“Well, I support your decision.” Luke reaches out and touches my arm with the tips of his fingers. I look down at his hand. He pulls it away and runs it through his hair. “I want you to be happy.”
“Me too.” I turn my body toward him and lean my head against the concrete wall. “You know, the danger and all that stuff … I could live with it. I mean, I really like the idea of helping people. Like saving that girl today, I wasn’t remotely scared when I was doing it. I think I just hate that I can never have a real life. I can never get close to anybody. I hate having to leave with the clothes on my back in the middle of the night and never see the people I care about ever again. That’s the part of this job I have a hard time dealing with. I don’t ever want to disappear and have someone wonder what happened to me for the rest of their life.”
Luke’s eyes widen as my words answer the question that has been spinning on repeat in his head for days. “So that’s why,” he finally says, his voice barely audible.
“I’m so sorry, Luke,” I say and look into his eyes so he knows I mean it.
“I knew there had to be a reason,” Luke says, his voice soft and still, his eyes dropping to the floor, hiding what’s written inside. “I just never thought you’d hurt me like that. Even under these absurd circumstances.”
I reach out and place my hand on his wrist. “After Templeton, I found out how bad the mission went and I could feel it. That threat of having to leave again. I needed you to hate me. I thought kissing that guy would make you never want to talk to me again.”
“It almost worked,” he says, pulling his hand away. His face scrunches as the night comes back to him.
That’s the part that has haunted me: the broken look on his face after he saw me kiss Oliver. The hurt behind his eyes crushed me then and crushes me now.
“I wish I could tell you I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I did. I figured it’d be less painful than finding out that I just disappeared. I didn’t want you to come knock on my door and have no one answer or for my phone to ring straight to some automated voice saying my number was no longer in service. For you to search for me. I know you. I know you’d worry about me forever.”
We hold each other’s stare for a second. I want to ask him what happens now. What happens to us? Could he still love me? I open my mouth to speak, then close it. Afraid of the answer. Maybe I’m too late. Maybe he doesn’t feel that way about me anymore. And if he doesn’t, I don’t think I want to know.
“Luke,” Sam’s voice says from the doorway. We turn to look at her. “We need to start preparing for the mission so we need to get you home.”
“Has someone done a sweep of the area?” I ask, my heart compressing anxious beats in my heavy chest.
“We’ve done a complete check,” Sam replies, nodding. “He’s safe.”
“Okay, great,” I say and rock myself off the floor, my legs carrying me quickly into the weapons room, where I grab my Glock pistol. “Just let me take him home with Cooper or something and I’ll come back and we can go over the mission with CORE.”
“Reagan,” Sam says softly. And just by the way she says my name I already know the words that linger on the other side of her turned-down lips.
“Do you want me to drive or do you want to drive?” I ask, looking around for the keys, stalling the inevitable. My pulse pounding against my neck, fluttering beats of hope and fear.
“Reagan,” Sam says again, now at my side, but I avoid looking at her, rationalizing that maybe if I don’t stare directly at her, she won’t say it. She does anyway. “There’s no way you can be involved with the mission.”
“Why not?” I ask coolly, loading rounds of ammunition into my clip and avoiding her eyes.
“Sweetie, there’s about a dozen reasons why,” Sam replies and I have to suppress the instantaneous urge to remind her how much I hate being called sweetie. Starting a sentence with “sweetie” is like immediately telling someone they’re dumb or wrong. Or both.
“Well, there are about one hundred reasons why I should be involved,” I answer, tucking my gun into the back of my pants.
“Reagan, be reasonable here,” Sam replies, firmly grabbing my arm. “As much as I want you there, even think we need you there, you are not a full agent. You’re emotionally compromised. And on top of that, you are the original target. We need to get you out of Ohio and to Langley tonight. If you were in my shoes, you know you’d make the same exact call.”
My eyes stare hard at the sharp blades lined up on the metal counter, waiting to be packed and put on board a jet bound for Colombia. With my free hand, I reach out and touch one of the serrated edges. I run my finger carefully along each bump and imagine plunging it into Torres’s neck. I have to get down there. I have to at least be in the country. And if Sam won’t take me, I’ll get there myself.
“I understand,” I lie, my voice shrinking.