“The problem with eating at those damned fundraisers is that you’re still hungry after you leave.” Ben peeks through a sliver of the door, springy black hair standing up in sharp tufts like some accidental crown.
“God, I’m starving,” I say, pulling a microscopic skirt over my hips.
The mannies buzz around me nervously. And the door lurches open like Ben’s stumbling into it but catches his footing. He can’t even be properlyclumsy.
“Fawl, I…wanted to share something with you.”
Here it is. He’s about to bail.I thought I could withstand the ridicule, but it is all just too much.
I drape his jacket, still soiled and spotty, over my shoulders.
“I told you the mannies would be able to get the stains out,” he says.
“Ha, you’re calling them the mannies! And I don’twantthe stains out,” I say, the words slipping out before I have the chance to rethink them.
“You never say what I think you’re going to say.” He looks at me.
“Andyounever say what you actuallywantto say,” I shoot back.
He moves closer; even as I know I’m about to be kicked out on my ass, I have to admit there is something undeniably elegant about Ben.
“I should start saying what I mean, then,” he says, licking his lips a little. He steps closer, and geez, nobody moves like him.
The space between us feels tight, like an expanding balloon. Have I misunderstood him? That flicker of heat in his gaze—is it for me?
“I stopped all the dampeners,” he announces. “No side effects.”
There’s too much to respond to. Wow, heiscapable of surprising me. “I’m sorry,What?When?Allof them?”
“Yes, all of them,” he says. He’s proud.
He’s fucking crazy.
I…am…nervous.
“All?” I echo, my voice pitching higher. “Cold turkey? Don’t people wean themselves off them for weeks?”
“I was ready,” he insists, pressing his hand to his lower belly as if to prove something to me. “All the dire warnings were overstated. I’m fit as a fiddle.” He stands with his chest out. The way his muscles shift under his shirt and the clean lines of his chest and arms make me look away.
He’s delusional, though.Fit as a fiddle?
“Will you be okay?” I ask, unsure whether to be concerned by his sudden dive into whatever he thinks this is. Maybe I should call a doctor.
“Of course! I’m ready to feel everything,” he says, and there’s a wildness in his voice that wasn’t there before. “I agree with you. With what you said about passion and innovation.”
“So, you just cut yourself off?” I can’t hide my disbelief.
“Yes! Before the Ball. Why shouldn’t I connect with my instincts? I want to have a hunch or try an impulsive change to the process. Experimentation actually requires it. I want to be a scientist of everything!” He shakes my shoulders, eyes wide with a kind of mad clarity, and then he starts throwing blouses into the air like confetti. “We’re going to eat. Eat without dampeners.”
That Food Science Ball broke him. I’m seeing a machine lose his shit.
“I’m scouting out places to eat meat,” he says.
The words remind me of Josh suddenly. How much we loved that lamb place belowground. Not that I’ve had time to dwell on Josh lately. Everything’s been slightly off, like I’m walking with a heel and a loafer. Ben slides his holopad to me, and I point to a place that promises real underground-style MEAT.
“That’s an hour’s railcar ride away, though.”
“Did you have anything more interesting to do tonight?” He challenges, his volume rising high, then dipping. His voice modulation is the first hint that something is off with him. It’s like he can’t pick a tone.
