Find Me Where the Water Ends (So Close to You) (3 page)

Off, I think, and the menu disappears.

I swing around the room, imagining that it will look different somehow, with this thing creating a veil over my eyes. But no, there is the wooden dresser, the gold picture frame against the wall, the TV, dark and quiet.

My eyes settle on Wes. He is staring back at me, and I know he’s wearing his I-unit too. As soon as I focus on his face, faint red lines shoot out in front of my eyes, mapping the angles of his features, his head. It is not just scanning his image, but linking to a database that stores his online presence, including his social media sites, his work history, and pictures of him that have been posted on the web.

A small profile appears. Because our aliases have a relationship, I have access to his entire I-unit profile, full of milestones, dates, and pictures of events we’ve both attended. Michael Gallo, it says, with a photo of Wes and a brief résumé.
Engaged to Samantha Greenwood
. I see the words on the bottom. And there is the history of us, or the fake us.
Met in 2042, senior year in college. Traveled to England, France, Russia, and South Africa from 2043 to 2048. Engaged in Johannesburg June 15, 2048.

Wes’s eyes are unfocused, and I wonder if he’s reading the same words I am. Not that it matters. This is a fake life, for a fake couple. Once I thought we would have that kind of future together, and I believed it enough that I left behind my family and friends to follow him into the past. But I was wrong, and even the memory of the future us embracing in that hallway is not enough to make me believe that we can ever start over again.

Chapter 4

W
es
offers me his arm. I rest my hand on his jacket as we walk down the long hallway. To our right are framed portraits of men and women long dead; to our left is a balcony that looks out over a ballroom. In between the tall columns of the banister I see a flicker of light from the chandeliers, the swirl of a couple spinning on the dance floor.

My heels clink against the marble, loud even above the swelling of the violins that seeps up from below. Wes is as quiet as he usually is. We haven’t spoken a word since we left the hotel room, not even when we went through security—metal detectors that scanned for everything from weapons to foreign chemicals. Luckily the poison, hidden in the bottom of a lipstick tube in my clutch, was undetectable. But not one of us is armed, and I cannot help feeling nervous as we reach the top of a large, gold staircase.

The hallway was dark and narrow, but now the party is spread out in front of us: light and noise and people in a room the size of a football field. There are floor-to-ceiling windows, dozens of round tables at the far end, and a small orchestra set up next to the dance floor. Like the hotel room upstairs, it is decorated in an old-fashioned style, from gilded chandeliers to simple 1930s fashions.

“Are you ready?” Wes asks me softly.

My body is stiff next to his and I force myself to relax. “Of course, darling.”

He smiles at me, though it never reaches his eyes, and we start to descend the stairs. The guests are a collage of tuxedos and gowns, broken up only by the waiters who dart in and out, carrying silver trays heavy with champagne. The band ends one song, but it blends into the next, the classical notes rising and falling over the buzzing noise of hundreds of murmuring voices.

There’s a rustling among the guests closest to the staircase, and a few people turn to watch us. A woman points at me, then whispers something to the man next to her.

I glance up at the sharp line of Wes’s jaw. His expression is neutral, though his eyes are warm. It’s an act, I can’t forget that. Right now he is not Wes, he’s Michael. I try to put the same level of warmth into my own eyes. I am not a natural actor, not like Wes has proven himself to be, but I have no choice but to become Samantha Greenwood tonight. A bored socialite, perhaps tired of following her fiancé from country to country, with no real friends left in the United States.

“Why are people staring?” I ask him quietly. “Do I have something on my dress?”

“They’re staring because you’re beautiful,” he answers. “Don’t be nervous, Love.”

Love. Wes has never called me that before. I dig my fingernails into the silk of the clutch I’m carrying in my opposite hand. I know he is being Michael right now, but it is
his
voice,
his
lips saying the words. I look away before the confusion can show on my face, before I fall into his arms because I know, at least as Samantha, that he’ll catch me.

I hear the tap of another pair of heels on marble and turn to see Twenty-two coming down the stairs behind us. She is transformed, flashing white teeth as she smiles, her eyes wide and bright. “Bea seems like she’s having fun.”

“Your cousin is a lovely girl.” Wes sounds as though he is holding in laughter, delighted by her every move. This time Twenty-two’s smile is for him, even though he has his back to her, and I wonder where the act stops and the real person starts.

We finally reach the bottom of the stairs. Wes lets go of my arm and puts his hand on my exposed back, moving me into the heart of the crowd. There are people on all sides, and I am jostled closer to him. He puts one arm out in front of us, angling our bodies in to each other so that we are like a tiny ship moving through rough waves. I brush against men in black suits, women in simple silk gowns like mine, but all I feel is the pressure of Wes’s fingers on my skin.

“Do you want champagne?”

He has to lean down to whisper the words, and his breath stirs the hair near my neck. I nod. He stops a passing waiter and picks up a flute, the carved crystal catching the light that spills from the chandeliers overhead.

“Mr. Gallo!”

A short, dark-haired man pushes through the crowd to stand in front of us. Who, I think, and my I-unit flickers in front of my eyes, scanning the man’s face and pulling up his profile.
Lee Mal-Chin,
it reads at the top. It is a limited profile, as we are not friends on any social media sites, but I see a link to a site describing his job and his business associates, and a public folder of pictures from events he has attended.

I do not bother following the link to his job; I have already studied this man’s face in my pre-mission training. He’s a business associate of Michael’s from South Korea, though they’ve never met before tonight. I turn and see hundreds of familiar faces in the crowd—senators and socialites, businessmen and -women who make up New Washington’s elite. I have seen file after file on them, not needing to rely on my I-unit the way most people do in this time period.

I-units are issued by the government in 2049, available for all citizens and not monopolized by one company. They’re encouraged and free, but as a result, the government has access to almost all your personal information—where you go, who you see. Some groups complain about the lack of privacy, but no one can deny that with the countless witnesses and eyes on the streets it has cut down on a large amount of crime. Even if you choose not to use an I-unit, other wearers can still scan your movements. Unless you have resources like the Project does, it makes hiding your identity almost impossible—especially at an event like tonight’s, where they won’t let you in without an I-unit so that security can monitor every movement and every conversation in order to keep the president safe.

Luckily, Michael Gallo is as real as anyone in this room, representing a France-based international shipping company where he’s “worked” for almost a year. The company is fake, but the Project has spent months establishing its identity overseas, setting up business accounts, and using simulation technology to mimic Wes’s voice on conference calls. In order to create our I-units, the Project hacked into the American I-unit database and planted our fake identities, including birth certificates, an internet presence, and forged family connections. Only Tim’s alias, Paul Sherman, was a real person who the Project disposed of, and changed his photos to match Tim. Another casualty for the greater good.

“I heard a rumor you would be here tonight. My wife and I flew all the way from Seoul just to see if it was true.” Mr. Lee’s voice is heavily accented, but his English is flawless. He holds out his arm to a brunette woman who appears to be in her mid-thirties. The loose, casual way she wears her hair reminds me of Hannah, who always dressed like a flower child. She would have fit in here, in 2049, with the simple silhouettes and the emphasis on sustainability. And though I’m glad that she never got caught up with the Project, a small part of me wishes I had her here now.

I blink away the memory and Mr. Lee’s wife blinks, too. She is still, her eyes scanning me, then Wes, as she uses her I-unit to read the situation.

“It’s a pleasure,” she finally says, holding out her hand to Wes. “Mal-Chin speaks of you often.”

Her voice is soft, with a slight English accent, and though I’ve already memorized her file, I scan her with my own I-unit while Wes takes her hand.
Sophia Lee, maiden name Jones. Born in London, England, February 1, 1995.

1995. The year I was born. In another lifetime she and I would have been contemporaries, experiencing the last thirty years at the same time. But here we are in 2049, and I am just barely eighteen, while she is fifty-four.

Not that she looks it. Stem cell technology has advanced significantly, and even ordinary people have access to what it can do. People take it like a vitamin in order to stretch their life spans, and boost their metabolism, with the added benefit of making them appear younger by decades. It is why Sardosky is not considered too old to be president, though he’s pushing eighty-five.

“I trust your flight wasn’t too long.” Wes is smiling at Mr. Lee in a wide, pleasant way I’ve never seen before, and I sip my champagne to cover my reaction. The bubbles fizz all the way down my throat.

“Ahh, these new airplanes.” Mr. Lee waves his hand in the air dismissively. His other arm curls around his wife, a mirror of the way Wes is holding me, and I know it is deliberate. The world may have changed significantly by 2049, but in this moment, Sophia Lee and I are only arm candy to these men. “Even run with solar power, they’re so fast. It only took a few hours to get here. What will they think of next?”

“I hear they’re working on teleportation,” I say, and his eyes shift to me, taking in my dress and working his way up. When he gets to my hair he jerks his head back as though surprised.

Wes catches his reaction and his arm tightens around my waist. “We really should be going.” He is already stepping away from the couple, smiling and nodding. “We’ll talk later.”

“I want to hear what you think about that report I sent last Thursday,” Mr. Lee yells after us and Wes lifts a hand up over his shoulder before we are swallowed by the crowd again.

I want to ask if he knows what Mr. Lee’s reaction was about, but I know I can’t. Wes must sense it though; his hand moves up my back and into my hair, the dark-red strands tangling around his fingers.

He suddenly stops, his hand twisting now, and I have no choice but to look up at him. With my head tilted back, the chandeliers above seem overly bright, like staring straight into the sun. But it is only an illusion; the room is as dim as candlelight, and Wes’s face is framed in shadows.

“Mr. Lee seemed nice.” I cannot think of anything else to say.

Wes smiles, and it is more like him this time, half of a lip tilt, his expression soft. “He’s an ass. But he runs a good business.”

I feel my lips crack too, the unused muscles straining upward, and Wes’s eyes drop to my mouth. I take a deep breath, my chest expanding under the low bodice of my gown. We are so close I know he feels it too, and then he pulls me in toward his body, his head dips, and his lashes lower to half-mast. He is leaning in, leaning down, and I do not pull away. Why shouldn’t I let him kiss me? We are not Seventeen and Eleven right now, not even Lydia and Wes, but Samantha and Michael, two people who think nothing of holding each other in a crowded room. But then someone bumps into me from behind and I fall forward against Wes, one hand coming up and landing on his chest. I feel his muscles flex beneath the crisp white shirt of his tux and I push back, looking down and tucking my hair behind my ear.

Wes clears his throat and carefully pulls his arm away, until we are standing close, but not touching.

“Where did Bea go?” His voice is even but forced. He is trying too hard to sound normal, unaffected.

“I don’t know.” I turn around, grateful for the chance to avoid looking at him. The space is so filled with people that I have trouble seeing past those closest to us. Most of the guests are standing in the center of the room, waiting for the dinner and the speeches to start, but I spot the president seated at a table in the corner. Secret Service agents in black suits stand against the wall next to him, their arms crossed over their chests and their heads turning back and forth as they survey the crowd.

“Bea!” I call out when I see her standing not far from us.

She is already talking to someone, an older gentleman in a tuxedo similar to Wes’s. When she hears her name she waves at me through the crowd. “Coming, Sam!”

She beams up at the man, says something to make him laugh, and then shimmies over to us. Several people turn to watch her walk past, and I wonder where she learned how to be so open and free. It can’t have just been the Project’s training. Maybe this is how Twenty-two would have been without the brainwashing and the time traveling. Maybe she’s just slipping into a role she was always meant to play.

“This room is amazing,” she says when she reaches us. She throws out her arm, narrowly missing an older woman, and I follow where she’s looking, to the cream-colored walls, the deep-red curtains pulled back from the windows with heavy gold rope. “I’m so happy you brought me along.”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Wes smiles down at her.

“You’re such a charmer. Oh, champagne? I want some.”

Wes spots a waiter near the dance floor. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” He steps into the crowd and is quickly lost among the other guests.

Twenty-two and I are alone. I stare at her warily, but she just smiles and touches me lightly on the arm. “I’m so glad to be here with you, Sam. It’s been forever since we last saw each other.”

“Years, right?” I struggle to keep my voice as affectionate as hers.

“I was at your old house just last week, and your parents were asking about you.”

I can’t help but picture my own parents on the night I left, lying in their bed under their summer blanket, no idea that their only child was slipping out into the darkness.

“Don’t you miss your mother? Your father? They’re missing you terribly, you know.”

“It seems . . . like a really long time since I last saw them.”

Twenty-two steps closer. “It’ll be okay. Family is so important, but I’m here now; don’t worry. You’re not alone.”

She’s acting. This is an act. I repeat the phrase in my head, but it’s difficult to remember when she squeezes my arm, when she says the words I’ve so desperately needed to hear these past few months.

“Here you go.” Wes is back, and Twenty-two steps away, taking the glass from his outstretched hand. “What were you two talking about?”

He looks directly at me and his eyes narrow slightly. I take a shaky breath as Bea sips from her glass. “Oh, nothing,” she says. “Just about our family and how hard it is for Samantha to live so far away.”

Wes frowns, but I wave my hand in the air. “It’s fine!” My voice is overly high and I clear my throat. “I’m fine. Having Bea here reminds me of what I’m missing, that’s all.”

“Oh, cuz.” Bea smiles and reaches out to touch my arm again. “I’m happy to see you, too.”