I hesitate before answering. “Adam is a great soldier.”
“Is that all?”
My heart is pounding so hard. Too hard.
Warner looks away, carefully neutralizes his expression, his tone. “You care for him.”
It’s not a question.
“Yes,” I manage to say. “Of course I do.”
“And what does that entail, exactly?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I lie.
Warner is staring at the wall, holding himself very still, his eyes revealing nothing of what he’s really thinking, what he’s feeling. “Do you love him?”
I’m stunned.
I can’t even imagine what it must cost him to ask this question so directly. I almost admire him for being brave enough to do it.
But for the first time, I’m not really sure what to say. If this were one week ago, two weeks ago, I would’ve answered without hesitation. I would’ve known, definitively, that I loved Adam, and I wouldn’t have been afraid to say so. But now I can’t help but wonder if I even know what love is; if what I felt for Adam was love or just a mix of deep affection and physical attraction. Because if I loved him—if I really, truly loved him—would I hesitate now? Would I so easily be able to detach myself from his life? His pain?
I’ve worried so much about Adam these past weeks—the effects of his training, the news of his father—but I don’t know if it’s been out of love, or if it’s been out of guilt. He left everything for me; because he wanted to be with me. But as much as it pains me to admit it, I know I didn’t run away to be with him. Adam wasn’t my main reason; he wasn’t the driving force.
I ran away for me. Because I wanted to be free.
“Juliette?”
Warner’s soft whisper brings me back to the present, hauls me up and into myself, jarring my consciousness back to reality. I’m afraid to dwell on the truths I’ve just uncovered.
I meet Warner’s eyes. “Yes?”
“Do you love him?” he asks again, more quietly this time.
And I suddenly have to force myself to say three words I never, ever thought I’d say. “I don’t know.”
Warner closes his eyes.
He exhales, the tension clear in his shoulders and in the line of his jaw and when he finally looks at me again there are stories in his eyes, thoughts and feelings and whispers of things I’ve never even seen before. Truths he might never bring himself to say; impossible things and unbelievable things and an abundance of feeling I’ve never thought him capable of. His whole body seems to relax in relief.
I don’t know this boy standing before me. He’s a perfect stranger, an entirely different being; the type of person I might never have known if my parents hadn’t tossed me away.
“Juliette,” he whispers.
I’m only now realizing just how close he is. I could press my face against his neck if I wanted to. Could place my hands on his chest if I wanted to.
If I wanted to.
“I’d really love for you to come back with me,” he says.
“I can’t,” I say to him, heart racing suddenly. “I have to stay here.”
“But it’s not practical,” he says. “We need to plan. We need to talk strategy—it could take days—”
“I already have a plan.”
His eyebrows fly up and I tilt my head, fixing him with a hard look before I reach for the door.