by PK Hrezo
My fingers squeeze his hand to let him know I don’t hate him, but what this emotion is exactly, I haven’t a clue.
He seems so lonely and misunderstood. I don’t know what it’s like to need a substance, but I do know what it’s like to need a friend.
Releasing the back of my hair, he brushes a hand over my cheek. “Don’t you see—my weaknesses—they’re linked to your strengths. I can’t even try to promise you I’ll be perfect, but right now, right here, I promise not to keep anything from you. I should’ve told you, instead of trying to protect you from it.”
I let out a long sigh. “Tristan, you’ve said stuff like this before, back at the ice shack. How am I supposed to believe—”
“Because you know as well as I do that we belong together. My life changed for the better when I met you. You’re my fix—not drugs, not music. You. Why do you think I came back with you? Because of the media?”
All I can do is shrug, which makes me feel like a child. At times it feels like everything between us is moving so fast.
“It’s bigger than that,” he goes on. “I can’t explain it, but I thought you felt it too. All of this is related. I was meant to show up at Butterman Travel that day.”
His words send a chill up my spine. I do believe him, and there’s more here than I have time or presence of mind to piece together right now, but that doesn’t mean he gets to take advantage of me.
Stroking my hair again, his hand moves to my cheek, where it lingers. His expression is sober and intense, before fading to the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen. “Hey, no one ever said it’d be easy.”
Not the words I was anticipating. I get to my feet, angling away from him so I can see the snowscape out the window and form an action plan. “I’ve never expected anything to be easy, just real.”
I disrobe the maids’ uniform and begin tugging on my buffersuit.
“You want real?” he asks. “Real is having your mother snub you right before you check into rehab. Real is facing the one person you’ve always trusted and having them tell you they feel nothing for you anymore.”
I glance sideways at him, stretching my arms into the slippery sleeves. “Your mom said that to you?”
His attention falls to the seam of his vest. “At one time she was my biggest fan. Til she saw what stardom did to me.” He shakes his head with a wry little laugh. “Last time I saw her, I was so strung out. I actually dosed in the bathroom of the restaurant we were having lunch at. She knew I was high, but she didn’t say anything, let me believe I’d pulled one over. But I can’t ever forget that look she gave me when I said goodbye—it was so … sad. And the way she hugged me was like she’d never see me again. Then she told me not to contact her anymore … That was that.”
He broods into space, as if seeing the memory perfectly in his head.
“You haven’t talked to her since?” I step in closer to him. “Did she even know you went to rehab?”
“She knew, but not from me.” He half smiles now, with a tilt of his head suggesting it’s no big deal. “There’s this recovery step where you have to make amends, apologize to those you hurt. She wouldn’t even take my call.” He pauses. “It’s cool, though. I understand. She did what she had to, and it woke me up. I was so sure I had everyone fooled, and had my bad habit under control.”
“But she’s your mother.”
“It was enough to force me to give myself a long hard look in the mirror.” He lets out a dry laugh. “And you know what? That day, for the first time since I joined U-Turn, I saw the ugly truth. I was a junkhead throwing his life away, convinced I had everyone conned.” He pauses. “Checked myself into rehab two days later.”
“She could be more supportive.”
His eyes shine glassy and red. “You don’t know my mom. Once she makes her mind up about something there’s no changing it.” His chin lifts. “Someday she’ll come around, when I’m all straightened out.”
Pulling the cord, I zip the back of my suit and move into the dashboard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“How could you?” His voice is quiet and accepting. Melancholy. On his feet now, he moves in and touches my arm, peering down at me. “You’re what’s real. That’s why you’re so important to me. You know what I learned in rehab? More important than staying clean even? That the most valuable thing in this world is the people who love you enough to forgive you.”
My hands pause over the dashboard, my voice vanishing. Every word from Tristan’s lips right now seems to be lodging itself deeper into my chest, tiny stakes tunneling inward. He really does need me.
Facing him, I lean in and kiss his lips, gently and softly, letting the sweetness of his flesh swaddle me, before pulling away to meet his gaze again. “I forgave you once already, remember?”
His forehead creases. “I know. That’s why I trust you.”
“But, Tristan, you can’t afford any more gaffes. If I have to choose between you and Butterman Travel—”
He kisses my lips firm and hard, sucking my bottom lip between his before covering my mouth again. It’s such an eager kiss, my knees weaken.
Now resting his forehead to mine, he says, “That won’t ever happen.”
A tiny, helpless sigh escapes my lips. “Then don’t test me again.”
He cups my cheek now, half-smiling. “Let’s get back to our own timeline, huh?”
On that note, I plant my rear in the pilot seat and focus on-screen, performing a full maintenance scan. The numbers and graphs pulse and climb, creating a status report.
A bit of tension releases from my neck and shoulders, and I feel like I can breathe again, even though the air is a glaring icy cold. Outside, wind is still whipping past, and every so often, the time-craft rattles with the tiniest of rings.
Tristan joins me at the dashboard just as the report is finishing. “What’s all that stuff mean?”
I hesitate, rechecking the report to make sure I’m seeing it correctly. “We’ve taken some damage.” I expand the graphs, run the report again. Within a few minutes the same data appears again. “From what I can tell, there’s a rip in the vessel’s siding.”
“How bad?”
“Can’t tell from here.” I rise, my body still sluggish from time sickness, and now the cold air as well. “I’ll have to check it out.”
“You’re not going out there?” Tristan’s brow furrows. “You’ll freeze.”
“I’ll amp up the thermal threads in my suit. Speaking of which, you should change into yours.” I toss him his from the left storage bin.
Activating the little button on the underside of my right sleeve, I maximize the thermal circulation, then wait for Tristan to get his suit on and do the same for him, before zipping up his back.
“Just gotta move around a bit to get it going.” I start jogging in place.
“What about your face? Your cheeks are still chapped from being on Titanic.”
I shrug, jumping around. “I’ll have to take my chance. I can’t repair what I can’t see, and that means going outside.”
“Butterman, don’t do anything stupid. Even I know you can’t be out there for more than a few minutes—it’s the freaking Arctic in December.” His face is stoic, stern.
It sends a little zing across my back.
Motionless now, I breathe in deeply, feeling the warm currents pulsing through the lining of my suit. “Give me five minutes. If I’m not back, come and get me.”
I grab my long skirt and wrap it around my head, tucking the corners in so it doubles as a kind of head-consuming turban. Only my eyes are showing.
Tristan sets his hat on top and works it down over the skirt. “There. You look like a homeless Eskimo.”
“Thanks.”
We stare at each other for a moment too long, and I don’t know what to say.
He breaks the silence. “What if it can’t be fixed?”
I speak from behind the material on my face. “Then we have about twelve hours before we freeze to d
eath.”
“No, really.”
“Really.”
It’s not a subject I want to dwell on, so I turn, rummage through the vessel supply pack in the storage bin, and pull out a pair of Dad’s gloves and an LED flashlight. “Sorry, I’m not good at sugarcoating the facts. But as long as Essence has power, we’ll have heat. And as long as our nano-generators are working, the thermal threads will keep us warm.”
“But?” he asks. “Give it to me straight.”
“If the damage is irreparable, we won’t be able to operate the time-craft. Eventually the power will drain, then the reserve, and all that’ll be left is the thermal thread in our clothing.” I release the vessel door so it barely cracks open and wind whistles past.
“Those recharge as long as our hearts beat, though, right?”
I let out a sigh and there’s no denying its slight sound of helplessness. “Once the power in Essence is gone, it’ll get even colder in here. The cold will force our heartbeats to slow …”
I don’t have to explain further. By the bitter look on his face, he understands what comes next.
“But don’t you know this area? There’s gotta be somebody else around.”
“Doubtful. People didn’t settle this far north back then, except for the natives. You should check the historical database while I’m gone. Problem is, if we go out there looking for help and get held up for any reason, we could speed up our freezing process.” I pause, glance out the cockpit window, which is now like a lens to a hazy snow globe. “This mountain’s my home though. Kayla’s shown me places nearby where her ancestors lived. We’ll figure out something.” I force a smile to give him hope.
“Any chance her ancestors know how to fix a time-craft?” he asks.
I let out a wry chuckle. “How do you feel about living in the year 1912?”
He smiles, but I can see the hard swallow in the movement of his throat.
I slide on the gloves and they’re bulky over my fingers. “Okay, five minutes. Got it?”
Tristan nods.
My heart is pounding faster with adrenaline now, which is good because it prompts the nano-generators to work even harder so the heat courses through my suit in toasty fluxes. I release the vessel door and quickly climb out. Subzero gusts soar past my face like minuscule daggers to the skin around my eyes. I tuck the shirt in higher around my head. I forgot how windy December can be. The Bering Sea drives in strong gales that scrape over the barren ice plateaus, which drops the temperature even more, before beating right onto our mountainside at wind chills too offensive to even describe.
Being out here without a fur parka is insanity.
But for the moment, I’m fairly warm. And while I’d love to stand here and marvel at how nothing but nature exists where my home should be, there simply isn’t any time, and Nature is not to be trusted.
Awkwardly, I stoop to my knees at the rear of the time-craft. Flurries collect at my eyelashes and I blink them away. The bridge of my nose is already numb. I wiggle it the best I can to keep circulation in my face. Unlatching the rear maintenance flap, I expose Essence’s mechanical guts, sticking my hands inside and fumbling through the parts I know so well from years of helping Dad with repairs and standard maintenance. They all feel in order.
Next, I stick my head in. I’m grateful for the blockage from the wind, so I lean in and inspect the innards more closely. The maintenance report was right. We got lucky where it counts. If anything had happened to the thrusters, we’d never manage full propulsion back into the vortex.
My body shudders forcefully. Even though my toes are warm, Jack Frost managed to sneak his icy claws inside my makeshift turban and now my head and face are bitter cold. Time is running out.
Quickly, I close up the compartment and get to my feet, doing a full surface scan where the report showed a tear. Thick, sticky snow crusted over by ice crunches beneath my boots as I shuffle forward. I know this ground well, and it’s patchy from different depths in the terrain, which makes footing tricky at times, even when it’s expected.
Aha! At Essence’s bottom left, I spot a rip the size of a banana in the transparent siding. I brush my gloved fingers over it. It’s deep, and badly frayed—irreparable without the right adhesive. I’ve never known her siding to tear before—not like this.
My body shivering again, I head for the front of the time-craft. I’ll have to figure out—
Swoosh!
Drop.
Total blackness.
Chapter Twenty
Screaming voices. Terror-strickened and defeated. Red-faced babies, wild with panic, reaching for parents who aren’t there. Husbands calling out for wives already swallowed by the greedy ocean. Crewmen helping others into lifeboats, selfless and brave. Quincy Bloomsdale’s eyes—how they flickered with fate’s twisted irony ...
I must save them. I have to save them …
“Bianca, come on. Wake up!”
Tristan?
I force my eyes open.
He’s leaning over me, his shaggy locks framing his face. “Don’t try to move.”
A sharp pain assaults my head, like an ice pick in my skull. I groan. “My head. It’s killing me.”
“You probably hit it. Just take it easy a minute.”
I squeeze my eyes shut again. Everything hurts. “What are you talking about? Where are we?”
“Look at me. Bianca. Focus on me.”
I lean up on my elbows, squinting.
“There you go,” he says. “Sit up slowly. I checked the database. It’s possible you have a concussion. You can’t fall asleep. Talk to me.”
Ugh, I don’t want to talk. My head’s swimming in agony. All at once my body takes on a violent chill and I can’t stop shaking.
Tristan wraps his arms tight around me while my body convulses, his hand stroking my hair, his voice a whisper at my ear. “You’re too tense. Relaaaax. Deep breaths. That’s it. You’re okay.”
“What happened?” My teeth chatter between words.
“I don’t know. Five minutes passed and you didn’t come back. I found you sprawled on an ice patch to the side of the time-craft. You must’ve slipped, knocked yourself out.”
“How long?”
“Couldn’t have been more than a minute. I didn’t see you at first ‘cause the wind had picked up. You were already half covered in snow.”
My shaking breaks and a welcomed calm softens the tension in my jaw and behind my eyes. “You carried me inside?”
“Yeah.”
I let my eyes close, wedging my head further between the nook at his chin and shoulder. His warmth is a haven I want to crawl up inside and sleep in for hours. My body’s never felt so exhausted. Between the frigid air and TDS, the Butter in my Man has been reduced to a curdled pool of goo.
The image of the time-craft’s torn siding pops in my head.
I back away, searching Tristan’s haggard face. “Essence. Her exterior lining will have to be patched or she won’t hold up for lift off.”
“Okay, so what do you need to patch it with?”
My skin prickles. There was no time to form a plan before I blacked out. How do I tell Tristan I have no idea? I’m the pilot—I’m supposed to be able to handle stuff like this. But holy hell, I don’t even know if we have enough adhesive for a tear that size, or if it will be strong enough to withstand a radioactive time tunnel. Not to mention the length of time for labor out in weather of this degree.
My hesitation causes him to let out a hopeless sigh. Doubt must be written all over my face. Instinctively, I look at my hands and rub them together to create a friction of warmth.
“You’re saying it can’t be fixed?” he asks.
“I’m not … sure yet. Give me a chance to think.”
He gets to his feet and paces. “What about the DOT? Are they watching? Can they help us?”
I half shake my head. “With the way the time tunnel was clipped, I don’t see how they’d know we never left 1912.”
&nbs
p; “And it looks like we exceeded the time window. So they’d expect us to be—”
“In the Atlantic Ocean with the rest of Titanic.” My voice is undeniably grim and I regret it. We can’t lose hope at a time like this—that’s when the cold tightens its noose. Guilt swells up inside me and I can taste the bitterness in my mouth. “I’m so sorry. I really blew it.”
Tristan tilts his head, as if confused. “Don’t talk like that. It’s not over yet. Your parents will find a way—they’d never give up on you. They treasure everything about you.”
I scoff, sending a jabbing ache through my skull. “I’m a disappointment. They’ve lost faith in me ever since—”
I stop myself.
“Since when?” Tristan asks.
I hesitate a second too long.
“Since you’ve been seeing me, right?” With a huff, he plants himself in the pilot’s chair and studies the dashboard like he’s formulating some kind of plan. So determined.
“Tristan … it’s not you. It’s me. I … haven’t been the same.”
“I’m a bad influence, I get it.” His tone sounds like he really does too, even and agreeable. “I mean, what parent would want an ex-junkhead for their daughter’s boyfriend?”
I try to get to my feet but a ferocious dizzy spell brings me to my knees and I clutch my sides for support.
“Bianca?”
“I … just need a minute.”
I can’t even think straight, much less form an action plan to get us home.
“You need to stay in one place,” Tristan says.
“And do what? Let us freeze to death here?” My words are laced with a venom I didn’t intend.
Tristan kneels beside me again. “We’re not gonna die here.”
Sobs erupt from my body now, profound and hopeless. “I don’t know what to do.”
I hate for him to see me like this—so weak, so vulnerable. Just like …
Him in the ice shack.
All at once, my sobbing stops, soothed by my revelation, like a pacifier plugged in an infant’s mouth. Never once had I stopped to consider what that must’ve been like for him—letting me see through the façade, past the superstar image, and into the mortal human susceptible to temptation and error just the same as everyone else.
