Victoria Schwab - The Unbound

“Normally it’s the winner,” the teacher continues, “but truth be told, I’m not entirely sure who won that match.”

I’m about to say that I don’t want to stay on, but Wesley is already weaving through the crowd, and the next student, a stocky junior, is hoisting himself onto the platform. I don’t want the teacher to think I’m beat after a single fight, so I sigh, readjust my helmet, and wait for the whistle as Wesley’s form vanishes from sight.

Wesley lifts his forehead from my shoulder and shifts his eyes to meet mine. “Please, say something.”

But what can I say? That when Wesley touches me like this, I think of the way Owen forced me back against the Narrows wall, twisting my want into fear as he tightened his grip? That when I feel Wesley’s lips and my heart flutters, I think of him kissing me in the Coronado hall, reading me, and then pulling sharply away, eyes full of betrayal? That when I think of what I feel for him, I see him bleeding to death on the roof—and the pain that comes with caring about him is enough to stop me cold?

What I say instead is this: “Life is messy right now, Wes.”

“Life is always messy,” he says, meeting my gaze. “It’s supposed to be.”

I sigh, trying to find the words. “Two months ago, I’d never met another Keeper. I didn’t have someone in my life I could talk to, let alone trust. And maybe it’s selfish, but I can’t bear the thought of losing you now.”

“You’re not going to lose me, Mac.”

“You walked away,” I say softly.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“When you found out about Owen, you walked away. I know you don’t remember it, and I’m not blaming you—I know it was my fault for lying—but watching you go…I’ve been alone in this for so long, and I’ve always managed because I’ve never had anyone. But having you and losing you… For the first time, I felt alone, Wes. Having something and losing it, it’s so much crueler than never having had it.”

Wesley looks down at his hands. “Does it make you wish we’d never met?”

“No. God, no. But what we have now is still new to me. The sharing, the trust. I’m not ready for more.” I’ll just ruin it , I think.

“I understand.” His voice is soft, soothing. He plants a light kiss on my shoulder, like a parting gift, and pulls away.

“It’s all new to me, too, remember?” he says a few minutes later. “I’d never met another Keeper before you. And having you in my life is terrifying and addictive, and I’m not going to lie and tell you it doesn’t make my heart race. It does.” I wonder if he can feel my own pounding pulse through my noise as he tangles his fingers through mine. “But I’m here. No matter what happens with us, I’m here.”

He lets go and slumps back into the corner of the bench. He doesn’t pick up the book, just tilts his head back and stares up at the clouds. Silence settles over us, heavier than usual.

“Are we good, Wes?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, flashing a smile that’s almost strong enough to hide the lie. “We’re good.”

By the time I finish showering, the locker room is mercifully empty, no prying eyes to watch as I loop the key back over my head, tucking it under my collar. My chest loosens as soon as the weight settles there. It feels wrong to be without it, even though this key isn’t really mine.

I’m tugging on my polo when I feel the scratch of letters like a pin through my shirt pocket. I dig my list out to find a name:

Harker Blane. 13.

But I’m nowhere near my territory—I don’t even know whose territory Hyde School falls in, or where the nearest Narrows door is hidden, and even if I could find it, my key wouldn’t work, since I’m not authorized to use it here—and I’ve got half a day of school to go, so Harker will have to sit tight. I don’t like to make Histories wait; the longer they do, the more they suffer, and the more dangerous they get. I will Harker to hold on and hope he doesn’t start to slip.

My stomach growls as I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and set out to find lunch.

Instead I find Wesley. At least, the newest version of him.

He’s sitting cross-legged on a stone bench halfway to the dining hall with a book in his lap. He looks like a stranger. He’s missing the black polish that usually graces his nails, his hair is swept neatly back, and he looks… elegant in his uniform, all black but for the gold thread tracing the edges.

I see him, but he doesn’t see me—not at first—and I can’t help but stare. Only his silver ring and the faint outline of his key beneath his polo mark him as the same guy I met this summer. It’s like he’s wearing a disguise, only it fits so well that I wonder if my Wesley—the one with spiked hair and lined eyes and that constant, mischievous smile—was the act. My stomach twists at the thought.

And then his eyes drift up from the book and settle on me, and something in him shifts again, and suddenly I see both of them at once: the affluent student and the edgy boy who likes to fight and fits his rock band noise so well. He’s still under there somewhere, my Wes, but I can’t help but wonder as he hops down from the sculpture and straightens, waiting for me to reach him: how many faces does Wesley Ayers have?

“I was hoping you’d come this way,” he says, putting the book away and slinging his bag onto his shoulder.

“I don’t know any of the other ways.”

“Come on,” he says, tipping his head down the path. “I’ll show you.”

We start walking toward the dining hall, but then we reach a split. Even though I can see the highly trafficked main building rising on our right, Wes veers left down a narrow, vacant path. Despite my rumbling stomach, I follow. I can’t stop looking at him, focusing and unfocusing my eyes to find both versions.

“Go ahead.” He keeps his eyes on the path ahead. “Say it.”

I swallow. “You look different.”

He shrugs. “Hyde has a dress code. They discourage eccentricity, which is unfortunate since, as we both know, I’m quite a fan.” He looks at me then, as intensely as I’m looking at him. “You look tired, Mac. Are you sleeping?”

I shrug. I don’t want to talk about it.

I mentioned my nightmares a while back, but when they didn’t go away I decided to stop talking about them. It’s bad enough having my parents coat me with their worry. The last thing I need is someone who knows the truth pitying me. And maybe Wes would have bad dreams, too, if he could remember that day; but he has a twenty-four-hour stretch of black in his mind and only my account and a scar from Owen’s knife to go on. I envy him until I remember that I wanted to remember. I chose.

“Is there anything I can do to help or—”

“How long have you been back?” I cut in. “Or did you even go away?”

His brow furrows. “I got in last night. Haven’t even had a chance to unpack, let alone come by and check on you. Or Jill. You been keeping an eye on the brat for me?”

I ignore his deflection. “Why didn’t you tell me you went to school here?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “At first it was just a reflex. I didn’t know how to handle the fact that you were going to cross more than one of my paths, so I kept it to myself.”

“I get that, Wes, I do.” The Archive teaches us to break our lives into pieces and to keep those pieces secret, separate. “But what about later?” I ask, the words barely a whisper. “Is it because of what happened in the garden?”

“No,” he says firmly. “It doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Then why?” I snap. “You spent the last few weeks reading me books you already knew because you read them here last year. You watched me stress out about this place, and you never spoke up.”