Peter shook his head. “No, I mean, he isn’t only serious, he isn’t only tough.” He smiled. “Just look at how he treats Frida. With her, he’s a softie.”
“Only with her.”
“Maybe, but maybe not.”
Cal thought they were done talking, but then Peter said, “You’re acting differently around Frida.” He spoke so earnestly, Cal couldn’t be angry.
“I am?”
“You seem distracted, like you aren’t paying attention to her. You don’t want to make her feel vulnerable, not at a time like this. She needs to know you’re there for her, so that she doesn’t confide in anyone else.”
“She knows.”
“I don’t mean to pry,” Peter said. “We just want to make sure she’s happy. That’s she’s ready for the Vote.” He seemed about to say something else but stayed silent.
Once they’d reached the doorway, Cal had to close his eyes against the sun. When he opened them again, Peter was already walking away.
Cal didn’t want to admit it, but recently he’d become so consumed by the meetings, he’d stopped thinking much about Frida. He still thought about their baby, suspended impossibly within her like a galaxy of color in a glass marble, and about the Vote, what it might mean for them, their future. But that was their life, something shared, handed back and forth between them. Frida herself had drifted from his mind. He didn’t think about whom she might be hanging out with when they weren’t together, or how she was feeling, or even how she looked: someone had trimmed her hair and given her a pair of men’s boots to wear, and he hadn’t noticed either until she pointed them out. “Hel-lo?” she’d said, tapping her toe, pretending to be upset by his absentmindedness. Or pretending to be pretending. He could see that she was a little hurt by his cluelessness. It had been days since he’d really looked at her.
Just the night before, she’d nuzzled into him in bed, and he’d said, “I’ve got my period,” which was their shorthand for being too tired for sex. She’d laughed and given a fake whimper, and he’d wondered if there was something truthful to her little cry. He’d grabbed her hand then, so that she wouldn’t feel rejected. He must have fallen asleep soon after, though, because he couldn’t remember what had happened next.
Someone had to have let go of the other’s hand first.
Peter was right; he was distracted, as stupid as it was. At first he was consumed by the connections between Plank and the Group, and he’d started to wonder if Toni had recruited Sailor and the others. Now, he was trying to understand the Land’s connection to Pines. He didn’t know what he’d tell Frida or if he’d tell her at all. He was still trying to make sense of it himself.
He thought about what Micah and the others had said about Anika. Frida probably had no idea that the men were concerned about the women’s morning baking sessions. They didn’t want Frida to confide in Anika about the baby. Was that all? Whatever their suspicions, Frida would go on being unaware of them because Cal wouldn’t say anything. He felt a prick of guilt at that, but nothing more. He didn’t want to tell her. Why alarm her? Besides, if Frida was as cunning as she thought she was, she’d figure out their suspicions on her own. And if he told her, she’d probably just laugh. “Do they think we’re getting freaky in there?” she might say, and brush off the men’s concerns as silly.
On his way back to the Hotel, Dave and Sailor stopped him to ask if he wanted to join them on security after dinner. “It’s the night shift,” Sailor said. “So you better take a nap.”
“Sounds good,” he said, and smiled.
He tried not to seem too eager. He remembered his arrival here almost two weeks before, how he and Frida had rounded one Form and then another, his mouth so dry it felt like he’d swallowed a handful of pebbles. And Sailor, stepping forward with his fake-brave grimace, like someone’s pest of a little brother, piggybacking on a game of cowboys and Indians.
If he and Frida were voted out and they had to leave the Land, how would they become an army of two again? Three, with the child. At first, Cal couldn’t wait to get away from these people, from her brother. Now he found himself happy to awake on their sharp hay mattress, thoughts of the meetings, of the Land, filling his mind.
Micah, that sneaky bastard. He knew Cal would like it here. It was fun.
He went to find Frida in the kitchen. As soon as he saw her, standing at the worktable before a pile of chopped onions, he remembered what Peter had said about making sure she didn’t feel vulnerable. She did look a little lonely, he thought, as she pushed the pile of glistening, weeping onions into a small hill. He called out her name.
In front of everyone, he put his hands on her shoulders. With his thumbs he searched for the knots along her shoulder blades; there they were. He was a terrible masseuse—she’d always complained about it—but that didn’t stop him from trying.
“Let’s go to the Bath,” he said.