Two

Atwisted symphony yanks me out of a dream I'll never remember.

Noises rise around me—vibrations and screams muffled by the concrete barriers between the floors of the Halcyon. My inhales are sharp—too sharp, exchanging sleep inertia for outright disorientation. I fumble. The symphony crescendos, merciless. My pillow is vibrating somehow. Goosebumps have littered my arms and I can't discern between the untethered fluctuations of my own heartbeat and the buzzing in my bed.

The shock fades enough for me to realize the vibrations are coming from my phone.

Light floods my pitch-black bedroom when I unlock the screen, making my eyes water. The sting doesn't even register seconds later when I read the notification:

Emergency Alert: Ballistic threat inbound to Washington, DC. Seek shelter immediately.

This is not a drill.

Estimated time to impact: 20 minutes.

I spend an entire minute re-reading the message. The pixels run together and the letters blur, but the notification is real—a bonafide alert sent from the same government-run system that warns us about heavy snowfall and traffic jams and parades on Pennsylvania Avenue.

This is not a drill.

…I'm going to die.

In twenty minutes, I'm going to die.

There's another strange sound: a thick, misplaced whimper. It's scratchy, foreign, and—oh god, it's coming from my own throat. I try to swallow, but a newly formed lump, born of panic, makes me cough and stutter. Gasping, I pull at my tangled sheets, trying to free myself. I'm going to die. I'm going to die.

My body is trembling, and for several seconds, that's all it's good for. Then I check the time: eighteen minutes to go.

Flinging myself out of bed, I head to the living room and look out the window. I have no clue what I'm looking for. No fucking clue.

I jam my finger on my phone's screen, frantic, willing another message to appear. Instructions. I need instructions. I need someone to tell me what I'm supposed to do. Seek shelter? What the hell does that even mean? Am I supposed to wait here, or am I supposed to find a shelter? I should know this—I should really know this. Living in DC puts me at an elevated state of risk, but I never thought this would happen.

"FUCK," I blurt out, surveying my living room for help that doesn't exist. Think, Valeria. Think. The building has an underground parking garage, which might be safer…

…or it might be a concrete death trap.

I check the time again: sixteen minutes.

My phone buzzes, causing me to nearly drop it in surprise. A brief, misplaced pang of hope fools me into thinking I'll see another alert, but I quickly realize I'm getting a call. The name glowing on the screen makes my stomach swirl with anger—as usual. Not now. Not fucking now.

My hand tightens reflexively, itching to squeeze the life out of something.

Papá.

I'm supposed answer. For the last two years, no matter what, I've followed orders and answered my father's calls. But tonight, for once, I watch the phone ring. It rings and it rings, and before it sends my father to voicemail, I decline the call like I've always wanted to do.

The satisfaction is wasted on a moment like this. Tears are welling in my eyes, my heart is throbbing, and the cold reality that I'll die alone at twenty-two is sinking in.

Fifteen more minutes.

So this is it. This is my life.

There was so much more for me to do. I wanted to go to Iceland and see the aurora borealis. I wanted to read War and Peace, not because I thought it would be interesting, but because I wanted to gloat about finishing it. I wanted to fall deeply, crushingly in love with a man and have all his babies.

Instead, I'm going to get incinerated in a condo that I didn't even show off to my sorry excuse for a father.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and look around my beautiful living room—the spoils of so much hustle and heartache. I had a good life—a great life—one I made for myself. One I clawed through hell and high water for.

But this can't be it for me. I can't go out sniveling. Crying. I won't.

I may not have lived long, but what I did accomplish was bad as fuck. I bought this condo without any help when I was twenty-one. I've traveled to thirty-seven countries. I have two best friends who would kill for me if it came to it.

And yes, Lander Dawson checks me out.

Right then, there's a clatter next door, reminding me that he's on the other side of the wall. Lander Dawson in all his glory: the ultimate case of "wished I had, but never did." And now, I so wish I had. If only…

I pause, letting the epiphany wash over me.

There's still fifteen minutes left.

Fifteen whole minutes.

Fuck it. It's the end. If I'm going out, I'm going out the same way I lived my life: however the hellI want.

If I'm dying tonight, I'm perfectly content to die fucking the one person I swore I would avoid.

Determined, I charge into the hallway and cover the twenty-five feet between our front doors in record time. I ring the bell repeatedly, four, five, six times until Lander flings open his door. With his phone in one hand and his shirtless chest heaving, he gapes at me with a wild look in his blue eyes.

"Did you…" He starts and trails off immediately, glancing down at my body and back up at my face.

Did I see the message announcing that we were going to die in less than twenty minutes? Of course I did.

That's what I should say to him, but I don't.

In fact, I don't say anything at all. Instead, I lunge forward and kiss him.

I kiss him like it's the last thing I'll ever do.