Page 134 of Because I Killed Him
I wade to shore and head for the bonfire, forcing myself not to run. Edmund calls out behind me, something about a seashell, but I don’t turn back. A strand of seaweed coils around my ankle, and I kick it off, then kick myself, too.
By the time I reach the fire, Jack is already stamping it out. Charlotte and Dickie are huddled in the hovercar, pressed against the heater vents, while she scolds him for programming his Pinkie to smoke cigarettes. “You’ll regret not treating that humanoid better when the machines eventually turn on us.”
Dickie smirks. “Maybe I’ll be the one who makes them smart enough to turn.”
I grab a towel and dry off with quick, mechanical strokes, wishing I could scrub away what I’m feeling just as easily.
The only comfort is that we’re leaving. At least for tonight, I’ve worn out my ability to keep lying.
I don’t speak much over the next few days. I drift through the world half-absent, sinking so deep into my thoughts that I even zone out during my Political Theory & Governance lecture. How did I let this happen? My heart used to be a familiar place, where I knew exactly who and what I loved. Now parts of it feel like a stranger I shouldn’t be speaking to, but one I can’t stop listening to all the same. Where I thought I could only ever love fencing, I find myself drawn to politics. And where I thought I could only hate Blues, I find myself falling for one.
The fact that Edmund is engaged is the least of my worries. His arrangement is loveless, stitched together for the benefit of their families. What troubles me more is knowing that a path like this always leads to the same wall, with a single word scrawled across it:Vulgar. That’s what they call it when the lines blur in the wrong way, when two people from different Bloods convince themselves that love excuses biology. Our differences run far deeper than color. We aren’t allowed to marry, and we definitely aren’t allowed to have children. We were genetically engineered to be so different that any child from a mixed-Blood union would rarely survive past infancy.
People still try, of course. Some go to the black market because they want a child so badly they’re willing to risk everything. But most are too afraid of what happens if they get caught. Being a Vulgar is punishable by execution.
Even if you’re a Blue.
There’s no happy ending for how I feel. My only choice is to cut it off before the roots spread too deep and it grows into something I can’t resist. The small comfort is that, for all Edmund’s reckless fire, I don’t think he’d ever let his feelings spread where they shouldn’t. There’s no way he wants me, too.
On Friday night, Charlotte and I are caught off guard when Jack and Dickie show up at Jolt & Jive. Seeing them without Edmund is like watching a horse trot past without its head.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Charlotte calls over the music, shielding her Gibson from a tap dancer spinning by. “Does Edmund have a meeting with Irene?”
“If only.” Dickie snatches a slice of chocolate cake from a tray that a Pinkie is carrying to another table. “He’s been ditching us the last few nights.”
I perk up from my glass of red wine, curious. “Where’s Edmund been going?”
“Don’t know.” Dickie takes a large bite of cake. “He’s being stingy with the details. But he always comes back wet enough to make a goldfish nervous.”
Charlotte pops her hip, intrigued. “Well, I suppose you two can join us if you buy us a round.”
“Not drinking tonight, darling.” Jack lifts his water bottle with a faint smile. “But you’ll get your round.”
Charlotte’s eyes widen, and she sets her cocktail down quickly. “N-no. If you’re not drinking, let’s go someplace else.”
Her expression is a mix of shock and joy, as if she’s been standing on a mountain’s peak for years, watching Jack from below, and now he’s finally starting to climb up. The spark in him remains the same—still thrill-seeking enough to ride his hoverbike off a cliff—but sober, it feels like he might stick the landing. I’m sure Jack is cutting down on drinking because of the fencing duel with William and how well he fought with a clear head.
“We could go rollerblading,” I suggest.
Charlotte, Jack, and Dickie trade glances, weighing whether we’re still young enough to justify it.
Jack shrugs. “What the hell… sure.”
My idea turns out better than I expected. The skatepark features gravity regulators that let us launch into slow-motion jumps and spins that complete a full 360 before our wheels touch back down. Charlotte picks it up faster than the rest of us. She soars through the half-pipe with surprising ease, landing spins that make a couple of skater boys whistle and clap from the sidelines. She tosses her curls, drinking in the attention as if it’s a stand-in for the Gibson cocktails she missed out on.
When I break away to order a sparkling water, a gorgeous third-year Purple called Miss Ellsworth glides up beside me, wearing a sports dresswith a shawl collar lined in lavender silk. I recognize her vaguely from campus events.
“Miss Waldsten.” She dips into a shy curtsy. “Might I request a moment of your time?”
“You may.”
“Is it possible for you to share Mr. Prew’s Bond number? I wish to thank him, yet I have been unable to reach him.”
“I am afraid I cannot give out Mr. Prew’s Bond number without his permission,” I say. “However, if you write him a note, I will make certain he receives it.”
Miss Ellsworth smiles softly and pulls a pen and a small notecard from her handbag. I try to avoid staring as she writes Edmund’s name in an elegant, careful script. I know I shouldn’t pry, but the question pushes its way out anyway.
“May I ask what Mr. Prew did for you?”
