But I sit here, still, on the seventh day, growing anxious and antsy and claustrophobic.
I sit here still, because after I said sorry to Cameron as the lobby doors slid open, he leaned in close, placed his cheek against mine, even though the cameras were on us. And he whispered, “Wait.”
Because he knows. I will not stay here long.
My lawyer has requested a meeting over lunch, which I am all too happy to take, because it’s in the dining hall and not this room, and she will not allow anyone to follow us.
She’s eating a salad with slices of fruit and nuts sprinkled on top, and I order the same because my mind is ten thousand miles away.
“I’m working on declaring you an emancipated minor,” she says. “Are you okay with that?”
I shift in my seat. Emancipated means free, so at least this is in the right direction. “How long will this take?”
She chews on her lettuce for an eternity before speaking. “First, we file a petition with the court. Then we go from there.”
“Sure,” I say. “Let’s file the petition.” But I am used to laws that are bent to contain me, not a court that grants me freedom. It makes me nervous. It’s a nice thought, though. It might just work. Too bad I won’t be sticking around long enough to find out. Maybe they can emancipate me in absentia.
The guard to my room is returning with his sandwich delivery at the same time I’m walking down the hall. I slide my key into the door and nod at him. He nods back, his mouth full of bread and chicken as he slides into the chair.
I step into the room and I smile—there’s a bag in the corner that does not belong to me, and there’s a guy standing beside it, leaning against the wall. I turn on the television, turn the volume up high, before going to him.
“You waited,” he says before I get to him. He’s quiet, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the guard outside or because of where he just was and what he went through.
“Of course I waited,” I say.
He smiles, but he doesn’t come closer.
I do not know what to do with this new Cameron, this version of him who has lost a sister. “How’s Casey?” I ask, which seems like the safest way to find out how he is.
He shrugs. “Okay. Devastated and angry, but she’ll be okay. Better today than yesterday. Better yesterday than the day before.” He pushes off the wall then, meets me halfway. “Ava’s been gone for a year, Alina. It’s … there’s some comfort in knowing the truth, even if it’s not what you were hoping for.”
“You’re okay,” I say.
“I’m okay,” he says. “Better now that I’m here.”
“You came back,” I say.
His eyes shine. “Of course I came back.”
He leans closer, but there’s a commotion in the hall. I turn the volume down on the television and hear the guards speaking to each other. “Cameron checked in, but he’s not in his room. Have you seen him?”
Cameron laughs. “I wanted to come see you before heading to my room. I didn’t know if there were rules about room visits, so I figured it was a better plan to just not find out …”
I knock on the door and tell the guard, “Cameron is fine.” And the commotion stops. I don’t think anyone knows if there’s a protocol for this.
But then the talking picks up again.
He rolls his eyes. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.” His face goes serious. “What’s the plan, Alina Chase? They’re not going to let me stay much longer.”
But just in case, I move the lock at the top of the hotel door, to slow them down.
“You better sit down,” I say.
I sit beside him on the edge of the queen bed and show him my laptop, the comments I’ve found, the video of my mother. I sing him the lyrics. He’s watching me with his head tilted to the side.
“She’s telling me to come,” I say.
“Are you sure it’s her? It could be anyone—it’s anonymous.”
“Yes. No. I’m not sure,” I say. “But I believe it is.” How insidious a belief can be, coloring all of my decisions. I shrug, playing it off, closing the laptop. “But if not, I hear there’s an ocean. Maybe I’ll finally learn to swim.”
He smiles and pulls me close, his hands around my back, his face close to mine. “I think it’s her. I hope it’s her.”
So do I. Hope must be contagious, too. And, I think, if I am so full of the hope that maybe she has waited these seven years for me after the failed escape, then maybe so is she. Maybe she has hope still that I will make my way to her.
I pull back from him, and I tell myself to look brave, look calm, don’t cry. “I have to go,” I whisper.
For a second, I think he’ll try to talk me out of it. To be honest, I hope he tries. “I’ll come back and find you,” I say. “I promise.”
But he stands and goes to the window, where he picks up his bag, pulling it open. “There’s still some room,” he says. “I packed light.”
And when he sees the look on my face, he smiles and says, “One more crime, for old time’s sake? Honestly, I’ve kind of missed it.”
He pushes the screen from the window, but there’s a two-story drop. I reach out, my hands testing the nearest branch. “You sure?” Cameron asks.
“Ha,” I say. “How’s your back?” I ask. “Can you do it?”
He holds my waist and helps me hoist myself onto the branch. I wrap my legs around it and scoot closer to the trunk, and I laugh as he mumbles, “Of course I can do it.”
We make our way down the tree, branch to branch. Cameron stays close, in case I need an extra hand—or in case he does. We drop the remaining distance together, and I laugh as he stumbles on the landing. He puts a hand over his shoulder, reaching down his back. “I have an injury, don’t mock me—some girl saved my life by taking a knife to my back. Such is love, so I hear.”
And then he’s the one smiling and I’m the one stumbling, but he’s definitely not wrong. “So I hear,” I say.
There’s no pattern to falling in love. At least, nothing I can understand. Not something I could see beforehand. Not something I can decipher after, either. Trust can be earned, piece by piece, like links of a chain. But love is more like faith, or belief: it’s a leap. It’s hurtling over the edge of the cliff and trusting you will not drown.
“What are you thinking about?” Cameron asks. He’s looking at me as if he can read something on my face, but it’s also a challenge.
“You,” I say, and I feel my smile mirroring his.
He closes the distance between us. “Just so we’re clear,” he says, “I’m here because this is the only place I want to be.”
“Outside a hotel?”
“Alina,” he says. “I’m trying to tell you something.”
I already know. But I love how he wants me to be sure of him.
“Clear,” I say, the second before he kisses me.
There’s a commotion nearby, near the corner of the hotel, as we pull apart. And I see a single reporter, his camera on his shoulder, his press badge swinging across his button-down, his eyes fixed on me and Cameron. I pick up Cameron’s bag, swing it over my shoulder, and hold up my hand in greeting. He holds up his free hand as well. I smile—at him, at the camera—and I wave good-bye.
“Wait,” he says, as I turn away. Cameron takes my hand, and I can feel the tension in his grip—he’s ready to run. But the man rests his camera on its side in the thick grass, fishes inside his pocket, and tosses a set of keys in our direction. “It’s the black truck near the playground,” he says, gesturing through the trees. “If you’re looking for a ride.”
“Thank you,” I say.
We race through the trees until we hit a park. I see children running across the grass, a girl with her head tipped back on the swing, a baby in a carriage while a woman rocks it gently back and forth. Some of them look at us, some of them smile. Some look away. But nobody stops us.