IT’S THE MIDDLE OF the night when Book and Hope reach the foothills of Skeleton Ridge. The Humvee’s headlights show that the road up the mountain is still buried in snow. By their calculations, they have about thirty hours before the inauguration, which means thirty hours before Chancellor Maddox fires off her chemical-laced missiles. Hope suggests they lie low for the day and ride the tram sometime that night; there will be fewer guards then. Less chance of getting caught.
There’s a deserted barn just south of town, and they stash the Humvee there. Book swings the barn doors shut so that passing vehicles can’t spy them. They’re safe for a while. The calm before the storm.
Hope lights a match and it flares to life. She finds a kerosene lantern and coaxes the small flame. A yellow pool of light encases them like a soap bubble.
“Where should we sleep?” she asks.
There isn’t much space on the main floor that isn’t covered in fossilized animal dung.
“How about the hayloft?” Book says.
“Sure.”
Argos curls himself contentedly in a corner while Hope and Book climb the rickety ladder to the top. As they do, Hope is reminded of the first time they met. That was in a hayloft, too, back in Camp Freedom. Despite all the months that have passed since then, Hope can still feel the warmth of Book’s hand from that day.
She shakes away the thoughts.
They form a pile out of what little hay there is, and from that they create a mattress. They lie there, burying themselves as best they can. It’s cold and breezy and the wind whistles as it slides between the planks. Hope rotates the knob until the lantern goes off.
Even in darkness, Book sees that Hope is shaking.
“Come here,” he says.
They scooch sideways so that their bodies touch. Hope rolls over on her side and Book spoons her—his chest pressed against her back, his arms enveloping her.
For the longest time they lie there, neither saying a word. Hope feels the steady pulse of Book’s exhalations on her neck. In the coal-black darkness, the world goes floating by, and her body gives an involuntary shiver as she thinks back to all the occasions that he’s held her. And now this, the final time.
She rolls over until their faces are inches apart. Her eyes have adjusted to the dark and she can make out Book’s expression. It’s like he’s remembering the same things that she is. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything, Hope leans forward and kisses him. Soft. Tentative. Inviting. Her lips are warm and he kisses her in return . . . and then he pulls away.
“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his face.
“It’s okay. I kissed you first.”
“But if we’re not going to be a couple, I can’t do this. Sorry. It’s not what I want.”
“What do you want?”
“What you said earlier: Book and Hope together.”
“Oh, Book . . .”
“It’s not worth it otherwise. I’ll just fall more in love with you than I already am, and then you’ll go and get yourself killed, and where will that leave me?”
Hope inhales sharply at his words. She no longer feels cold; on the contrary, she’s burning up.
“But Book—”
“I mean it. I can’t pretend I don’t have feelings for you. And if we kiss now, well . . .”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. The blood is pounding in Hope’s ears, and she feels a sudden need to get away, to lose herself in darkness. She pushes herself to her feet.
“Where’re you going?”
She doesn’t answer. She scrambles down the ladder, then rushes outside where the stars are blinding and the winter night soothes her like a bucket of cold water cooling a scalding iron.
She doesn’t know how long she’s out there. Long enough to feel the effects of cold and to know the stars are limitless. With a clarity that surprises her, she recalls the deaths of her mom, her dad, her sister Faith.
Book is right, of course. Without the hope of a future, kisses are just kisses. He’s right to put an end to it. She’s the one who has always said it’s not going to happen, that they can’t be together. So why did she feel the sudden desire to kiss him, to hold him, to have him hold her? Is it because she’s afraid? And if so, of what?
She edges back through the barn door, her breath frosting in front of her. Argos looks up, gives a whimper, then returns to sleep. Easing up the ladder, Hope tries to quiet the creaks of the old wood. She slides into their makeshift bed and watches Book sleep, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Time passes. An owl calls out from the trees.
She leans forward and presses her lips against his.
Book’s eyes flutter open. “Hope,” he says groggily, “I told you—”
“I know. And you’re right.” She kisses him again, more firmly.
Book is awake now, and she shushes him with a finger. He pushes himself up on his elbow and leans forward to kiss her, but not on the lips. First on her right cheek, and then on her left. On the two scars left by Chancellor Maddox.
A smile stretches Hope’s face and she tucks her head, embarrassed.
Book places a finger on her chin and raises her face until their eyes lock. He extends his hands and caresses both her cheeks. He brings her into him and kisses her fully on the lips. There is a gentle firmness in how he holds her.
His hands slide to her arms, her sides, her lower back. He pulls her into him and she pulls him just as strongly into her. She can feel the heat buzzing from his hands, an electric current that makes her arms and legs tingle.
They slide into the hay, their hungry kisses exploring the other, their arms wrapped around each other. Two bodies mingled as one. Hope and Book. Book and Hope.
Together.