Restore Me (Shatter Me)

by Tahereh Mafi

  “You and I are so different,” she says. “Meeting Haider today, I just”—she sighs—“I remembered how different we are. How differently we grew up.”

  I’m frozen. Confused. I can feel her fear and apprehension, but I don’t know where she’s going with this. What she’s trying to say.

  “So you think you’ve made a mistake?” I say. “About—us?”

  Panic, suddenly, as she understands. “No, oh my God, no, not about us,” she says quickly. “No, I just—”

  Relief floods through me.

  “—I still have so much to learn,” she says. “I don’t know anything about ruling . . . anything.” She makes an impatient, angry sound. She can hardly get the words out. “I had no idea what I was signing up for. And every day I feel so incompetent,” she says. “Sometimes I’m just not sure I can keep up with you. With any of this.” She hesitates. And then, quietly, “This job should’ve been yours, you know. Not mine.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” she says, nodding. She can no longer look at me. “Everyone’s thinking it, even if they don’t say it. Castle. Kenji. I bet even the soldiers think so.”

  “Everyone can go to hell.”

  She smiles, only a little. “I think they might be right.”

  “People are idiots, love. Their opinions are worthless.”

  “Aaron,” she says, frowning. “I appreciate you being angry on my behalf, I really do, but not all people are idio—”

  “If they think you incapable it is because they are idiots. Idiots who’ve already forgotten that you were able to accomplish in a matter of months what they had been trying to do for decades. They are forgetting where you started, what you’ve overcome, how quickly you found the courage to fight when they could hardly stand.”

  She looks up, looks defeated. “But I don’t know anything about politics.”

  “You are inexperienced,” I say to her, “that is true. But you can learn these things. There’s still time. And I will help you.” I take her hand. “Sweetheart, you inspired the people of this sector to follow you into battle. They put their lives on the line—they sacrificed their loved ones—because they believed in you. In your strength. And you didn’t let them down. You can never forget the enormity of what you’ve done,” I say. “Don’t allow anyone to take that away from you.”

  She stares at me, her eyes wide, shining. She blinks as she looks away, wiping quickly at a tear escaping down the side of her face.

  “The world tried to crush you,” I say, gently now, “and you refused to be shattered. You’ve recovered from every setback a stronger person, rising from the ashes only to astonish everyone around you. And you will continue to surprise and confuse those who underestimate you. It is an inevitability,” I say. “A foregone conclusion.

  “But you should know now that being a leader is a thankless occupation. Few will ever be grateful for what you do or for the changes you implement. Their memories will be short, convenient. Your every success will be scrutinized. Your accomplishments will be brushed aside, breeding only greater expectations from those around you. Your power will push you further away from your friends.” I look away, shake my head. “You will be made to feel lonely. Lost. You will long for validation from those you once admired, agonizing between pleasing old friends and doing what is right.” I look up. I feel my heart swell with pride as I stare at her. “But you must never, ever let the idiots into your head. They will only lead you astray.”

  Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “But how?” she says, her voice breaking on the word. “How do I get them out of my head?”

  “Set them on fire.”

  Her eyes go wide.

  “In your mind,” I say, attempting a smile. “Let them fuel the fire that keeps you striving.” I reach out, touch my fingers to her cheek. “Idiots are highly flammable, love. Let them all burn in hell.”

  She closes her eyes. Turns her face into my hand.

  And I pull her in, press my forehead to hers. “Those who do not understand you,” I say softly, “will always doubt you.”

  She leans back, just an inch. Looks up.

  “And I,” I say, “I have never doubted you.”

  “Never?”

  I shake my head. “Not once.”

  She looks away. Wipes her eyes. I press a kiss against her cheek, taste the salt of her tears.

  She turns toward me.

  I can feel it, as she looks at me; I can feel her fears disappearing, can feel her emotions becoming something else. Her cheeks flush. Her skin is suddenly hot, electric, under my hands. My heart beats faster, harder, and she doesn’t have to say a word. I can feel the temperature change between us.

  “Hey,” she says. But she’s staring at my mouth.

  “Hi.”

  She touches her nose to mine and something inside me jolts to life. I hear my breath catch. My eyes close, unbidden.

  “I love you,” she says.

  The words do something to me every time I hear them. They change me. Build something new inside of me. I swallow, hard. Fire consumes my mind.

  “You know,” I whisper, “I never get tired of hearing you say that.”

  She smiles. Her nose brushes the line of my jaw as she turns, presses her lips against my throat. I’m holding my breath, terrified to move, to leave this moment.

  “I love you,” she says again.

  Heat fills my veins. I can feel her in my blood, her whispers overwhelming my senses. And for a sudden, desperate second I think I might be dreaming.

  “Aaron,” she says.

  I’m losing a battle. We have so much to do, so much to take care of. I know I should move, should snap out of this, but I can’t. I can’t think.

  And then she climbs into my lap and I take a quick, desperate breath, fighting against a sudden rush of pleasure and pain. There’s no pretending anything when she’s this close to me; I know she can feel me, can feel how badly I want her.

  I can feel her, too.

  Her heat. Her desire. She makes no secret of what she wants from me. What she wants me to do to her. And knowing this makes my torment only more acute.

  She kisses me once, softly, her hands slipping under my sweater, and wraps her arms around me. I pull her in and she shifts forward, adjusting herself in my lap, and I take another painful, anguished breath. My every muscle tightens. I try not to move.

  “I know it’s late,” she says. “I know we have a bunch of things to do. But I miss you.” She reaches down, her fingers trailing along the zipper of my pants, and the movement sears through me. My vision goes white. For a moment I hear nothing but my heart, pounding in my head.

  “You are trying to kill me,” I say.

  “Aaron.” I can feel her smile as she whispers the word in my ear. She’s unbuttoning my pants. “Please.”

  And I, I am gone.

  My hand is suddenly behind her neck, the other wrapped around her waist, and I kiss her, melting into her, falling backward onto the bed and pulling her down with me. I used to dream about this—times like this—what it would be like to unzip her jeans, to run my fingers along her bare skin, to feel her, hot and soft against my body.

  I stop, suddenly. Break away. I want to see her, to study her. To remind myself that she’s really here, really mine. That she wants me just as much I want her. And when I meet her eyes the feeling overwhelms me, threatens to drown me. And then she’s kissing me, even as I fight to catch my breath, and every thing, every thought and worry is wicked away, replaced by the feel of her mouth against my skin. Her hands, claiming my body.

  God, it’s an impossible drug.

  She’s kissing me like she knew. Like she knows—knows how desperately I need this, need her, need this comfort and release.

  Like she needs it, too.

  I wrap my arms around her, flip her over so quickly she actually squeaks in surprise. I kiss her nose, her cheeks, her lips. The lines of our bodies are welded together. I feel myself dissolving, becoming pure emo
tion as she parts her lips, tastes me, moans into my mouth.

  “I love you,” I say, gasping the words. “I love you.”

  It’s interesting, really, how quickly I’ve become the kind of person who takes late-afternoon naps. The person I used to be would never have wasted so much time sleeping. Then again, that person never knew how to relax. Sleep was brutal, elusive. But this—

  I close my eyes, press my face to the back of her neck and breathe.

  She stirs almost imperceptibly against me.

  Her naked body is flush against the length of mine, my arms wrapped entirely around her. It’s six o’clock, I have a thousand things to do, and I never, ever want to move.

  I kiss the top of her shoulder and she arches her back, exhales, and turns to face me. I pull her closer.

  She smiles. Kisses me.

  I shut my eyes, my skin still hot with the memory of her. My hands search the shape of her body, her warmth. I’m always stunned by how soft she is. Her curves are gentle and smooth. I feel my muscles tighten with longing and I surprise myself with how much I want her.

  Again.

  So soon.

  “We’d better get dressed,” she says softly. “I still need to meet with Kenji to talk about tonight.”

  All at once I recoil.

  “Wow,” I whisper, turning away. “That was not at all what I was hoping you’d say.”

  She laughs. Out loud. “Hmm. Kenji is a big turnoff for you. Got it.”

  I frown, feeling petty.

  She kisses my nose. “I really wish you two could be friends.”

  “He’s a walking disaster,” I say. “Look what he did to my hair.”

  “But he’s my best friend,” she says, still smiling. “And I don’t want to have to choose between the two of you all the time.”

  I look at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s sitting up now, wearing nothing but the bedsheet. Her brown hair is long and tousled, her cheeks pinked, her eyes big and round and still a little sleepy.

  I’m not sure I could ever say no to her.

  “Please be nice to him,” she says, and crawls over to me, the bedsheet catching under her knee and undoing her composure. I yank the rest of the sheet away from her and she gasps, surprised by the sight of her own naked body, and I can’t help but take advantage of the moment, tucking her underneath me all over again.

  “Why,” I say, kissing her neck, “are you always so attached to that bedsheet?”

  She looks away and blushes, and I’m lost again, kissing her.

  “Aaron,” she gasps, breathless, “I really—I have to go.”

  “Don’t,” I whisper, leaving light kisses along her collarbone. “Don’t go.” Her face is flushed, her lips bright red. Her eyes are closed in pleasure.

  “I don’t want to,” she says, her breath hitching as I catch her bottom lip between my teeth, “I really don’t, but Kenji—”

  I groan and fall backward, pulling a pillow over my head.

  JULIETTE

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “What? Nothing,” I say, heat flashing through my body. “I just—”

  “What do you mean, nothing?” Kenji says, nearly stepping on my heels as I attempt to outpace him. “I’ve been waiting down here for almost two hours.”

  “I know—I’m sorry—”

  He grabs my shoulder. Spins me around. Takes one look at my face and—

  “Oh, gross, J, what the hell—”

  “What?” I widen my eyes, all innocence, even as my face inflames.

  Kenji glares at me.

  I clear my throat.

  “I told you to ask him a question.”

  “I did!”

  “Jesus Christ.” Kenji rubs an agitated hand across his forehead. “Do time and place mean nothing to you?”

  “Hmm?”

  He narrows his eyes at me.

  I smile.

  “You guys are terrible.”

  “Kenji,” I say, reaching out.

  “Ew, don’t touch me—”

  “Fine.” I frown, crossing my arms.

  He shakes his head, looks away. Makes a face and says, “You know what? Whatever,” and sighs. “Did he at least tell you anything useful before you—uh, changed the subject?”

  We’ve just walked back into the reception area where we first met with Haider.

  “Yes he did,” I say, determined. “He knew exactly who I was talking about.”

  “And?”

  We sit down on the couches—Kenji choosing to sit across from me this time—and I clear my throat. I wonder aloud if we should order more tea.

  “No tea.” Kenji leans back, legs crossed, right ankle propped up on his left knee. “What did Warner say about Haider?”

  Kenji’s gaze is so focused and unforgiving I’m not sure what to do with myself. I still feel weirdly embarrassed; I wish I’d remembered to tie my hair back again. I have to keep pushing it out of my face.

  I sit up straighter. Pull myself together. “He said they were never really friends.”

  Kenji snorts. “No surprise there.”

  “But he remembered him,” I say, pointing at nothing in particular.

  “And? What does he remember?”

  “Oh. Um.” I scratch an imaginary itch behind my ear. “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “I . . . forgot?”

  Kenji rolls his eyes. “Shit, man, I knew I should’ve gone myself.”

  I sit on my hands and try to smile. “Do you want to order some tea?”

  “No tea.” Kenji shoots me a look. He taps the side of his leg, thinking.

  “Do you want t—”

  “Where is Warner now?” Kenji cuts me off.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I think he’s still in his room. He had a bunch of boxes he wanted to sort through—”

  Kenji is on his feet in an instant. He holds up one finger. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait! Kenji—I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

  But he’s already gone.

  I slump into the couch and sigh.

  As I suspected. Not a good idea.

  Warner is standing stiffly beside my couch, hardly looking at Kenji. I think he still hasn’t forgiven him for the terrible haircut, and I can’t say I blame him. Warner looks different without his golden hair—not bad, no—but different. His hair is barely half an inch long, one uniform length throughout, a shade of blond that registers only dimly as a color now. But the most interesting change in his face is that he’s got a soft, subtle shadow of stubble—as though he’s forgotten to shave lately—and I’m surprised to find that it doesn’t bother me. He’s too naturally good-looking to have his genetics undone by a simple haircut and, the truth is, I kind of like it. I’d hesitate to say this to Warner, as I don’t know whether he’d appreciate the unorthodox compliment, but there’s something nice about the change. He looks a little coarser now; a little rougher around the edges. He’s less beautiful but somehow, impossibly—

  Sexier.

  Short, uncomplicated hair; a five o’clock shadow; a deeply, deeply serious face.

  It works for him.

  He’s wearing a soft, navy-blue sweater—the sleeves, as always, pushed up his forearms—and slim black pants tucked into shiny black ankle boots. It’s an effortless look. And right now he’s leaning against a column, his arms crossed against his chest, feet crossed at the ankles, looking more sullen than usual, and I’m really kind of enjoying the view.

  Kenji, however, is not.

  The two of them look more irritated than ever, and I realize I’m to blame for the tension. I keep trying to force them to spend time together. I keep hoping that, with enough experience, Kenji will come to see what I love about Warner, and that Warner will learn to admire Kenji the way that I do—but it doesn’t seem to be working. Forcing them to spend time together is beginning to backfire.

  “So,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Should we t
alk?”

  “Sure,” Kenji says, but he’s staring at the wall. “Let’s talk.”

  No one talks.

  I tap Warner’s knee. When he looks at me, I gesture for him to sit down.

  He does.

  “Please,” I whisper.

  Warner frowns.

  Finally, reluctantly, he sighs. “You said you had questions for me.”

  “Yeah, first question: Why are you such a dick?”

  Warner stands up. “Sweetheart,” he says quietly, “I hope you will forgive me for what I’m about to do to his face.”

  “Hey, asshole, I can still hear you.”

  “Okay, seriously, this has to stop.” I’m tugging on Warner’s arm, trying to get him to sit down, and he won’t budge. My superhuman strength is totally useless on Warner; he just absorbs my power. “Please, sit down. Everyone. And you,” I say, pointing at Kenji, “you need to stop instigating fights.”

  Kenji throws a hand in the air, makes a sound of disbelief. “Oh, so it’s always my fault, huh? Whatever.”

  “No,” I say heavily. “It’s not your fault. This is my fault.”

  Kenji and Warner turn to look at me at the same time, surprised.

  “This?” I say, gesturing between them. “I caused this. I’m sorry I ever asked you guys to be friends. You don’t have to be friends. You don’t even have to like each other. Forget I said anything.”

  Warner drops his crossed arms.

  Kenji raises his eyebrows.

  “I promise,” I say. “No more forced hangout sessions. No more spending time alone without me. Okay?”

  “You swear?” Kenji says.

  “I swear.”

  “Thank God,” Warner says.

  “Same, bro. Same.”

  And I roll my eyes, irritated. This is the first thing they’ve managed to agree on in over a week: their mutual hatred of my hopes for their friendship.

  But at least Kenji is finally smiling. He sits down on the couch and seems to relax. Warner takes the seat next to me—still composed, but far less tense.

  And that’s it. That’s all it takes. The tension is gone. Now that they’re free to hate each other, they seem perfectly friendly. I don’t understand them at all.