***
Apollon and Miranda are squabbling about what to do now. Everything we carried in our packs is gone— liberated by Matt's army. We've lost our weapons as well. We have the clothes on our backs, and the items we left in our house, but beyond that, nothing. Some of them can be replaced through foraging, but not all. Their voices drone on, picking at each other, draining what little life is left inside me. I slip outside into the chill morning air, wondering where Jonas went. Maybe he couldn't listen to any more of it either. Or maybe he needed to be away— to feel the loss inherent in his decision to stay with us. Guilt pushes into my throat. I'm glad he didn't go. I shouldn't be. But I am.
A noise comes from the dilapidated shed next to our house. I pause and listen. Someone's in there, and it better be Jonas.
I peek through the door, then stand against the frame and wait for him to notice me. He must have heard my footsteps, but he doesn't acknowledge me at all. He has a jagged piece of metal and some scraps of wood. He's fastening them together to make a crude knife. On the bench that stretches across one wall, there are two the same, already finished.
"At least somebody's doing something productive," I say, getting tired of waiting. "Want some help?"
"No." He doesn't even glance back at me.
I stand for a moment, wanting to comfort him. The pain of our failure is distressing me, too. I assume that eventually I'll get used to the feeling. I won't notice it so much, even though it still cuts me. Or maybe I'll just be dead. That's the unspeakable bottom line here. Staying means death, sooner or later. Probably sooner. But that's not what hurts the most. It's the thing that's waiting somewhere else. Being incarcerated here, unable to go after it is like being crushed slowly, feeling the breath pushed from your lungs until they collapse in on themselves.
"I'm sorry," I say, knowing that the words are not enough. I push on, hoping that somehow they'll come together to mean something, but they sound pitiful, contrived. "Maybe we'll still find a way to get through this. Maybe the thing with Grey won't be—"
"Seriously?" Jonas says, whirling to face me. "We'll be OK? Is that what you think? Because I really did think you were smarter than that."
I blink against the harshness of his tone, but I'm still calm. "You didn't have to stay."
He laughs as if my words have amused him.
"You didn't," I assert. I'm starting to get annoyed now. I tried to comfort him, and all I get back is acid. "I told you to go," I say. "I don't know why you didn't. But don't act like it's my fault, like I asked you to stay or something. You made your own decision. Nobody did it for you. And if you really regret it that much, then you should go now, and maybe Matt won't have changed his mind yet."
The way he's seething, I half expect him to march past me and head for the Outpost gates. He does move, toward me, not past, in slow, even steps.
"Is that what you want?" he asks quietly, lowering his head and looking me in the eye. He takes the final step to close the distance between us, and places his hands against the wall on either side of me without touching me. "You want me to go?"
Everything stops with him that close to me. In the silence I feel the weight of his question. I swallow, looking up into his green eyes. I can't imagine what it would be like to never get to look into them again. He bows his head closer to me, leaning in on his hands. He still doesn't touch me, but the distance between us closes. A few inches. An inch. His face is leaning down to mine.
I duck my chin and turn my face away, sucking in the breath that I was holding. He pulls away, a little. Back to where he was before he started leaning.
"You think that's a good idea?" I say, trying to make my voice steady. "Kissing two girls you have to live with, who sleep on either side of you?"
His lips pull into the faintest smile, his eyes narrowing. "Kiss you?"
I gaze up at him with my mouth dumbly open. Heat rushes to my cheeks. He was going to kiss me. What else could he have meant? But now he's going to pretend like I made it up— like only I was thinking it? Like I wanted it and he didn't? The embarrassment collects inside me and starts to rise upward. Behind it is a wave of anger.
But Jonas' smile broadens. He leans in like he's telling me a secret. "I was," he says. He retracts his hands and turns away from me, going back to his project. "But you make a good point."
I suppress a shriek. My hands clamp into fists. I breathe slow, measured breaths through my nose. I want more than anything to kiss him. More than I wanted it when he was leaning close to me. More than when his breath mingled with mine. His withdrawal fills me with emptiness, with desire. He has to know this.
I refuse to be his plaything. Very quietly, I walk away. I go inside, with the others— exactly what I don't want to do right now. But I won’t give Jonas the satisfaction of seeing me go off to sulk. Instead, I plaster a smile on my face, and do my best to appear entirely unaffected. He might be a closed book, but I’m good at bluffing. I channel normalcy for the rest of the afternoon. Let him chew on that.