“To become women. ”
My breath hitched. Oh, God, this was a sex-slave thing. He could give me all the mesmerizing looks and lingering touches in the world, and never would I vibe with anything like that.
He rolled his eyes, reading my thoughts. “Not like that. Successful women, with skills and depth. ”
He traced his finger down my arm, resting his hand on my thigh. Heat plumed up my leg, coursing through my body. I let out a sigh I hadn’t realized I was holding. Not a girl . . . a woman. With skills and depth. Did that mean I’d finally found a place where I could really learn? Where I’d meet other girls who liked to learn, too?
Suddenly all things seemed possible. Could I really get on this plane? Could I finally, for once in my life, begin to realize my true self?
Visions cascaded into my head . . . me goofing on campus with the other girls. We’d wear white anoraks with fur hoods and have snowball fights. We’d discuss things like medieval Latin and rap music of the Asian Diaspora. I’d meet Ronan for coffee after class. I wouldn’t be so different. I wouldn’t have to hold back.
Never again would I have to hold back.
I should’ve been scared, but not many things frightened me anymore. My father’s opened hand careening toward my face no longer scared me. The dead-eyed stares of the other high school kids had stopped scaring me long ago. But being stuck in the same small town for the rest of my life? That scared me.
Could I be a real woman? Someone self-determined, who hopped onto private jets headed for islands far, far from home. I wanted to be.
“Okay. ” I opened the car door. I stepped onto that tarmac, onto the path of no return. I turned to look at him. Those haunted-forest eyes were intense on me, and I hoped I was making the right choice, because standing alone on the runway, I felt suddenly isolated and alone. I forced a lightness into my voice that I didn’t feel. “So, what’s this island called?”
“Those who speak the old tongue call it Eyja nœturinnar,” he uttered, and a peculiar melancholy sounded in his voice. “The Isle of Night. ”
CHAPTER FIVE
I stood at the rear of his car, watching as he strode to the plane. “Wait,” I called, knocking on the trunk. “My bag?”
“You won’t need it where you’re going. ”
When we were cozy in his car, with his hands and eyes wrapping warm reassurance around me, I was champing at the bit to go. But now, standing in the glare of the Florida sun, uncertainty crept in.
“But . . . my stuff. ” My mom’s picture. My ginormous dictionary. My Converse and my iPod. I needed to keep some reminder of who my mother was. Of who I was.
“You’ll be issued new stuff,” he said dryly.
I knew a sharp pang of loss. There were likely dictionaries where I was headed. And Converse wouldn’t do well in snow. But that picture was all I had left of my mom.
And music? Music had become my survival. It’s what got me through. No Led Zeppelin, no cheesy French pop, no Death Cab for Cutie. Not happening. “But my iPod—”
“Isn’t allowed on the island,” he finished for me.
“But—” My gaze shifted from Ronan to the plane. I shaded my eyes against the glare of sunlight on smooth metal. The jet door opened, and though the interior was dim, I caught a glimpse of a catwalk-worthy attendant floating past, bearing a tray of drinks.
I’d never stood this close to such luxury. I stepped closer, and a stuffed leather seat came into view. I craned my chin up for a better look. The interior looked cool and plush, all beige carpet and tan leather. Luxurious, and a bit daunting.
My eyes went back to Ronan. His gaze was waiting for me, and that same warmth rippled along my skin. My response to him was immediate, like he’d imprinted me, my body primed for him, and I knew I’d follow him wherever he led.
I tore my eyes away, back to the trunk. I wasn’t leaving without the picture of my mom. And as long as I was going to smuggle a photo on board, why not my iPod, too? If they discovered it, what was the worst they could do to me? I’d endured my father for seventeen years.
“Just a sec,” I called, dashing back to the car. I met his suspicious look with a shrug and poised my hand expectantly over the trunk. I tried to look as casual as possible. “My hoodie. I hate air-conditioning. ”
His eyes hardened and I felt a shot of panic, but then Ronan popped the trunk using the remote on his key chain. It made a little vacuum-suck sound and the lid slowly elevated. Though he remained standing at the front of the car, my heart was pounding in my chest.
Forcing myself to look neither too relieved nor too guilty, I dug through my duffel, snagging my iPod and the picture. I hastily shoved the photo out through the back of its cheap cardboard frame, cracking the glass in the process. Hands shaking, I grabbed my tan velour hoodie and crammed everything in the pocket. The photo would get rumpled, but the iPod was awkward enough—I couldn’t risk smuggling a cheapo Wal-Mart picture frame, too.
I shut the trunk, slamming it a little harder than necessary in my nervousness. Success. And what Ronan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
I jogged to the plane, joining him on the sleek metal stairs. He took my hand to steady me. For a guy in jeans, he was quite dashing, quite gallant.
Cool air washed down to us from the open hatch. I felt on the brink of a grand, worldly adventure. It was the first step toward reinventing myself.