Divergent: Before We Chose

Page Thirteen

I am not even halfway down the upstairs hallway when I hear footsteps following me. I'm assuming it's my mother coming to find out what's wrong in her Abnegation-like motherly way, or my father coming to scold me for ruining Marcus's clothes, or worse, Caleb coming to rub it in about Tobias.

I'm not quite sure why I reacted the way I did - or maybe I am, and I don't want to admit it, because I'm afraid these feelings are selfish. I'm not afraid of not being what I am taught to be, I am afraided of being reprimanded for not being what I am taught to be. I've almost accepted it now; I'm selfish.

And I want Tobias Eaton for myself.

I walk faster, flinging myself into my bedroom. I know the attempt to be alone is futile; there are no locks on our door. Privacy leads to selfish thoughts. But I have to try. I can't face my mother's kind eyes, or my father's raging expression, or Caleb's mocking jeers...

"Beatrice?" I hear a voice outside the door that does not belong to a family member. Without hesitation, I open the door, not a crack, but fully, exposing myself.

"Yes?" I say in a steely tone, though despite myself, the vision of Tobias before me has done terrible things to my defenses. I hope he can't see through me. Or maybe I don't.

"Can I come in?" he asks, rather than what I was expecting, the simple question of "Are you okay?", a question that usually does not permit the answer no. I'm not sure what I would have answered if he had asked that. 

He doesn't wait for an answer and brushes past me gently, letting himself into my room. I swallow, but I don't feel violated or angry at his insistence. I admire it, if anything.

Tobias walks around my room, surveying it quietly, silently, and I stand frozen with my back against the door. I'm nervous in a way I've never felt before, but not uncomfortable. He runs his fingers along my desk, looking at my neat homework and meticulously organised books. I wish I was more messy, less careful, so he could see that I'm not prim and proper but rebellious, like him. He looks at the few decorations I have in my room, personal items, fingering them gingerly. It feels strangely intimate for him to look at my posessions like this, but I don't object.

I wonder if he knows why I fled the dinner table. I wonder if he knows he sparked it. I wonder if he'll call me out on it and ask me my feelings. But then he says:

"You know jealousy is a selfish emotion, don't you, Beatrice?"

His expression grips at impassive, but I can see a mischievious glint in his eye. I nod, slowly.

He crosses the room towards me, trapping me again the door, not violently, but almost protectively. I don't shudder, but internally, I'm on fire.

"I like that, Tris."

Again, I nod.

"You know what else is selfish?"

He doesn't give me time to answer.

"Love."

He kisses me.