The Gambit (17 page)

I awoke in tears. When I slipped away from the dream, the crying had begun. Hearing Cole’s voice, even in a dream, was enough to make me hysterical.

He’s
gone
.

Hearing those words in my head made me blubber.

I was still naked. The towel hung loosely at my waist, and I had somehow managed to make my way onto the bed in the middle of the night. I shivered; cold air sneaked in through the cracks in the door. The weather stripping was gone. Angrily, I wiped the tears from my eyes and sat up. In the mirror on the dresser, I stared back at my new appearance. Bleach-blond Owen Marina. I hoped this would help conceal my identity. The chase I endured yesterday was exhausting. If I could, I’d stop running from them. But what else could I do?

I couldn’t run forever, though. I needed a plan. I needed
answers
.

My dream felt so real, so vivid. Our conversation that day was when I finally agreed to go along with his plan. It took him weeks to convince me. The last words he said before I woke up still echoed in my mind.

“One day Owen, I’ll be gone. The real question for you is, once you’ve left this world…how do you want to be remembered?”

His voice caused me to cry again. I never imagined he would be gone so soon.

That question—how did I want to be remembered? It was what sold me, that day. It made me realize that my effort could go towards a cause that was bigger than myself…something that could potentially change the course of history. In the months following the Confinement, after our party’s inception, he was right. It
did
spread like wildfire. From the soot-covered ground, we emerged.

Now, though, the words which Cole said the most often during our time in the Confinement plagued me. That we being assigned bunks side-by-side was
fate
. I sat here, on this creaky old bed, all alone, naked and depressed. How could
this
have been our fate? It didn’t add up. Everything we had worked for was in the shitter. I was boxed in and had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. I just hoped that fate had something else up its sleeve. Something that would save me from this situation—a miracle.

“Have a good one,” I said as I tipped the taxi driver. He pulled off and I turned around to face the coffee shop. It was in a long strip mall. I left my bike in the bushes back at the hotel, it wasn’t worth the risk being seen on it. I would ride it during the night.

From the outside, this coffee shop appeared typical to the South. It was in a strip mall, with a catchy name to stand out. The weather was overcast, and as I walked in the warmth relieved me from the cold.

Ahh, that smell. Coffee overwhelmed my senses. It was my life-blood.

As the door closed behind me, I walked into line. Behind my sunglasses I was glancing around at everyone, and not a single person seemed to have noticed my entrance. Or, at least, they didn’t know who I
really
was.

More people came into the shop and stood behind me. The baristas were swamped, and the line was kind of misshapen and awkward. The woman in front of me stepped forward. When I followed, I caught the sweet smell of coconut and a light perfume.

A guy walked from behind and cut in front of the woman ahead of me. He patted the guy’s back and they began conversing. The woman took a step back to give him room, as did I.

I blinked. Immediately I flashed back to snow swirling around, and I saw the man cut in front of the pregnant mother and child during the Confinement. I tried to forget his face, but anger percolated throughout my body.

Should I say something?

If I drew attention to myself, I could possibly be recognized. Was the principle more important than my safety?

“Always do what is right, Owen
…
even if it’s not easy.”
My mother’s voice echoed. Emotion tugged at my soul as I heard it.

I reached over the woman’s head and tapped the man who cut in line on the shoulder.

“Hey man, you passed all of us in the line,” I said.

He turned back with an irritated demeanor.

“I just hopped in line with my friend,” he explained.

“Well, that isn’t right, passing all of us.”

He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

“My bad, man,” he said apologetically but didn’t move to the back of the line.

I strained to ignore my gut. It was pushing me to say more. I
knew
I couldn’t, though. It was far too risky. The brunette who was between us had slid sideways when I told the man he had passed us. She hadn’t acknowledged that anything had occurred.

After a few minutes, I reached the counter.

“What can I get you today?” the chipper woman asked.

“Coffee with milk, please.”

“Steamed or cold?”

“Cold, two-percent is all right.”

“Sure thing! Is that all for you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’ll be $2.39,” she said.

I studied her expression as she assisted me. I was looking for indications of whether or not she knew who I was. On the outside, I tried to appear calm. Internally, I was petrified. For the past year, there hadn’t been a public place I could go without being recognized. I hoped my disguise was enough. I wore sunglasses and the hoodie Laura bought me last night. My goal was to keep my face as concealed as possible.

“Here you go,” the barista said and gave me my coffee.

I didn’t smile and kept a straight face.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

I kept my head low as I walked to the corner of the room. I sat at a two-top table against the window. Part of me wanted to face away from everyone, but something inside told me it would be smarter to keep an eye on the other customers. Many of them were typing away on their MacBooks with their earbuds in. None of which were paying attention to me, and that was
exactly
what I wanted.

I sipped my coffee and let my eyes roam around the room. The anonymity of the sunglasses was comforting. I could just stare at people and they had no idea I was looking.

I locked eyes with a woman. She immediately looked down at her phone.

It was the brunette that was standing in front of me in line. I could tell from her walnut-colored locks. Now that I could see her face, I studied her closer. She had big, almond-shaped eyes. Her skin was smooth and unblemished. Judging by her tan, she was Italian, or Hispanic. She glanced up at me again.

Then she looked down at her phone and up at me again.

Did she recognize me?

Shit. The angle she held her phone at seemed like she was looking at a picture or something. I drank more of my coffee and tilted my head away from her.

Her eyes were on me. I could feel it.

I looked over at her, and when I did, she glanced back down at her phone quickly. This time, I turned away from her direction and used my hand to prop up my head. This woman knew who I was, and I wasn’t about to let her scrutinize my appearance any further. I fucked up. I should have sat facing away from the crowd. My plan backfired.

The chair in front of me slid back. The woman sat down and scooted it in. Startled, I just stared at her. She pulled together her pea coat and stared back at me with pursed lips, her facial muscles taut. She had high cheekbones. I found her very attractive.

“Can I help you?” I asked, standoffish.

“Actually,” she began, “I was hoping you can.”

“Uh…there’s nothing I can help you with. I asked you because you just nonchalantly sat with me, and you’re a total stranger.”

She smiled and revealed perfect white teeth.

“I am a total stranger, you’re right…but
you
aren’t.”

She turned her iPhone around and I saw a picture of me from a news article a few weeks ago. My stomach felt like it fell out of my ass.

“I think I’m gonna head out,” I announced and stood up.

She grabbed my wrist, clutching it tight. I stared at her startled.

“
Wait
,”
she demanded.

My jaw clenched. Our eyes were locked in a stare. I slowly sat back down, silent, and she released her grasp on my wrist. She brushed her hair behind her shoulder, and in her caramel eyes I saw something I had seen before—
determination
. There was a fire burning behind them…a fire lit with passion. It was so strong I could feel it across the table. It reminded me of how Cole’s eyes would look when he talked to me about our party, in the beginning.

“What?” I muttered under my breath.

“I am a journalist for the Raleigh News and Observer. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions regarding the recent accusations of your involvement in the attack on the final debate.”

“Are you out of your mind?” I sneered.

“No, I’m not actually—”

“You must be. Look, miss, no offense to your profession,” I leaned in, whispering, “but the last thing I want to do is have another reporter sensationalize me in the news all for a big bonus. I’ve been through it a hundred times. You say one thing, and they always tweak it to fit their story.”

She shook her head with disdain.

“You know, as condescending your view is of us, I’m surprised you’ve become as popular as you are.”

“I guess to the media I’m just another pretty face.”

“Seems like it,” she scoffed. “But thank you, for generalizing me, and lumping me in with reporters I’ve never even met. Despite what you may think, we aren’t all the same.”

“Why should I believe you’re any different?”

“Firstly, I’m not a
reporter
. I’m a journalist. Secondly, I agree that much of the news you see on TV, the internet, or newspaper, is skewed by the opinion of the person who wrote it. Or worse, their boss, or someone else’s opinion. I prefer to conduct myself in a more ‘old fashion’ manner. Journalism is dead. I hope to revive it.”

There it was again—the fire behind her eyes, the passion. It was
so
attractive.

You can’t stay here. She knows who you are. You must leave.