AN: Many thanks to beta and prereader happymelt and faireyfan, and to spirit guide midsouthmama. And thanks to you for reading!
Chapter 17: Absolute Values
"Talk to me. What's wrong?"
Even as I insist on hearing him say it, I know his answer. I wrap my arms around his torso, and his weight comes as a shock. I churn my legs like mad.
"I . . . miscalculated. This wetsuit, it should be—I thought—but I forgot how heavy I'd be with the gold."
"I could have thought of it, too, you know. And I didn't."
I chew my lip. Since when did we get so careless? Cracking the cure was supposed to be the hard part. Evading Aro was supposed to be the dangerous part. I see Edward scan the distance.
"Anything?"
"There was a barge on the horizon headed our way. I could see it from the speedboat, but I can't see it now." He squints.
"How fast do barges travel?"
"Eight or ten miles per hour, I guess." He shrugs and spits seawater. "But I don't know how far away it might be."
"Okay, this is simple." I take the opportunity to distract him. "The horizon is always 1.22 miles times the square root of a given vantage point's height, measured in feet. Give or take some for atmospheric distortion."
"For real?"
"You standing in the speedboat would have had you at about ten feet above sea level, so . . ."
"Square root of ten . . . that's three something. Times 1.22 . . . it's almost four miles away." His mouth twists into a grimace. "Half an hour? We can hack that. Maybe."
I slow my breathing to try to stay calm. With this weight dragging us down, that's too long. "Plus submerging ourselves while they pass and then sneaking aboard? We haven't slept in two days. Time to improvise a new plan."
His face turns stony. I watch his jaw muscles work beneath his skin. "We drop the gold, there goes our bargaining chip with the barge crew. What if they're hostile like in Panama three years ago?"
"We'll swim for shore instead."
He glances at the shore, assessing it. "I had it all worked out, my buoyancy in salt water versus fresh water. I forgot the most basic thing."
"Well, you need to get over it," I say. "Real life is not a word problem. You can turn a constant into a variable. And that's what we'll do."
His gaze locks on mine, wary.
"You sure about that? Because right now I feel like I'm the most unreliable fucking variable you ever tied your fate to. You really want to trade my life for three million dollars?"
I scoff out loud. This sort of thing coming from him shouldn't surprise me, but everything about it is ridiculous. "How do you figure? This thing is worth three-quarters of a million, at most. "
"It's more than a precious metal now. It's a key ingredient in curing a pandemic. Speaking of variables . . . this one is about to skyrocket."
"Nope. Edward, three minutes ago it turned into a worthless brick of dead weight, and we're getting rid of it."
His eyes pinch closed, but only for a split second. I barely register it before his face is stoic again, nodding, pale. "Right. Okay. Are you sure? You're sure. I know."
"Twenty-seven pounds. That's all it is. Just dead weight."
"Dead weight. Yeah. I know."
"Quickly, before one of us gets a cramp."
"Can you reach it?" He doesn't want to let go of me to let the straps fall. "The zipper is on my right. Your left. Don't knee me in the nuts."
I circle him closer with my arms and grope for the closure. When I pull the gold bar out and lift it up, it glimmers in the moonlight. We thought this was our future waiting to be let loose, but it's not.
"Wait," he says, "maybe it's not that dire—"
"It is that dire. We'll drown, Edward."
"But . . ."
"But what? We can get more money. Enough to live. The two of us." I really am getting tired, so I press myself closer to him, resting the gold bar on his chest between us. He tightens one arm around my waist and uses the other to continue treading water.
"That's enough for you?"
I frown. The difference between the cold metal in one hand and the skin of his neck against my cheek is everything to me. "No question."
"Then . . . okay." He takes a deep, shivering breath.
"Give it a kiss goodbye or something, if that's what you need."
He shakes his head and pushes the thing out of my hand. It tumbles into the deep—I know it must, because I feel lighter instantly.
"Oh, Bella." He wraps both arms around me, no longer desperately treading water. I feel rather than hear him whispering sorry into my neck.
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The rest of our escape comes off without a hitch. Edward points us toward an area of shore where flattened grass suggests a canoeing access point, which means a campground might be nearby. Without the extra weight, we make our way there slowly but easily. Just because we know how to do things like board a moving vessel undetected doesn't mean we need to keep doing those things, I remind myself. Edward lets the unnecessary grappling hook fall away from his waist, and we toss our snorkeling gear after it as soon as we're on solid ground.
We pick our way through the forest, treading carefully in our bare feet, until we find a footpath. We follow it to a youth group camp. Edward keeps his eye on the canteen building, where a late-night sing-a-long is underway, while I raid the laundry room for clean, dry shirts and jeans, flip-flops, and a backpack. For a moment I marvel that we find clothing that fits us among these campers' things, and then I realize: we're probably the same age.
From there we hitchhike to Port Hardy, where we pay a pilot in crumpled Euros for an illegal perch on the floor of his cargo plane to Calgary, and in Calgary we spend a lot of our remaining cash on one-way tickets to Maui, plus some more inconspicuous travel clothes. We sail through customs with our new identity papers and stumble into a hotel close to the shore—a place I'm sure might be charming in the light of day. As it is, I'm dead on my feet, too tired to register anything but the mattress under me and Edward beside me. I sleep like a rock.
I guess that it's mid-morning when I blink awake and look around to get my bearings. Edward is on the private patio next to a blue plunge pool, playing solitaire or something. I can see his hands moving, arranging piles methodically. He looks moody and nervous; I imagine this will pass over time.
"When did you get up?"
He looks up at the sound of my voice. A tight, joyless smile appears on his face. "Hey. Just getting this out of the way."
I pull a hotel robe on over my T-shirt and shuffle out to join him. I was wrong—he's not sorting cards. He's sorting stacks of money. "What's going on? Where did you get so much cash?"
"Oh . . . I just thought I might as well. It's just so much simpler when things are liquid."
"But what do you even—oh, shit. Did you sell your father's watch? Edward! We can get it back. We don't need any of this! We can find jobs. What's the rush?"
"I did it at that clothes shop in the Calgary airport. A Japanese businessman was admiring it while you were in the changing room."
He doesn't elaborate. My blood starts to boil when I realize what he's doing.
"Two stacks? Edward, what is this?"
"Bella, just hear me out. Hear me out."
"No. No, no, no. You are not doing this to me. Not after everything." I press my palms to my temples. Why did I not see this coming? "You said we would get what we wanted, and we're getting it. We're getting it."
"Bella, will you listen to me, please?" His voice is cracking. "Will you just listen? This is something we have to actually be sure about."
I fold my arms. I wonder how long he's been planning this speech.
"You're free now. There's nothing to make you stay anymore, so I can't ask you to. Not after how I let you down."
I just stare at him. If I could make steam come out of my ears, I would. "This is what you've been keeping from me since Volunteer Park? I knew that detour didn't sit right with you."
"That detour where you took care of yet another thing I failed to think of, like a way to keep your dad safe? It never even occurred to me—and he's the only family you have. We have to deal with this, because . . . I think something is wrong with me. It's like . . . without Sundial calling the shots, I make mistakes all the time. I'm a liability to you."
"Are you finished, Mr. Selective Memory? We never would have cracked the cure without you. Your sharpshooting gets us out of jams all the time. I can go on." But I can see he's not finished. He needs to get it all out.
"But you don't need any of those things from me anymore. Not now. You were eleven when you were assigned to be my partner, and none of it was your decision. Never. But that's all over. Please—the only thing I ever wanted was to see you free. And now you are."
I ignore the slight tremble that disturbs his perfect jawline. Of course this was coming. Of course it was. Because he is who he is.
I stand up. "Okay, Edward. Free. Yeah. I guess I am." And for the first time that I can remember, I do something without calculating it in advance. I drop my robe.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting undressed." I pull my shirt over my head.
"Wha—what?" He rubs the back of his neck and turns his head without exactly looking away.
I make a slow chore of folding up my shirt into a square, standing here in just my underwear. Posture, Swan.
"It's been a rough couple of days. I see a pool, and I feel like swimming. Or dunking. Whatever." I take a deep breath. Underwear next. I curl my toes over the edge of the pool. Naked.
He leaps to his feet, toppling the patio chair. "People—people might be around. People will see you."
"People? People like you?"
I ease my way in, and it's warm. It feels amazing. I moan involuntarily. "Ahh, God. It's like a bath."
He stares at me, arms crossed in front of his chest. I stare back. I realize I'm smiling. I'm almost laughing.
"I don't understand you," he says.
"Yeah, you do. There's just one thing you don't get, Edward Cullen." I dip my head back to wet my hair. "If you don't understand that I love you more than anybody has ever loved anyone, then, no. You don't understand everything. I love you, though. Thick skull and all."
"That's your response." He unfolds his arms and crosses them again, blinking. "You love me."
"I do. I'm saying it now with no one listening but you. Freely. No assignment, no agenda. I love you."
He grins in spite of himself. "So . . . you'll be with me—by choice? We'll stay together?"
"I'm not even going to answer that."
"Just . . . say it again."
I giggle. "I love you. And I love saying it, too. I'll tell you something: I'm glad that gold is at the bottom of the ocean, because we did nothing to earn it. And I know we can be proud of everything we do from now on. That's freedom. Now will you get in the water with me?"
He strips down and steps in. "Oh. It's not even that deep."
"You're safe. We'll stick with waist-deep pools from now on."
"Come here."
When his arms wrap around me in the water, I feel his heart beating next to mine.
"I thought I had to lose you. I thought for sure."
"Just let it go."
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Later on, inside, I lie on my stomach and he runs the tips of his fingers along my back where I have the beginnings of a sunburn.
"You're going to have the weirdest tan lines," he says. "I think this is the shape of my arm where I was hugging you."
"We'll have to work on that, then. Even it out."
"Hmm." I feel his lips brush my shoulder lightly, then more insistent. "Does it sting?"
"No. It might in the morning."
"I don't want to hurt you." His voice is gravelly and low. His hands move to my hips, and his lips move between my shoulder blades. "But I don't want to wait anymore."
"Oh. Oh, God." I gasp and arch my back, trying to get closer to him. "I know."
He pulls my hair away from my neck with one hand, still kissing me roughly, and slips his other arm around my waist. His fingers are strong on my skin. "Turn over."
I roll and pull him toward me, opening my legs for him. "Edward. Yes." He crawls closer, framing my head with his arms. For the first time ever, he doesn't try to hold himself away from me. I feel everything. And for the first time ever, it feels like we're truly alone together.
"I love you so much." His hands and lips are moving everywhere, burning me up, turning me pink with blood flow and want. "I want to try to make you feel good. Right now."
"Ungh." I pull and rock. He draws moans from me with his strong fingers and his brave voice in my ear asking is this right? Like this? He pants, gleams with sweat. When I finally buck and tremble under his hand, he groans against my skin, kisses me hard enough to bruise our lips, then steadies and eases closer, closer. When I finally have him inside me, I hear myself cry out, surprised by my own voice.
"Oh my God." He's breathing sharp, whispery breaths onto my face. "You good? I know it hurts." He clasps my hand.
"I'm okay. That mostly wasn't pain."
"You've never made that noise in your life before." Saying that to me seems to do something to him, and he starts moving faster, his thrusts breathless, guttural and erratic. It's all I can do to just want him closer, and have him closer, over and over, rocking together. My sweet, sweet everything. I watch his face when he comes, open and unguarded, and feel the sounds he makes resonating through his chest and mine. I close my eyes and feel his weight, the strength of his arms around me, my body aching and satisfied. Maybe I'll never hear his voice vibrating through the SatCom again, but if it's between that and feeling the heat and breath of his words instead, there's no contest.
After a few moments, he props himself on one elbow, gazing down at me, passing his warm palm all along my body.
He kisses me softly on the lips, stirring syrupy standby nerve endings that must lurk below the freshly depleted ones, and then lifts his head again. He opens and closes his mouth, then grins.
"What?"
"You. Us. I—I hoped."
"Yeah. You weren't sure?" I smooth a flopping section of hair away from his forehead. It's still damp with sweat. My best friend.
"It was hard to be sure. Extraordinary circumstances and all that."
I nod. I know just what he means. He spreads his hand out below my ribs to span my belly.
"That first week, after I moved to Seattle?"
"Yeah?"
"When you found my computer?"
"Yeah?" I remember it. His screen full of wet white T-shirts.
"I'm sorry I embarrassed you."
"It wasn't that bad." I smile to think of how pink his ears were. "I guess if I ever thought of it again, I . . . pretended you were thinking of me."
He traces his knuckles across my collarbone and down between my breasts, then up again to brush my nipple lightly. "Of course I was."
"You pretty much have to say that now."
"You're forgetting I have a photographic memory. It was raining that day, wasn't it? By the skate benches. Your shirt was kind of thin."
"You gave me your hoodie."
"Exactly. To cover up. It was a confusing time."
I cackle with laughter, remembering. Realizing. That's when he gives me that long, slow picture-taking blink of his and gathers me closer. I'm making a memory, too. Maybe it's as strong and enduring as his will be.
We hole up in the hotel for days, delaying making a decision about where to go next. We check the news but are content just to know the cure is getting to people who need it. The investigation concerning Aro may take time. We subsist on room service, tipping the waiter extra when he says Sorry for the delay, but we've been slammed since they lifted the travel advisory. It means the danger of the epidemic has passed. We peek out the window at what must be Maui: blue skies and strange birds, planes flying overhead. The sound of the surf crashing nearby reminds me of home, but then again not.
We're ready to venture out for a dip in the ocean, so Edward flips on the T.V. and checks for a weather report.
"Hold on," I say. "Superflu update. Turn it up. I want to hear the new numbers."
A woman with shiny dark hair stands in front of the CDC headquarters in Atlanta. The inset frame floating beside her head scrolls images of an assembly line and white-coated medical professionals making a human chain to pass packages into a nursing home. She's in the middle of a report about distribution.
". . . what's behind the logistics of delivering the miraculous cure. Twenty million doses have been manufactured and distributed to those most at risk, with an additional seventy million on order. Reports of supply line efficiencies have been impressive, authorities say, thanks to a seamless infrastructure and nimble manufacturing practices of the Athenodora Medical Corporation. Congress and the CDC today are praising the foresight shown by Athenodora's principal shareholder, venture capitalist Aro Marcus. His financial capability to produce the desperately awaited cure, he says, was partly thanks to an aggressive strategy in the gold futures market. The perfect storm of science and calculated investment, he says, enabled him to help save thousands of lives. If he can also take that to the bank, well, that's one windfall most Americans will say is well deserved. Signing off for U.S. Nightly News."
"Jesus Christ." Edward hits the power button. The two of us sit motionless on the edge of the bed, stunned. I can still see the ghost of Aro's image before my eyes—that last thing that flashed on the screen. His fox-like eyes, his thin lips pulled into a smug grin.
"No wonder we slipped away so easily. Of course." What did he say to us when we argued that final time? This will not end how you imagine. I feel sick.
Edward's face is as white as a sheet.
"He set us up. He set us up and . . . we've made him rich." He buries his face in his hands.
"Edward." I run my hands over the planes of his shoulders.
"I know." He stands up and starts pacing back and forth, already looking for his shoes.
It can't end like this. We have to go back.
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