The Luna Cure

FIFTEEN

The plane had landed long ago. We had gotten into the car soon after, and we hadn't even made eye contact. I sat shotgun, with Dante right next to me. Neither of us made any move to say anything.

I had long tried to figure out how he would react to finding out, but I hadn't thought over the idea of him completely tuning everything out. I'll admit, I wasn't completely innocent in all this. I was trying to ignore him, too. But I had expected some sort of reaction, and this was most certainly not a reaction.

Or maybe it was. It just wasn't the one I had hoped for.

Because although I was used to silence, and being left out by those around me, that didn't mean I wanted to be treated that way. Dante's reaction stung in a way. He had been so pushy on knowing, and now that he got what he wanted all this time, he said nothing.

We were driving down a narrow road, huge trees surrounding us on both sides. Two other black SUV's drove in front of us, as well as two behind us. Two guards inhabited each of the cars.

The radio had stayed off for the duration of the ride, but the silence drove me mad. On impulse, I reached over and turned it on, not caring about what it would play. I just needed noise.

Dante glanced over at me now, the quickest of glances. I barely noticed it, and I didn't meet his eyes. His silence was hurting me, in a way I didn't expect. I thought I was indifferent to him, as I expected to get in get out the minute these girls were okay. But I couldn't ignore the throbbing in my chest, or the guilt I felt. I shouldn't be feeling guilty, but I couldn't not.

The radio was a bit staticky, but I understood it. A French sports station was on, and they were talking about some recent soccer game. The announcers obviously spoke in French, a language I hadn't heard in so long. All the girls in the basement spoke English, and everyone in the castle spoke English as well, as the royal family came from America.

"I don't care what you say, I think France has got a chance at winning the World Cup this year." The announcer had a deep baritone of a voice, which contrasted rather amusingly with his French accent.

Another announcer scoffed. "How do you think France will beat Madrid? Barcelona? Manchester? They won't even beat America." People in the background laughed.

The first announcer was back. "They'll beat them because they have Abernathy. I don't care if it's his first year in the club, he's got potential." I perked up, staring intently at the radio as if it were a screen.

A new announcer joined in. "Please, Jean. Abernathy has potential, but he's been spending prime years wasting his talents away doing other things. Maybe if he were a twenty-one year old rookie, but he's not."

"Which shows his talents. He's been spending years of his life coaching these little kids, and he still has the ability to jump into a huge club like he did. Tell me that's not a feat." The second announcer grumbled, and the third one remained silent.

"It's not a feat as much as it is stupidity. He should've spent those years in clubs, but he wasted them away."

"I don't care what you say. For a rookie, his stats are amazing. And with France's current record, he'll be the reason they get anywhere. I'm telling you, Isaac Abernathy is the next best thing in soccer." The deep-voiced announcer shot back.

I closed my eyes, my heart beating too fast. Goddess, I had missed so much. Half of me knew I should've expected it, while the other half had always tried to ignore how long I had been gone. But I was happy, in a way. Isaac was a soccer star. He had put so much into the sport that it was obvious he'd go far, but I had missed so much of his life. My goddess, he was twenty-five now.