Jackson shrugs. “Don’t know. Not blue. And not Drau gray.”
“Tons of people have blue eyes.” A weak protest, because I know what he’s going to say next even before he says it.
“Not like yours.”
It’s the truth. My eyes always make people stare the first time they meet me.
“Explain,” I say, then add, “Please.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him look around. He’s evaluating the possibility that anyone might be listening. He leans over and pushes my window shut. “Remember I told you about our ancestors. About how they became part of humanity, hiding in plain sight. They had children and grandchildren. . . .”
“Yes.”
“My eyes, and yours, are because we’re rare progeny, ones with a stronger-than-normal strain of a particular set of alleles.”
“Alleles are genes, right?”
“Forms of a gene. In this case, you have a stronger strain of nonhuman DNA.”
“So Tyrone and Luka have alien genes, and you and I have alien supergenes?”
He opens his mouth, closes it, shrugs. “I guess you could put it that way. The genetics of it don’t really matter. What matters is the result. You’re stronger, faster, more resilient than most people.”
“I thought that was because of kendo and my running.”
“In part, but that’s not the whole of it. And you see things the others don’t.”
“By “the others” you mean Luka and Tyrone.”
He nods.
“And the things I see . . . you mean the other sections of the lobby and the other people in those sections. Other . . . teams,” I finish, even though I know he’s always telling me we’re not a team. Every man for himself. But when it comes down to it, he’s more of a team player than any one of us. He’s watched out for me. I feel like he watches out for all of us. “And you see them, too. The others.”
“Yes.”
“So tell me about those teams. Do we ever work with them? Do they know about us? Do—”
Jackson reaches for me and cups my cheeks with his palms. My questions die an abrupt death. His hands are warm against my skin, his palms callused where they meet his fingers. “I have to go,” he says. “And that was more than five questions.”
He leans a little closer.
“Wait,” I whisper, frozen in place, heart pounding, half hoping, half dreading that he’ll close the distance between us and touch his lips to mine. “You can’t go.”
“Yeah”—he smiles a little—“I can.” His thumb sweeps across my lower lip. My breath locks in my throat. “I have to.”
“Why did you come here tonight?” My voice sounds weird, tight and strangled.
“Because you needed some answers. Because it felt wrong to leave you hanging, thinking I was a Drau shell. Because despite the fact that it goes against everything I am and everything I need to be, I can’t stand the thought of you here, alone, wondering and worrying.”
“What do you mean? What do you need to be?”
“Now you’re way past five questions,” he says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come yesterday or earlier today, Miki. There really was somewhere I needed to be.”
I want to see his eyes. I want to look at him, not his glasses when we speak. I reach up, but he catches my wrist and holds it.
“One more reason, probably the most important one,” he murmurs. “I came because I wanted to see you.” He lets go of my wrist and takes a step away. “I have to go.”
“Wait, please, last question, I promise. Why did Richelle die?” I’m not asking the mechanics of it, and I know he knows that. I’m asking why he didn’t save her, but I’m not cruel enough to phrase it that way.
“Richelle was the best at the game. She knew how to get in and get out. She knew that when her con started to go orange, she needed to drop back to defensive position and watch her own ass. She knew not to let it turn red.” He pauses, and I wonder if he’s remembering as I am the way he told me not to let my con turn red. “I can’t be everywhere at once, Miki. I was watching your back and Tyrone’s. Richelle made the choice to attack rather than defend, and I couldn’t get to her fast enough. So she’s dead.”
His tone is completely flat, not a shred of emotion, and that makes what he’s saying all the more heartbreaking. Whatever words he’s used about Richelle’s choices, he blames himself, and it’s eating him alive.
Every man for himself. Except him. He thinks it’s the best way to keep his team alive. I think he’s wrong, but now’s not the moment to tell him that.
“Jackson,” I whisper, my heart breaking for him. Without thinking about it, I step close and flatten my palm on his chest, over his heart. I feel the steady drum of his heartbeat and the tension arcing through his body. I don’t bother to tell him it isn’t his fault. He won’t believe me.
He grabs my wrist and turns my hand, then lowers his head and presses his lips to my palm. Electricity dances through me, making me gasp.
His lips move to the crease of my wrist.