Jeremy had texted John to say Otis was in good hands.
We picked a movie.Army of the Dead.A classic. I remembered the first time I saw a zombie movie—Dad had shown it to me while Mom was out with her girlfriends. I’d been thirteen, glued to the screen the moment a rotted hand shot out of the grave. After that, our Friday nights became sacred: B-horror flicks, 70s sci-fi,The X-Files. My Dad all to myself, a table loaded in junk food, and the fluke man.
On screen, a guy took a spear to the skull, blood and fake brain splattering the lens. I cheered. John snorted and clinked his bottle against mine.
“You’re a weirdo.”
I sank deeper into the cushions, pressing against his side. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. Queequeg had claimed my lap, kneading biscuits into my thighs like I was freshly risen dough.
“Did you notice the whole zombie thing is just a metaphor?” I asked.
John gave me a sceptical look.
“No, really. Think about it.” I shifted, sitting cross-legged. The cat grumbled but didn’t move. My blanket slipped off, but the beer buzz kept me from caring.
“And the MC’s arc reflects the state of humanity—how we rot, rebuild, crave meaning...”
He watched the screen for a moment as a zombie took a satisfying bite out of a protagonist’s neck. “Well, shit. You’re right.”
I raised my arms in victory. “Finally. Someone I can overanalyze movies with.”
“I still think you’re crazy,” he said, smirking into his beer bottle. “Just…an endearing kind of crazy.”
I turned back to the screen before he could see me grin.
Sitting here with him…it felt like walking a tight rope. One wrong move and the balance would shatter. But for now, we weren’t fighting. We weren’t competing. We were just…here. Like friends…or something.
Beyond Beliefcame on.
“Fact or Fiction? My name is Jonathan Frakes…” we both said at once. Then laughed.
“I haven’t seen this in forever,” John said as Frakes introduced three paranormal stories, his voice serious, eyebrows on point.
“I used to besoafraid of this show.”
John winced. “Man. I forgot how young you are.”
“Old enough to kick your ass out of the competition.”
“You can try.” He raised his bottle. “Last one.”
I took it. His fingers brushed mine. Just a little. Just enough.
“Oh no. It’s the guillotine episode.” I buried my face in my hands.
“I don’t think I ever saw that one.”
“It’s amazing. And terrible. And I will absolutely have nightmares.”
“We just watched zombies eat people’s faces, andthisscares you?”
“So, you’re afraid of nothing?”
He took the bottle back from my hands, fingers grazing again—faint but definite.
“Well…” He swirled the beer as if thinking on it. “I’ll murder you and all your future descendants if you ever tell anyone.”
I leaned in, catching the lines around his eyes, the faint arch of his brows, the warm scruff of his beard. “Tell me.”
