Page 9 of The Last Love Story

I started writing years ago, and I started for a stupid reason that quickly became the only reason that made sense: I had feelings for a boy.

Not just any boy, but the boy who lived next door. Writing it down seemed to be the only way to make sense of it. To make it mine, because he would never be. It felt brave and magical, like I was grabbing something intangible and holding it in my hands. And now that’s all illegal.

I wonder how long it’ll take for the new law to erase this file even from this computer. After all, my word processing files have all been erased from my tablet. When I was younger, I uploaded all the files to an anonymous server so I could share with Nef.

I wonder if they’re still there.

And then I pick up my tablet and navigate to Spindle, where I used to link things for Nef. I wonder what she’d say if I sent it now. I wonder if she ever even read it back then.

It takes two clicks, but I watch as the story loads on the server.

And then I almost drop my tablet. All of Saffron and Orion’s stories are there. And they’ve been viewed over a million times. Something like a laugh breaks out of me, because this can’t be real.

And it will all be for nothing once Spindle is erased and I’m shipped off to war.

Still, a small part of me flares with something like pride. The feelings I had for him didn’t do anything to save us, but maybe they can save someone else. Maybe someone can learn from my mistakes, and say how she feels before it’s too late.

I don’t know how long I sit on the floor of the attic, staring at the numbers on my screen, but finally I draw in a deep breath. I stare at the message that was sent to me today. A mystery. A taunt. A death sentence.

Even though my fingers shake, I type out:What do you want?

The reply is immediate:The Huntington.

One hour.

Or we drop this birth certificate off at the nearest recruitment center.

This time I can’t choose to be brave. I guess bravery is one of those things that drags you behind it, ready or not.

I don’t even try to be quiet as I slip down from the attic. I could probably even slam the front door behind me, but muscle memory inspires me to head for my bedroom window, inching out onto the eaves as I ford out into the blackness, slipping my mask over my nose and mouth. The streetlights over here go dark at nine o’clock. There’s no reason to be out after then, anyway.

No legal reason, anyway.

Which is why it’s interesting to me that as I prepare to sneak off through the bushes, I see a familiar shape walking across the roof across from me: my neighbor, Huxley Finn.

As if sensing my presence, he whips his head in my direction. If he sees me, he doesn’t say anything. I’m frozen up here, perched like a cat, as he grips the gutter and spills seamlessly down to the sidewalk below, smooth as a shadow. He’s done this before, I think. Maybe I imagine the shine of his eyes, a glance over his shoulder, before he disappears into the dark.

Well, well, well.

The Huntington is in the opposite direction. I can’t follow him, not tonight. But where is Hux going at this time of night?

Chapter 3

It doesn’t take long for me to get there. There are constant cargo trains running up and down the old light-rail tracks late at night and it’s easy enough to jump on the back of one and blend into the shadows.

The Huntington is dark, the entrance covered with dead leaves that crunch under my boots as I walk toward the entrance. An old chain-link fence wraps around the perimeter, but it sags among the weeds and overgrowth almost like an afterthought. There’s nothing to protect inside anymore, anyway.

As quietly as I can, I climb the fence and land on the other side, looking up at the cream-colored façade. The sky beyond is covered in light pollution that traps the orange light of Post Angeles beyond. From this angle, the building looks ancient, and the sky gleams like it’s on fire. It’s almostlike I could be standing in Pompeii or something, a spectator at the edge of a world that ended centuries ago.

It’s eerie, and it fits the mood.

I’m closing in on the hour timeline they gave me, so I quickly find a broken window and slip inside.

Debris crunches underfoot against the marble floor as I pass faded spray paint tags, the scrawl unreadable in the low light. A massive staircase curves upward, covered in old vines that have broken in through the windows above. My eyes fall on gleaming white rectangles every few feet: the ghosts of art that used to hang. They were whisked away to private collections soon after all museums and libraries were shut down. This place used to be both. Now it’s just a place where I might catch tetanus.

I look around, tucking my hair behind my ears as my eyes adjust to the dark. They didn’t say where they’d be, and this place is massive. I take a careful step, making sure to tiptoe around shattered glass from a bottle near the bottom of the stairs.

“Ripley Hart.” A voice cuts through the darkness. “I kind of hoped you were a little smarter than this.”