The Spy by Sophie Lark
28
Nix
Breakfast is an odd affair.
Estas Lomachenko nods to me in the line for pancakes—not exactly friendly, but as if he no longer minds us breathing the same air in the same space.
The bruises on his face are still healing. I don’t think he’s softened towards me because of the beating from Ares—I think, strangely, telling me the full story of what happened between his brother and my father has unburdened his soul. He’s not blaming me for it anymore.
Maybe because he saw that I believed him.
I never did call my father that day. We haven’t spoken since before Christmas.
I’m sure he’s furious.
Well, I’m pretty fucking angry, too.
He lied to me when I asked if he killed Kyrylo Lomachenko. Straight up lied to me. He could have told me it was complicated, that he had his reasons . . . I wouldn’t have judged him. But I would have known the truth so I didn’t look like such a fool defending him to my own fucking cousin.
While Estas seems to have relaxed his hatred of me, Ares is behaving more strangely than ever.
He looks simultaneously exhausted and wired—dark circles under his eyes, unshaven face, and a jitteriness to his movements like he’s already had several cups of coffee this morning.
He sits by Leo and Hedeon instead of by me, which feels intentional.
Ares can be so hot and cold, so intimate and then so closed off.
We’ve shared moments where I felt more connected to him than anyone on the planet. And then he pulls back again, and I’m left with that nagging sensation that he’s hiding something from me. That he’s not telling me everything.
It’s starting to make me feel . . . really fucking sad. Like I’ll never truly know him. Like this is all I’m going to get.
Maybe I’m paranoid because of what happened with my father this year—thinking that I knew him so well, only to discover that he has a darker side he never showed me.
Or maybe I’m becoming less naive, and I’m realizing that the same is true of Ares.
He could be just as twisted as my father.
I don’t know what to believe anymore.
I don’t know how to feel secure when it’s clear that I suck at choosing who to trust.
Sabrina drops down in the empty chair next to mine, wearing her most comfortable pullover, with her hair piled up in a messy bun atop her head. She hasn’t brought a tray with her, since she mostly only drinks tea or coffee in the morning.
“Not sitting with Ilsa today?” I ask her.
Sabrina and Ilsa have been spending practically every second together since the dance. I’ve barely seen her outside of class.
“We split up,” Sabrina says, taking a strip of bacon off my plate and biting into it.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Ah, it’s fine. She’s too jealous,” Sabrina shrugs. “Plus, she’s constantly trying to get me to come to the gym with her. Squatting my bodyweight is not a life goal for me.”
“Working out together can be fun,” I say, with a quick glance at Ares.
He either didn’t hear or he doesn’t agree, because he doesn’t smile back at me. My stomach sinks a little lower.
“Not for me it’s not,” Sabrina says. Then, grinning, “Unless you count sex as a workout.”
Ares pretends not to hear this, either.
He doesn’t speak one word to me all through breakfast. So I’m surprised when he catches up with me on the commons, intercepting me on the way to History.
“Hey,” he pants, jogging up to me. “Can you meet me again tonight?”
“Alright,” I say, hesitantly. “When?”
“10:00.”
That’s later than we usually meet. I frown at him.
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” he says, not quite meeting my eye. “Why would something be wrong?”
“I don’t know. You just seem . . .”
I don’t know how he seems. I can’t decipher his expression. It’s not quite nervousness. Not quite excitement.
“I’ll be waiting outside the Solar,” he says.
“What are we going to do?”
“It’s a surprise.”
He smiles now, but it’s tense and strained.
Something’s wrong.
I hope he’ll tell me what’s going on if I meet him tonight.
If he doesn’t . . . I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
* * *
