The Star Dwellers

I want to ask more but hate to be nosy. And I’m sure Roc knows and I can just ask him later; that is, if I can pull him away from Tawni for a few minutes. Since Roc expressed his interest in my tall white-haired friend the two of them have been practically inseparable.

We’re both quiet for a few minutes, but it’s not awkward, which is one of the things I like about Tristan. Just being near him feels right. It’s been that way since I met him. It’s like all the nerves and nodes and synapses in our bodies thrive on our nearness. At least that’s how it is for me, and how I hope it is for Tristan.

He must be thinking the same thing because he says, “Isn’t it weird that we’re here together?” He laughs and I’m silent, but I know exactly what he means. We saw each other across barren rock, through a barbed-wire, electrified fence, past hordes of his screaming, undergarment-throwing, adoring fans—me in freaking prison and him the prized attraction in a parade—and yet here we are, together; like together together. Weird is the perfect word for it.

“Have you ever thought that maybe it’s more than just coincidence?” he says, his eyebrows question marks.

“Like fate?” I say, trying to hide my surprise at his question. I haven’t told him what my mom said to me before we left the Moon Realm.

It was no accident that you and Tristan met.

“Maybe. I du

My thoughts are coming fast. In my world, the only fate is illness or death. We don’t have much else. However, from the time I laid eyes on Tristan in the flesh, I have felt an indescribable pull toward him, like someone wants us to be together. But despite my mom’s declaration that it wasn’t an accident that we met, there’s no logical explanation for any of it, which doesn’t work for my pragmatic mind. I shake my head. “I don’t think so. It’s just plain random chance.”

It’s no accident that you and Tristan met.

Tristan frowns. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

I stop breathing. Here it comes. For a while now I’ve felt there was something he was holding back, something big—maybe life-changing.

“Did I ever tell you that I fainted once thinking about you?”

Huh? That’s the mind-blowing secret? What does that even mean? “Umm…” Well. Hmm. No?

“I did. Roc and I were training, fighting with wooden swords. This was shortly after I saw you for the first time, mind you. The fight was over and your face popped into my head…” He ducks his head sheepishly and sort of cringes, like he’s wondering why he decided to tell me this, but knows he can’t go back now. “And, well, I passed out right then. In the time between fainting and Roc waking me up, I dreamt that my father murdered you right in front of me. It was creepy.”

My head is spi

“Then I nearly passed out again when I saw you the second time, when you were trying to break out of the Pen.”

I can’t help but laugh now. “Are you sure it wasn’t the fumes from the bombs blowing up all over the place?”

His face is dead serious. “No, it was you. I had a physical reaction to seeing you, almost like my body couldn’t handle it.”

This is definitely not the direction I thought the conversation was going. “I didn’t take many baths while in the Pen so normally I would guess it was my body odor that caused it, but I had just showered that day, so that can’t be it…” I joke.

“Perhaps it was your remarkable beauty,” Tristan says, and I feel my face go warm right away.

“Knock it off, charmer, I thought you were being serious.”

“I was being serious,” he says, which doesn’t help stem my flush.

“Look, you probably just hadn’t eaten in a while, or were dehydrated both times,” I say, trying to steer the conversation away from what he thinks of my looks.

He tilts his head to the side, his eyes wandering to the tu

When he looks back at me, I see resolution in his eyes. Although we’re already sitting close to each other, he slides closer, right next to me. The normal strength of my pull toward him is super-charged, and the only desire I have is to hold him, to be held by him. He must feel the same way, because his arm curls around the back of my neck, dragging my head to his chest. I can feel the warm caress of his breath on the back of my neck, the electricity of his skin as his arm gently presses against mine.

“This is the good part of life,” he says, and I sigh, although I shouldn’t. Not when my dad is dead, my sister maimed. Cole. No, I don’t deserve this, I think. Not now. Not until the President is dead. Maybe never.

Going against every instinct, I unwind my body from Tristan’s grasp, stand up, and walk away with the lantern in tow, wishing I didn’t have to.

“I’ve got to get rid of this gun,” I say over my shoulder, plucking the gun my mom gave me—the gun I failed to save my father with—out from beneath my tunic.