Forget Me Not (11 page)

A small, pink zip-up bag lies near the clothes. I open it, and toiletries spill out. Taking out a bristled hairbrush, I run it through my hair, close my eyes, and sigh at the small pleasure.

A knock at the door causes my grip on the brush to loosen. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but it’s probably just Will. When I open it, Jax stands before me, scuffing the floor with his foot. I almost drop the brush again, and neither of us speaks for a few moments. We both just stand there while I avoid his gaze.

“Can we start over?” It sounds almost painful, like the words are dragged out of him.

I hold my hand out, and he looks up. “Hi, I’m Anamae, but my friends call me Mae.”             

He grasps it. His hand is firm and warm around mine as he gives a solid shake. “Mae,” he says, his lips pressed. His eyes betray him
—they hold the hint of a sparkle. “I’m Jax.”

Renewed hope that maybe we can
be friends after all spreads from our clasped hands, through my arm, and straight to my heart.

* * * *

Stiff muscles greet me when I wake the next morning. Other than the short walks Will and I take from our street to the shops, exercise isn’t really something my body is used to. I try to sit up in bed but the ache is too much, so I sink back down into the soft mattress and squint against the bright light shining through the window. Dad would be just rising now too.

He’ll wake up to a day without Mom, without me, without any family at all.

A loud, insistent knock at the door makes me groan, and I force myself out of bed.

“Come on, Mae, you’ve got loads to learn today.” Jax’s voice booms through the closed door.

I pull it open and shoot him a scowl. Will’s with him, his mouth curled and laughing at me. I must look pretty funny with bed hair and these stupid flannel pajamas.

“Shut up.” I punch Will on the arm. He responds with a deep snicker.

I slam the door closed, rush around like mad, and two minutes later pull it open, freshly dressed and hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. Will’s cheek dimples, and Jax maintains his mask of indifference.

We head straight to the kitchen, and Martha looks up as we enter. “Hi, kids, how are the new clothes?”

She knows we got new clothes, but wasn’t it Lilly and her mom who went to town? Oh. Martha acts motherly because she is motherly. She must be Lilly’s mom. Smiling, I run an idle hand over my jean-clad thigh. The fake Levi’s are rolled up twice over, but they fit. “Perfect, thank you.”

We help ourselves to breakfast and retreat to the dining room. I down a few pieces of toast, two cups of coffee, and push my plate to the side, waiting for the boys to finish.

“Eat more. You’ll need the stamina.” Jax speaks through a mouthful of eggs.

“I’m full.”

He disappears. While I’m exchanging a puzzled look with Will, Jax plonks a plate piled high with scrambled eggs in front of me. I look from the eggs to Will, pleading for him to defend me, but he just shrugs and chuckles.

“Eat it,” Jax says.

Scowling at him, I shovel a forkful of eggs into my mouth.

* * * *

The weeks pass in a haze of training, eating, and broken sleep. My dreams are plagued with vivid images of Dad not knowing who I am. Every night, his slack expression sizes me up, as he says, ‘What daughter?’ Tonight, I wake in the dead of the night with hollowness eating at my insides and tears streaming down my face. The nightmare is fresh in my mind. I’m so alone.

I shuffle along the twists and turns of the corridor and find myself standing in front of Will’s door with eyes swollen and puffy as jellyfish. I lift my hand to the door, and it creaks open after two short, quiet knocks.

He greets me in tartan pajama pants, a grey T-shirt, and sleepy eyes. The confusion at finding me on the other side of his door at two o’clock in the morning only lasts a second. He pulls me into a tight hug.

“Mae, it’s going to be okay.”

Like a true friend, he doesn’t mention the snotty tissue scrunched in my hand.

“But it’s not.” My voice sounds thick.

He doesn’t let go as he spins me inside his room, pushing the door closed with his bare foot.

I cling to him, gathering my thoughts while silence hangs the air. “Every night I have the same dream. I’m home, Dad’s in front of the television. When I say hello he turns in his chair…
his face, oh, Will… his face is blank. There’s not a glimmer of recognition.” I speak into his chest where my head rests. “Dad says, ‘who are you?’ I tell him I’m his daughter, but he just looks confused and he says he has no children.”

Tears roll down my cheek and soak into Will’s shirt.

He waits for me to continue.

“Will, he thinks I’m dead.” Sobs jerk through me.

He strokes my hair, smoothing it down over my head. Showing me he cares and listening without the need to say it.

“I’m scared, so scared it’s real.” I pull away from him and sweep my hand around the small room. “Scared this is forever,” I say, “and that I can’t go home to him.”

I lower myself onto the edge of his bed with my insides feeling like a big, twisted mess.

“I won’t let that happen.” He squeezes my hand.

“I want to go home.” I curl around myself like a cat on the small single bed.

“We will find a way. Every day we get stronger and learn more about them.” He sits on the bed behind me and strokes my hair back from my face. I let out a long sigh. Mom used to do the same thing when I woke with nightmares as little girl. Letting go of the tension, I sink into his bed.

“We’ll be able to go home soon,” he says.

My eyes drop closed like heavy drapes.

“I promise we’ll live a long and happy life away from this place.” His baritone voice rumbles with the whispered pitch.

My anguish slips away with my consciousness.

When I wake in the morning, he’s curled up behind me with his hand resting on my shoulder.

Days later, Jax finally
decides my evasion skills are good enough to move onto the next stage of training. It’s like they—or he—has a whole training routine, which makes me wonder how often they ‘help’ people. After a brief discussion about different weapons, he takes me to the armory wall. Swords, knives, daggers, sticks, and batons hang from it like beautiful, deadly wall art. There are no guns, no arrows, no projectile weapons at all.

“Why do you fight with such old weapons?” I pick up a bronze dagger. “A gun would be quicker and deadlier.” I turn the small blade in my hands. It’s surprisingly light.

“The Collective have protection. Force fields. Personal ones that surround the wearer an inch from their skin like a suit. Projectiles bounce straight off,” Jax says.

“Then how can these penetrate it?” I sweep my hand to take in the wall of arsenals, and the dagger in my hand slices through the air. Jax plucks it from my grip.

“These tech weapons are the only thing that works against it.”

I run my hand over a baton supple as soft leather. “Aren’t there tech guns?”

“It’s not the guns that are tech. It’s the bullets—and no. We can’t produce them or get our hands on a constant supply.” A hint of excitement twinkles in his eye. “Hand-to-hand weapons are the cheapest and easiest to make. We can’t afford to produce single shot, disposable guns.”

“I get it.” The old television, the veggie garden, the livestock I’m almost certain we eat. They don’t have the resources. Selling fruit and other produce at the markets wouldn’t bring in much cash. Even with the farm’s deeds gifted years ago, there’s still a lot to pay for.

“Hand-to-hand combat is the only option,” he says.

“Do we have any of those personal force fields?”

“A few,” he says. “Enough for them to think all our fighters are protected.”

“Is that how you beat that scout? What happened to him, anyway?”

Jax throws me a half smile. “He’s taking a vacation without his tech. It’s a long walk home.”

My mind ticks with the talk of weapons and fighting. The resistance is an insurgence; everyone seems to have a reason for being here. Lilly because of her parents, Beau gives the impression he had no choice. So why is Jax here? He’s young, like Lilly, but doesn’t seem to have any parents around, which means he can’t have been born into it. Maybe he fell into it like me, or maybe he’s here for an entirely different reason. My curiosity wins out.

I tilt my head to the side, regarding his usual bored look. “Why are you here?”

“Because I have nothing better to do than spend my days teaching pretty girls how to fight.” The corner of his mouth lifts as mischief plays behind his eyes, wiping the boredom away. He returns the dagger to its place on the wall.

“That’s not what I meant.” I reach out and run my finger along the blade. The tip of my index finger stings as it makes a tiny cut. “Ouch. Why are you with the resistance?”

His face returns to blankness. “I was dumped here.”

Hint taken, I stop questioning, letting the silence he seems more comfortable with fill the air between us. The still quietness and realization we’re alone in the barn sucks all of the air out of my lungs, leaving my whole body tingling. Will and Sam must be training somewhere else.

Watching Jax stand at the wall with his back to me, legs planted apart and hands resting in his pockets, makes the tingling worse. I swallow, trying to ignore the feelings fighting inside me. He pulls two long sticks off the wall and binds each in rags from a box on the ground. “This will soften the blows while we train.”

“No need to go easy on me because I’m a girl.”

He chuckles. “I wasn’t intending to.”

We move to the mats. I pull my stick back, ready, but he beats me to it, striking first. I drop to the ground, rolling out of his reach, and it doesn’t make contact.

“Nice,” he says with widened eyes and a slight smirk.

He strikes again. I jump out of the way, but he spins so quickly I barely register the movement. He’s behind me. I try to turn around, but before I can move his arm is around the base of my neck, pressing the spot where my collarbone divots, holding me against him.

“Gotcha.”

His laugh tickles my neck. Something flips and slips inside me, and I swallow. My throat constricts around the words I want to say. The feeling in my chest rises, and I push it down because I really don’t want to like him. This situation is already complicated enough.

“Damn it,” I say. “Let’s go again.”

He releases me.

I turn to face him, and he strikes out against me. Ducking, I extend my leg, using it to swipe his feet out from under him. A move from stupid self-defense classes actually works. He struggles to get to his feet, but I jump and pin him to the ground with my knee on his chest.

“Ha.” I point my stick over his heart.

He looks up at me, flecks of amber dancing in his big green eyes like mesmerizing flames. His hand edges out from where I pinned
it by his side, his unreadable gaze holds mine, boring into my soul. His hand brushes against mine on the stick, and my heart pounds in my temples with a rhythmic beat. Why did Beau send him to stop the scout at my house? Why him?

My grip loosens around the stick, just barely. His leg wraps around mine like a lasso
—BAM. He flips me over, flattening my back against the floor and pinning me between his legs. The same desire I’m sure I can see in his eyes, floods me with the urge to kiss him.

“Gotcha.” He grins.

“Damn it,” I say, and we both laugh.

* * * *

Another hard day of training, and I’m bone tired. The muscles in my legs pull like they’ll tear in half if I walk another step. It’s a struggle to keep my eyes from sliding closed. I glance out the window in my room, but it’s still too early for bed. The sun hasn’t yet snuck below the horizon when a soft knock sounds at my door. I open it, and Will pushes his way past and unceremoniously dumps himself on my bed.

“Come in, Will, make yourself at home.”

He rests his arms behind his head and leans back on my pillows. “How’s training?”

“Jax is working me hard. I ache all over.”

“Oh, poor baby.” He drops his bottom lip.

I snatch a cushion from the window seat and peg it right at his head. “I’m actually learning heaps. I managed to pin him down today.”

Thinking about our bodies touching sends the heat of a blush to my face.

Will presses his lips together. “I don’t trust him, Mae.” His eyebrows draw down a second before his gaze drops to watch his fingers work at a loose thread on the pink cushion.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but
—”

“Then don’t be silly.”

He lets out a long sigh. “There’s just something about him. My instincts tell me not to trust him.”