“There you are,” he says brightly. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Josh takes a few steps back and gives me some room. Maybe he noticed how my stance changed from relaxed to rigid in no more than a heartbeat. Unfortunately, Patrick doesn’t seem to pick up on it at all.
“You enjoying yourself?” he asks Josh, swatting him hard on the back.
Josh shrugs. “Yeah, sure.”
“Good,” Patrick says. “Let me know if you need anything.”
But even though his words are kind, the light in his eyes has dimmed, and he’s clenching his jaw like he always does when he’s worried.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers to me. “Did I do something to piss you off?”
The minute I see his brow crease with concern, I start to doubt my emotions. This is Patrick. My best friend. He’d never do anything to hurt me. Not intentionally, anyway. Still, I feel the need to tell him how disturbing it was to see him stealing some of my dad’s thunder. It may be unreasonable of me, and a bitchy thing to do, considering how sensitive he is. But I can’t hold it in. I just can’t.
“What was that in there?” I lean in and whisper, gesturing to the grand ballroom.
“What was what?” Patrick’s light blue eyes flicker with confusion.
“Your mom, saying that you made Elusion possible.” The words are coming out all accusatory, so I take a deep breath and try to steady myself by putting my hands on my hips. “It just didn’t feel right.”
Patrick shoves his hands in his pockets and glances at Josh, who has turned his back to us a little.
“Regan, there are a lot of investors at this party. My mom is only trying to remind them that we’ve got Elusion under control. You know, since the original creator isn’t in the picture anymore,” he explains, looking at me again, his voice almost pleading. “Your dad would understand.”
What Patrick says is perfectly rational, and I know it should comfort me, but the tone he takes really gets under my skin. Your dad would understand. It sounds like he’s once again insinuating he knew my dad better than I did, and even though that’s probably true, I don’t appreciate the reminder.
“Maybe he would, but I don’t,” I say.
“Well, maybe if you hadn’t walked out, you would have,” Patrick snaps. He’s clearly not happy with how this conversation is going. “I just made a little speech in there, and all I did was talk about David, how much he did for Orexis and for me. Give me some credit. Don’t you think I miss him too?”
Patrick and I hardly ever fight, but if we keep going like this, one of us is bound to take us into a battle.
“I think I should go home, Pat.”
“You don’t have to leave,” he says with a deep sigh, like he’s trying to surrender. He reaches for my hands and takes them in his. “Stay. After everyone goes home, we can go to Elusion together. It’s been so long since we’ve done that.”
It’s true, but that’s no accident. I haven’t told him that I’ve only used my Equip once since my dad died.
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I say. “We’ll talk later. Just go back inside and enjoy the rest of the party.”
Patrick’s fingers slip away from mine. “At least let me call you a car. It’s getting late.”
“I can take her home,” Josh pipes up.
Patrick and I both look at him, surprised. I think we both forgot he was standing a few feet away.
“Are you sure?” Patrick asks. “She lives in the Historic Sector, so it’s a long drive.”
“I don’t mind,” Josh replies, walking toward Patrick and giving him a nod of reassurance. Then he glances at me, his lips parting into a small smile. “It’s a beautiful night.”
FOUR
MY HEART RACES AS JOSH’S HIGH-SPEED electric motorcycle weaves between oversize sedans and double trailer trucks, the headlight carving a path through the dark night. The skyscrapers that surround Jefferson Highway—the six-lane main drag that leads to the Historic Sector and continues on into the city—are zooming by us so fast they form a long, gray haze along the side of the road. If my mom ever knew I was on one of these “donor cycles” (that’s what people at her hospital call them), she would definitely have a stroke. But Josh and I are wearing helmets with built-in O2 filters, so we’ve taken that precaution, at least.
Most of my dress is bunched up around my thighs, but part of the hem is trailing above the back wheel like an emerald-colored plume. My hands are placed on either side of Josh’s waist, and my chest is pressed up against his back. I can’t help but feel what life at the academy has done to his body, and suddenly I’m able to forget how the harsh chill of the wind is practically leaving a coat of frost on my skin.
But then the motorcycle veers off an exit ramp, and after a mile or two it screeches to a halt. Josh cuts the engine and parallel parks in between two Florapetro-powered econocars. I rub my arms to bring some heat back to them and look up at the silver tower looming above us. With space in Detroit at a premium and air quality levels unpredictable, this type of building has been springing up all over recently. In fact, almost all the historic landmarks on Jefferson have been replaced by these identical, narrow pillars with panoramic windows hidden by decorative Florapetro covers that only open when air quality levels allow a view worth seeing. The tower we’re sitting in front of has a flashing two-story MealFreeze sign on it.
Josh twists around to give me a soft smile. “Hungry? I know we had appetizers but—”
“Sure,” I say through the helmet mic, before he even has time to finish his sentence.
As nice as the ride was, it would feel good to get both feet on the ground.
He grins and steps off the chopper, holding it steady for me. I gather my skirt and awkwardly slide off. Before I know it, Josh is shooting me a look, and I’m not sure what to make of it. He seems annoyed or frustrated for some reason, and then he starts unbuttoning and pulling off his military jacket, revealing a plain white crew-neck tee underneath. Josh puts the jacket around my shoulders without saying a word.
I smile, thinking that he might be mad at himself for not having offered his jacket to me earlier, like before we took off on his motorbike.
“What is this place?” I ask, pulling the lapels across my chest as we begin to poke our way across the crowded sidewalk.
Josh gestures at a passerby who is holding an extra-large red plastic cup with a yellow straw in it. “You’ve never had a MealFreeze?”
“Nope,” I say.
“It’s the food of the future,” he replies, his amber eyes widening with excitement. “One six-ounce drink gives you all the protein, carbs, and vitamins of an entire meal. We have them a lot at the academy.”
The doors of the MealFreeze open automatically, and we’re treated to a blast of icy refined air as soon we take off our helmets. I inhale deeply, trying to ignore the way my heart is banging against my rib cage, which I reassure myself is just a residual postmotorcycle reaction.