“It’s too hard.”
“I have nothing to lose, right?” I look down. It seems like a leg-breaking fall, but I know it’s not. I wish everything in my life were like this—pretend horrors, with nothing substantial behind them.
“You got it.” Cy orders the walls at the same level. Immediately, the cracks and crevices blur and change. The angle of the wall is no longer vertical in places, where the wall curves toward us in a nauseating only-mountain-goats-allowed kind of way. The obvious hand- and footholds are gone. I see where I have to go, but I have to plan carefully, one crack at a time.
“Here, start with your right foot.” Cy points.
I shake my head. “Don’t show me. I want to figure it out myself.”
Cy produces one of those frowny smiles of approval. “Well, okay then.”
It’s hard. So much harder that the earlier program seemed like a simple ladder in comparison. After only five minutes, I start grunting with effort, reminding myself to breathe harder. My fingers are already fatigued and my toes are screaming from cramps. My big, baggy Cy-shirt is thoroughly damp, clinging to my biceps and upper thighs in all the wrong ways. I find a deeper ledge to rest on and start tugging at the edge of my shirt.
“Ugh. Get this offa me.”
“I’ll halt the program so you can jump off,” he offers, but I shake my head.
“No, if we were really climbing, I wouldn’t have that luxury.”
“Man, you are taking this pretty seriously.” Cy climbs closer, insinuating his right foot between my feet and securing his left hand closer to me. He helps me free one arm from the shirt, and then another. The fake country air deliciously chills my exposed arms. Cy tosses the shirt to the ground, where it disappears under the fake brush well below us.
“I never realized how confining a shirt could be,” I comment, wiping my upper lip. With just a clingy tank top and leggings on, I’m so much freer.
“Yes, fewer clothes are always a better option,” he murmurs. He’s right by my ear. The heat of his face warms my already sweaty cheek.
“What would you rather me wear? A black turtleneck and skirt?” I tease.
Cy swallows loudly. “Oh. You mean Professor Weisberger.”
“Yes. Is it just a coincidence that one of your teaching holos looks like me?”
“No. Your dad programmed her like that.”
I twist around to face him, dropping my jaw. “Really?”
“Yeah. I had no idea she was modeled after you. He never talked about you or showed us any pictures.”
“And my dad put my holo image in a tight black skirt and heels?”
“Uh, no. That was me.” Cy’s cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink. I bet he wishes he’d gone for the tattoos this morning. He fumbles with his bag of chalk and hands me a small lump to crumble in one hand, then another. His hands must have gotten suddenly sweaty, like mine just did.
“So,” I say casually, “do you have some sexy librarian fantasy that I don’t know of?”
Cy stays mum. I must have completely teased him into silence. He seems intent on resuming the climb, and grabs a handhold closer to me, as if he’s going to cross over to my right side.
I stare at the wall before me, but I can’t concentrate. Cy’s body is so close, with one leg between mine, and two arms are outstretched in a web around me. He’s hot and sweaty, and I’m hot and sweaty, and just as I’m wondering if I stink to high holy hell, his lips touch my neck.
I don’t move. His lips cruise across the nape of my neck, up, then down to find the top of my shoulder.
“You want to know the truth?” he whispers between neck kisses. “Yes, I have fantasized about Professor Weisberger. And no, it has nothing to do with the librarian clothes. In fact, there are usually no clothes involved at all.”
Cy’s lips circle back to find my earlobe and I shudder, shaking from head to toe. Cy stops abruptly.
“I’m sorry. I’m totally freaking you out, aren’t I?” He pushes away from me, giving me some space.
“No, no,” I whisper. “You’re not.”
His lips go back to my ear, nibbling along the edge, leaving only to find my cheek. Every inch of my skin tingles violently. My fingers start to ache madly from my handholds. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on to this wall. I cross my right arm over my left and grasp a ledge, then thread my right leg inside and over to a firm foothold. Oh-so-carefully, I turn myself around so we’re face-to-face on the cliff. I try not to gasp when I see his face. Now I know what they mean by that butterfly feeling. I think I have a whole generation of lepidoptera sprouting in my belly.
“That was a very technical move you just did,” he says, his eyes on mine.
“Thank you.”
“You’re really good at climbing for a beginner.”
“Again, thank you.”
“You know, I didn’t take you here to just trap you against a cliff so I could have my way with you,” he says, now staring at my lips.
“Um.” I can’t think what to say.
He leans closer to unite our lips, but I pull back so I can look at him again. He tries to kiss me once more, but I dodge him.
“You are driving me crazy,” he whispers into my hair. I pull back to find his eyes closed, waiting. Finally, I lean closer, breathing slowly, parting my lips and meeting his gently. Cy releases one hand and slips it behind my back, finding the edge of my tank top and slipping his hand underneath. He splays his fingers between my damp shoulder blades and pulls me closer, crushing out the space between us. We lean into each other until we’re belly against belly, our legs nearly molded together. Finally, we both come up for air.
“Wall down,” he gasps. The wall slowly motors down until we’re on the floor. Except that it doesn’t look like floor, it still seems as if we’re suspended thirty feet above the virtual ground. Cy pulls me on top of him as he leans back to lie flat. My hands touch the cold floor and bumps of holo-lenses beneath us, but my eyes register that we’re floating, weightless, as tiny insects zigzag by us and birds swoop beneath our bodies. The stone wall is still a massive presence nearby, while a horizon of dense trees encircles us.
After a small century (more or less), I leave a trail of kisses down to the bottom of his throat, then roll off of him and land in the crook of his arm. We both just breathe, staring at the lake of blue sky. I let my hand stay on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of the air moving in and out. He breathes so beautifully.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “I thought you regretted last night,” he says.
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t touch me all day.”
I prop myself up on an elbow. “You were the one who wouldn’t touch me,” I counter.
“I gave you signals!”
“That works on normal people,” I say. “My boyfriend receptors are kind of nonfunctioning.”
“Good. I like that you’re receptorless. A clean slate.”
I laugh into his shoulder. His fingertip traces over the back of my hand gently, and I catch it in mine. His skin is completely unblemished. I pull his forearm closer, finding no trace of Micah’s burns.
“Your healing is unbelievable. I mean, it’s not just complete,” I say, still not finding any scars under my fingertips, “but it’s so fast.”
“I know. I think I have a bio-accelerant component in my tissues, but I haven’t been able to isolate it. The serums I’ve synthesized have dozens of different proteins and factors in them. Took forever to get it just right.”
“A Cy-flavored cocktail,” I muse.
“Mmm-hmm.” He turns to nuzzle my neck and pull me back onto his body, lacing his arms through mine.
“You know,” I say, watching a bird flap by, “I worked in a lab that developed bio-accelerants. We could speed up the normal cell culture cycle to minutes, it was amazing. The pharma companies won’t touch them with a ten-foot pole. Too dangerous. But”—I turn my head so Cy can access the other side of my neck, closing my eyes—“I could look at your codes and find it.”