Mila 2.0: Renegade

“Thanks.” No need to tell him I was on version two already since the last time we’d met.

At least not yet.

The bed creaked like an old floorboard when he shifted his weight. His gaze skimmed me again, taking in my bare shoulders, dampened from where my hair dripped down, and then his eyes dropped to his lap again. He cleared his throat and that tiny “ahem” crackled between us.

I crossed my arms, his unease making me all too aware of the fact that I was in a motel room with a boy, not a chaperone or parent in sight, and oh by the way, we were going to spend the night together.

For the second time in under two minutes, heat crawled up my cheeks. Not spend the night, spend the night. But still. When I’d called Hunter and begged him to come help me, the potential for extreme awkwardness hadn’t really been front and center in my mind. I’d been consumed with grief and panic. Thoughts of Hunter had gotten me through some of the darkest moments—before my mother died in my arms. Then thoughts weren’t enough. I needed someone I could trust. Even though we’d only known each other for a few weeks, the way Hunter looked at me as though I were important, as though I mattered … it made me feel safe. There was no one else I could call.

Hunter started tapping a drumbeat on his thigh—a nervous habit I’d noticed when I’d first met him—and even though his nearness made my artificial nerve endings fire and my synthetic heartbeat quicken, I felt the tension between us like a concrete wall.

Oh, wow. This was going so well.

“Is it just me, or is this cohabitating thing kind of weird?”

“Not just you,” I replied in a rush. So fast that his lips lifted into that familiar, quirky smile. Something sizzled down my spine, once more making me want things that could never be mine. Things I could have if I were more than a bundle of circuits and transmitters. Things like a normal life.

Things I could maybe have if I chose not to follow through on Mom’s dying words.

We faced each other across the short gap between the beds, our knees close to touching.

“How about we make a pledge?” he asked. “I’ll start. I, Hunter Lowe, solemnly swear to stay in my own bed, except in case of emergencies. Or if you’re snoring really loud—then I can come over and elbow you. Or, you know, if you invite me over—just to watch TV or something,” he tacked on hastily, when my eyes widened. “Wow, I never realized that you had a gutter mind. Tsk.” He shook his head.

“Whatever.” I grinned back, then remembered my exact thoughts in the bathroom and tried not to cringe in embarrassment. “And I pledge to stay in my own bed, unless you make more terrible jokes like that. In which case I’m going to clobber you with your own pillow.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but deal. And now that the horribly awkward moment is over, are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”

His smile didn’t waver, but that was because he was totally clueless. The truth was sure to slap that smile right off his face. I’d had a difficult time believing it. I still hadn’t accepted it. How could I expect him to?

I bunched my hands into the comforter, rough from multiple washings, and squeezed. I could do this. I could do this. I could—

The words congealed in my throat. I swallowed hard.

“I promise not to judge,” he said.

So many things about him got to me: The softness of his voice. The way he leaned toward me, as if his life hung on my every word. The slowness of his hand sliding down my hair. The way he twirled several errant strands around his finger.

My eyes fluttered shut. There was something about his sincerity, and how it mingled with the sparks his touch ignited, that filled a tiny bit of the void inside me. I couldn’t lose that, and being honest with him might lead to him walking out the door without ever looking back.

I know this is going to sound crazy …

What would I do without him to remind me that a part of me, at least, was alive?

You see, the thing is …

And what if he left and told someone what I really was?

The secret I’ve been hiding all along …

I opened my mouth to tell him the truth, but my backup story came pouring out instead. “Mom and I got in a huge argument …,” I started, then faltered.

Was I really doing this? Lying, to the one person I had left in the world?

“Because you were moving to Germany, right?”

The attentive tilt of his head encouraged me to continue, but I was momentarily blindsided. I remembered the frantic phone call I’d made to Hunter from the airport in Canada, before Mom and I were snagged by Holland’s men. I’d told him I was leaving Clearwater, and that was probably the last time I’d told him the truth.

I willed myself again to set things right with him, but failed.

“No, she … she told me I was adopted.”

It was selfish of me to lie. Utterly, unforgivably selfish. I couldn’t deny that.

But then I thought of the day Mom handed me that iPod. The day a power-hungry general’s drawl changed my life forever and ripped away my very identity. Simply by telling me the truth, he’d erased my entire life, stolen my parents, and blasted my hope. Truth—was it really that great? Because in my experience, it was a taker. It took away all that was good, leaving behind pain and fear and an endless funnel of betrayal.

“She just dropped that on you, out of nowhere? So the guy who you thought was your father, the one who just died …?”

“Not my real dad.”

“Wow. That’s … wow.”

I bit my lip and averted my gaze, my stomach clenching, revolting against my betrayal of Mom’s memory. Yes, she’d programmed me with false memories of a father who didn’t exist, but as a way of protecting me. And it had worked. While I’d known sadness before that day in the barn, I hadn’t really known despair.

So perhaps keeping Hunter in the dark right now was actually less cruel?

“I’m sorry, Mila. That must be really tough.”

Even though I was trying to convince myself that I was somehow doing Hunter a favor, his sympathy was just too much. I rose and strode over to the window—there was no way I could look him in the eye right now. I stared outside while my fingers curled around the worn wooden sill.

Crunch.

Crap, too hard. I eased up immediately, but not before new jagged lines branched out into the already faded white paint. Hopefully Hunter wouldn’t notice.

“So, what now? Did she tell you anything about them?”

When I didn’t answer right away, he added, “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

I felt like such a fraud, even when I was silent. Justifications for lying kept filing through my mind, like someone shuffling a deck of cards. For instance, if Hunter was going to stay with me, then I had to have a valid reason for hunting down Richard Grady. And him knowing the truth about me could possibly put us both in danger—if he remained unaware of the situation, I could have more control.

But the guilt building inside me made me doubt I could keep up this charade for more than a day.

I just needed to work my way up to breaking the news.

Tomorrow. I’d tell him tomorrow.

“No, it’s fine. That’s what this trip is all about. She gave me a name, Richard Grady. But that’s it. She’s refusing to help me find him, or give me any other clues whatsoever. She got incredibly pissed when I told her I’d look for him all on my own.”

“When you called, you said your mom was … gone.”