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“Everyone deserves a friend like Magda,” I said in response. The new revelation about the pastillas negras had my skin crawling. I met his eye. “When we get home, you are going to send her a letter for me, and you are going to tell her to stop taking the pills. Tell her to flush them down the toilet or something.”
He looked at me, studying my features.
“I will,” he said after a moment’s pause. Then, to my uneasy shock, he continued talking. “Growing up as an Élite was grueling. There were always other people… but there were hardly any real friends.”
I laughed, and it sounded strange. I should have been too sobered by that knowledge to be sniggering. Laughing was wrong when the world was so horrible. Right?
No,something inside of me said.
“Then who are those people you keep inviting over?”
“A few are friends. Many are acquaintances. Most are predators disguised as pretentious assholes.” He laughed again at his own joke. “I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to anyone how I talk to you.”
I looked at him, and something stirred inside of me. Laughing with him felt good.
He was becoming more than my mentor. He was someone who looked as lost and alone as I felt. I reached out, meaning to touch his hand.
I chickened out at the last moment.
“You are… a great mentor,” I whispered. “Maybe, ease up with the yelling. And explain things more, you enormous bastard.”
He narrowed his eyes at me and then laughed. “Fair enough.” He paused again, and then said simply, “Should we call a truce?”
I looked at him, thinking about every interaction we’d had together. The insults, the fiery anger, the fighting, the power struggles. The ugliness that came with being an Élite. He trusted me, but could I trust him? The more I thought, the more I knew it would be dangerous to accept a ceasefire.
I shook my head, and his eyes gleamed. “No.”
Several emotions crossed his face, some of which I couldn’t identify. I looked away before my own eyes could betray me.
We were two people, stuck on the rails of our upbringings. Both of us were stubborn, strong, and prideful. But for a moment, as we talked over our roasting meat, we became something more. Our stand-off with death had changed everything.
We both knew what it was like to be pushed aside, to be overlooked, and to have our wants be completely outshone by others. We had seen the worst life had to offer.
For the rest of the night, Antonio spoke gentler, and I could tell he was consciously doing so. The snide remarks were slower to flick off my tongue. As I watched his features in the firelight, something sparked inside of me.
His words resonated deeply with me and I felt like I was looking into his soul. A powerful connection formed between us, and I was holding on tightly.
That was something dangerous and contrary to my tightly-held plans. Something I could never admit to anyone—least of all myself.
Suddenly, a howl pierced the night. I shot up. More howls followed. “Shit, are those the wolves?” I asked.
Antonio sat next to me. Not quite touching. He picked up one of the metal pans and started hitting a rock against it. “Make noise,” he hissed.
The howling cut off abruptly.
The next one was far away.
What he was doing was working. I grinned and picked up my dish. I hit it against my hand, my foot, Antonio’s rock.
It was silly. He laughed, and I laughed.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, not at all angry.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m protecting you.”
That elicited a boisterous laugh from him. Looking at his beautiful face in the firelight, it was almost too much to handle.
Then, his eyes darted to his sleeping bag, and then back at me. My arms wrapped around my chest from the chill.
