Imagine Me

He looks up sharply.

“That wasn’t a joke!” I say. “I’m being serious.”

Warner sighs. Picks up his utensils. Looks longingly at the door.

I don’t push my luck.

I keep my face on my food—I’m genuinely excited to be getting a second lunch—and wait until he takes several bites before I go for the jugular.

“So,” I finally say. “You proposed, huh?”

Warner stops chewing and looks up. He strikes me, suddenly, as a young guy. Aside from the obvious need for a shower and a change of clothes, he looks like he’s finally beginning to shed the tiniest, tiniest bit of tension. And I can tell by the way he’s holding his knife and fork now— with a little more gusto—that I was right.

He was hungry.

I wonder what he would’ve done if I hadn’t dragged him in here and sat him down. Forced him to eat.

Would he have just driven himself into the ground?

Accidentally died of hunger on his way to save Juliette?

He seems to have no real care for his physical self. No care for his own needs. It strikes me, suddenly, as bizarre. And concerning.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I proposed.”

I’m seized by a knee-jerk reaction to tease him—to suggest that his bad mood makes sense now, that she probably turned him down—but even I know better than that. Whatever is happening in Warner’s head right now is dark. Serious. And I need to handle this part of the conversation with care.

So I tread carefully. “I’m guessing she said yes.”

Warner doesn’t meet my eyes.

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. It’s all beginning to make sense now.

In the early days after Castle took me in, my guard was up so high I couldn’t even see over the top of it. I trusted no one. I believed nothing. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I let anger rock me to sleep at night because being angry was far less scary than having faith in people— or in the future.

I kept waiting for things to fall apart.

I was so sure this happiness and safety wouldn’t last, that Castle would turn me out, or that he’d turn out to be a piece of shit. Abusive. Some kind of monster.

I couldn’t relax.

It took me years before I truly believed that I had a family. It took me years to accept, without hesitation, that Castle really loved me, or that good things could last. That I could be happy again without fear of repercussion.

That’s why losing Omega Point was so cataclysmic.

It was the amalgamation of nearly all my fears. So many people I loved had been wiped out overnight. My home. My family. My refuge. And the devastation had taken Castle, too. Castle, who’d been my rock and my role model; in the aftermath, he was a ghost. Unrecognizable. I didn’t know how anything would shake out after that. I didn’t know how we’d survive. Didn’t know where we’d go.

It was Juliette who pulled us through.

Those were the days when she and I got really close. That was when I realized I could not only trust her and open up to her, but that I could depend on her. I never knew just how strong she was until I saw her take charge, rising up and rallying us all when we were at our lowest, when even Castle was too broken too stand.

J made magic out of tragedy.

She found us safety and hope. Unified us with Sector 45— with Warner and Delalieu—even in the face of opposition, at the risk of losing Adam. She didn’t sit around waiting for Castle to take the reins like the rest of us did; there was no time for that. Instead, she dove right into the middle of hell, completely inexperienced and unprepared, because she was determined to save us. And to sacrifice herself in the process, if that was the cost. If it weren’t for her—if it weren’t for what she did, for all of us—I don’t know where we’d be.

She saved our lives.

She saved my life, that’s for sure. Reached out a hand in the darkness. Pulled me out.

But none of it would’ve hurt as much if I’d lost Omega Point during my early years there. It wouldn’t have taken me so long to recover, and I wouldn’t have needed so much help to get through the pain. It hurt like that because I’d finally let my guard down. I’d finally allowed myself to believe that things were going to be okay. I’d begun to hope. To dream.

To relax.

I’d finally walked away from my own pessimism, and the moment I did, life stuck a knife in my back.

It’s easy, during those moments, to throw in the towel. To shrug off humanity. To tell yourself that you tried to be happy, and look what happened: more pain. Worse pain. Betrayed by the world. You realize then that anger is safer than kindness, that isolation is safer than community. You shut everything out. Everyone. But some days, no matter what you do, the pain gets so bad you’d bury yourself alive just to make it stop.

I would know. I’ve been there.

And I’m looking at Warner right now and I see the same deadness behind his eyes. The torture that chases hope. That specific flavor of self-hatred experienced only after being dealt a tragic blow in response to optimism.

I’m looking at him and I’m remembering the look on his face when he blew out his birthday candles. I’m remembering him and J afterward, cuddled up in the corner of the dining tent. I’m remembering how angry he was when I showed up at their room at the asscrack of dawn, determined to drag J out of bed on the morning of his birthday.

I’m thinking—

“Fuck.” I throw down my fork. The plastic hits the foil plate with a surprising thud. “You two were engaged?”

Warner is staring at his food. He seems calm, but when he says, “Yes,” the word is a whisper so sad it drags a knife through my heart.

I shake my head. “I’m so sorry, man. I really am. You have no idea.”

Warner’s eyes flick up in surprise, but only for a moment. Eventually, he stabs a piece of broccoli. Stares at it. “This is disgusting,” he says.

Which I realize is code for Thank you.

“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”

Which is code for No worries, bro. I’m here for you.

Warner sighs. He puts down his utensils. Stares out the window. I can tell he’s about to say something when, abruptly, the doorbell rings.

I swear under my breath.

I shove away from the table to answer the door, but this time, I only open it a crack. A girl about my age peers back at me, standing there with a tinfoil package in her arms.

She smiles.

I open the door a bit more.

“I brought this for Warner,” she says, stage-whispering. “I heard he was hungry.” Her smile is so big you could probably see it from Mars. I have to make a real effort not to roll my eyes.

“Thanks. I’ll take th—”

“Oh,” she says, jerking the package out of reach. “I thought I could deliver it to him personally. You know, just to be sure it’s being delivered to the right person.” She beams.

This time, I actually roll my eyes.

Reluctantly, I pull open the door, stepping aside to let her enter. I turn to tell Warner that another member of his fan club is here to take a long look at his green eyes, but in the second it takes me to move, I hear her scream. The container of food crashes to the ground, spaghetti noodles and red sauce spilling everywhere.