impossible to spot if you weren’t actively searching for it.
I press the button.
A panel in the wall slides out of place. And as I step across the threshold, the room illuminates on its own.
This closet is bigger than his entire bedroom.
The walls and ceiling are tiled with slabs of white stone that gleam under the fluorescent recessed lighting; the floors are covered with thick Oriental rugs. There’s a small suede couch the color of light-green jade stationed in the very center of the room, but it’s an odd sort of couch: it doesn’t have a back. It looks like an oversized ottoman. And strangest of all: there’s not a single mirror in here. I spin around, my eyes searching, certain I must’ve overlooked such an obvious staple, and I’m so caught up in the details of the space that I almost miss the clothes.
The clothes.
They’re everywhere, on display as if they were works of art. Glossy, dark wood units are built into the walls, shelves lined with rows and rows of shoes. All the other closet space is dedicated to hanging racks, each wall housing different categories of clothing.
Everything is color coordinated.
He owns more coats, more shoes, more pants and shirts than I’ve ever seen in my life. Ties and bow ties, belts, scarves, gloves, and cuff links. Beautiful, rich fabrics: silk blends and starched cotton, soft wool and cashmere. Dress shoes and buttery leather boots buffed and polished to perfection. A peacoat in a dark, burnt shade of orange; a trench coat in a deep navy blue. A winter toggle coat in a stunning shade of plum. I dare to run my fingers along the different materials, wondering how many of these pieces he’s actually worn.
I’m amazed.
It’s always been apparent that Warner takes pride in his appearance; his outfits are impeccable; his clothes fit him like they were cut for his body. But now I finally understand why he took such care with my wardrobe.
He wasn’t trying to patronize me.
He was enjoying himself.
Aaron Warner Anderson, chief commander and regent of Sector 45, son of the supreme commander of The Reestablishment.
He has a soft spot for fashion.
After my initial shock wears off, I’m able to easily locate my old armoire. It’s been placed unceremoniously in a corner of the room, and I’m almost sorry for it. It stands out awkwardly against the rest of the space.
I quickly shuffle through the drawers, grateful for the first time to have clean things to change into. Warner anticipated all of my needs before I arrived on base. The armoire is full of dresses and shirts and pants, but it’s also been stocked with socks, bras, and underwear. And even though I know this should make me feel awkward, somehow it doesn’t. The underwear is simple and und
erstated. Cotton basics that are exactly average and perfectly functional. He bought these things before he knew me, and knowing that they weren’t purchased with any level of intimacy makes me feel less self-conscious about it all.
I grab a small T-shirt, a pair of cotton pajama bottoms, and all of my brand-new underthings, and slip out of the room. The lights immediately switch off as soon as I’m back in the bedroom, and I hit the button to close the panel.
I look around his bedroom with new eyes, reacclimating to this smaller, standard sort of space. Warner’s bedroom looks almost identical to the one I occupied while on base, and I always wondered why. There are no personal effects anywhere; no pictures, no odd knickknacks.
But suddenly it all makes sense.
His bedroom doesn’t mean anything to him. It’s little more than a place to sleep. But his closet—that was his style, his design. It’s probably the only space he cares about in this room.
It makes me wonder what the inside of his office looks like, and my eyes dart to his door before I remember how he’s locked himself inside.
I stifle a sigh and head toward the bathroom, planning to shower, change, and fall asleep immediately. This day felt more like a few years, and I’m ready to be done with it. Hopefully tomorrow we’ll be able to head back to Omega Point and finally make some progress.
But no matter what happens next, and no matter what we discover, I’m determined to find my way to Anderson, even if I have to go alone.
NINE
I can’t scream.
My lungs won’t expand. My breaths keep coming in short gasps. My chest feels too tight and my throat is closing up and I’m trying to shout and I can’t, I can’t stop wheezing, thrashing my arms and trying desperately to breathe but the effort is futile. No one can hear me. No one will ever know that I’m dying, that there’s a hole in my chest filling with blood and pain and such unbearable agony and there’s so much of it, so much blood, hot and pooling around me and I can’t, I can’t, I can’t breathe—
“Juliette—Juliette, love, wake up—wake up—”
I jerk up so quickly I double over. I’m heaving in deep, harsh, gasping breaths, so overcome, so relieved to be able to get oxygen into my lungs that I can’t speak, can’t do anything but try to inhale as much as possible. My whole body is shaking, my skin is clammy, going from hot to cold too quickly. I can’t steady myself, can’t stop the silent tears, can’t shake the nightmare, can’t shake the memory.
I can’t stop gasping for air.
Warner’s hands cup my face. The warmth of his skin helps calm me somehow, and I finally feel my heart rate begin to slow. “Look at me,” he says.
I force myself to meet his eyes, shaking as I catch my breath.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, still holding my cheeks. “It was just a bad dream. Try closing your mouth,” he says, “and breathing through your nose.” He nods. “There you go. Easy. You’re okay.” His voice is so soft, so melodic, so inexplicably tender.
I can’t look away from his eyes. I’m afraid to blink, afraid to be pulled back into my nightmare.
“I won’t let go until you’re ready,” he tells me. “Don’t worry. Take your time.”
I close my eyes. I feel my heart slow to a normal beat. My muscles begin to unclench, my hands steady their tremble. And even though I’m not actively crying, I can’t stop the tears from streaming down my face. But then something in my body breaks, crumples from the inside, and I’m suddenly so exhausted I can no longer hold myself up.
Somehow, Warner seems to understand.
He helps me sit back on the bed, pulls the blankets up around my shoulders. I’m shivering, wiping away the last of my tears. Warner runs a hand over my hair. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “You’re okay.”
“Aren’t y-you going to sleep, too?” I stammer, wondering what time it is. I notice he’s still fully dressed.
“I . . . yes,” he says. Even in this dim light I can see the surprise in his eyes. “Eventually. I don’t often go to bed this early.”
“Oh.” I blink, breathing a little easier now. “What time is it?”
“Two o’clock in the morning.”
It’s my turn to be surprised. “Don’t we have to be up in a few hours?”
“Yes.” The ghost of a smile touches his lips. “But I’m almost never able to fall asleep when I should. I can’t seem to turn my mind off,” he says, grinning at me for only a moment longer before he turns to leave.
“Stay.”
The word escapes my lips even before I’ve had a chance to think it through. I’m not sure why I’ve said it. Maybe because it’s late and I’m still shaking, and maybe having him close might scare my nightmares away. Or maybe it’s because I’m weak and grieving and need a friend right now. I’m not sure. But there’s something about the darkness, the stillness of this hour, I think, that creates a language of its own. There’s a strange kind of freedom in the dark; a terrifying vulnerability we allow ourselves at exactly the wrong moment, tricked by the darkness into thinking it will keep our secrets. We forget that the blackness is not a blanket; we forget that the sun will soon rise. But in the moment, at least, we feel brave enough to say things we’d never say in the light.
Except for Warner, who doesn’t say a word.
For a split second he actually looks alarmed. He’s staring at me in silent terror, too stunned to speak, and I’m about to take it all back and hide under the covers when he catches my arm.
I still.
He tugs me forward until I’m nestled against his chest. His arms fall around me carefully, as if he’s telling me I can pull away, that he’ll understand, that it’s my choice. But I feel so safe, so warm, so devastatingly content that I can’t seem to come up with a single reason why I shouldn’t enjoy this moment. I press closer, hiding my face in the soft folds of his shirt, and his arms wrap more tightly around me, his chest rising and falling. My hands come up to rest against his stomach, the hard muscles tensed under my touch. My left hand slips around his ribs, up his back, and Warner freezes, his heart racing under my ear. My eyes fall closed just as I feel him try to inhale.
“Oh God,” he gasps. He jerks back, breaks away. “I can’t do this. I won’t survive it.”
“What?”
He’s already on his feet and I can only make out enough of his silhouette to see that he’s shaking. “I can’t keep doing this—”
“Warner—”
“I thought I could walk away the last time,” he says. “I thought I could let you go and hate you for it but I can’t. Because you make it so damn difficult,” he says. “Because you don’t play fair. You go and do something like get yourself shot,” he says, “and you ruin me in the process.”
I try to remain perfectly still.
I try not to make a sound.
But my mind won’t stop racing and my heart won’t stop pounding and with just a few words he’s managed to dismantle my most concentrated efforts to forget what I did to him.
I don’t know what to do.
My eyes finally adjust to the darkness and I blink, only to find him looking into my eyes like he can see into my soul.
I’m not ready for this. Not yet. Not yet. Not like this. But a rush of feelings, images of his hands, his arms, his lips are charging through my mind and I try but can’t push the thoughts away, can’t ignore the scent of his skin and the insane familiarity of his body. I can almost hear his heart thrumming in his chest, can see the tense movement in his jaw, can feel the power quietly contained within him.
And suddenly his face changes. Worries.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Are you scared?”
I startle, breathing faster, grateful he can only sense the general direction of my feelings and not more than that. For a moment I actually want to say no. No, I’m not scared.
I’m petrified.
Because being this close to you is doing things to me. Strange things and irrational things and things that flutter again
st my chest and braid my bones together. I want a pocketful of punctuation marks to end the thoughts he’s forced into my head.
But I don’t say any of those things.
Instead, I ask a question I already know the answer to.
“Why would I be scared?”
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“Oh.”
The two letters and their small, startled sound run right out of my mouth to seek refuge in a place far from here. I keep wishing I had the strength to look away from him in moments like this. I keep wishing my cheeks wouldn’t so easily enflame. I keep wasting my wishes on stupid things, I think.
“No, I’m not scared,” I finally say. But I really need him to step away from me. I really need him to do me that favor. “I’m just surprised.”
He’s silent, then, his eyes imploring me for an explanation. He’s become both familiar and foreign to me in such a short period of time; exactly and nothing like I thought he’d be.
“You allow the world to think you’re a heartless murderer,” I tell him. “And you’re not.”
He laughs, once; his eyebrows lift in surprise. “No,” he says. “I’m afraid I’m just the regular kind of murderer.”
“But why—why would you pretend to be so ruthless?” I ask. “Why do you allow people to treat you that way?”
He sighs. Pushes his rolled-up shirtsleeves above his elbows again. I can’t help but follow the movement, my eyes lingering along his forearms. And I realize, for the first time, that he doesn’t sport any military tattoos like everyone else. I wonder why.
“What difference does it make?” he says. “People can think whatever they like. I don’t desire their validation.”
“So you don’t mind,” I ask him, “that people judge you so harshly?”
“I have no one to impress,” he says. “No one who cares about what happens to me. I’m not in the business of making friends, love. My job is to lead an army, and it’s the only thing I’m good at. No one,” he says, “would be proud of the things I’ve accomplished. My mother doesn’t even know me anymore. My father thinks I’m weak and pathetic. My soldiers want me dead. The world is going to hell. And the conversations I have with you are the longest I’ve ever had.”
