I flip it open, and inside is a page that lists all the other books available from Daphne De Silva. There are over fifty-four novels listed, seven novellas, and two listed separately under the “Detective Farrah Wallace Series.”
Cara snorts and shows me another illustrated cover of a male rock star in a ripped shirt and jeans and a woman who looks like she’s walking the red carpet of a movie premiere. The title makes me laugh, too.
Starry-Eyed and Rock-Hard.
Taylor takes off her backpack and starts grabbing one of each book from the shelf.
“You planning to carry all of them?” I ask.
She looks determined. “I want to read her work. And, yes, I want to read all of them.”
Cara and I share a look. But it’s Rocky Horror who speaks, taking a copy ofPen and Paper Heartsdown from the shelf. “I’ll carry a couple for you.”
“Me too,” I say.
By the time we’re finished, we have twenty paperbacks of Daphne De Silva’s life’s work divvied up among our bags.
That night, since it’s cold, we set up camp outside so we can have a fire. When the Kid is asleep, Taylor reaches into her bag and pulls out the books she got from the bookstore.
“What should I read for us?” she asks. She reads out each book title and the back blurb one by one. It’s unanimous. We wantLove at First Swipe: the story of Lucy, a woman who swears off dating after a string of horrific boyfriends and finds a no-strings hookup on an app. But what’s supposed to be no-strings turns into something more when fate keeps putting the two together in hilariously awkward situations. It sounds like a Hallmark movie, and my heart aches remembering how much Jamie loved those.
Taylor starts reading it, and within minutes all of us are laughing, trying to stay quiet. When Lucy and charming, successful businessman Dan finally meet up for no-strings-attached sex, Rocky Horror gasps.
“Daphne, girl! You’re a freak!” He says it as though she’s still with us, and we all laugh.
Taylor shakes her head. “I am not comfortable reading this.”
Rocky Horror holds out his hands. “Well, shit, I am. Hand over the smut.”
He picks up where Taylor left off, and yes... even with Rocky Horror’s carefully placed euphemisms and censoring, it is pretty steamy. Again, I find myself aching for Jamie. Wishing he were here with us, experiencing this moment. Though maybe all the Daphne De Silva smut would be too much for us.
After their steamy sex scene, Rocky Horror dog-ears the page andcloses the book, but Taylor holds her hand out for it. She asks Cara for one of the markers she isn’t using to mark the road atlas. Cara hands over a purple one and Taylor opens the cover and writes something in it.
“What are you writing?” I ask.
“I’ll show you later.” She even covers the page when Jamar tries to look.
We turn in for the night, but I’m still thinking about Jamie. And us together. Tears sting my eyes as I look up at the sky, so scared that I’ll never see him again. Or that something bad will happen. Or that I will see him again, but he might not be the same person.
I have to trust that we’ll have our own Second Chance at Forever. Pretend we’re in a Hallmark movie, or a Daphne De Silva romance novel, and it’s only a matter of time before we’re together again.
Thirty-one, rounded down to ten.
The next day it’s rainy and cold, but we’re back on the road, still skirting the highway and checking houses for food, so while Amy, Taylor, and Jamar look after the Kid and Henri-Two, we head to a neighborhood with pretty big McMansions.
The third one gives us a real win.
When we break in, I smell the rot before I see the body on the couch. There’s a blanket on top of them, but the flesh is pulled tight on the skull. Cara plucks the edge of the blanket and draws it up, over the head.
There are canned goods in the pantry and in the garage is a newish Volvo—probably one of the last couple of thousand cars sold before the flu. We pull the emergency cord on the garage door openerand lift the door up. The car is locked, but a quick search of the first floor turns up the keys. It’s been sitting, unused, for probably over a year, but Cara still turns the key in the ignition.
The car engine tries to turn over but doesn’t catch. She tries it again. This time, the engine comes to life. We all cheer.
“How much gas is in the tank?” I ask, peeking over her shoulder.
“Holy shit. Almost half-full!”
Rocky Horror throws his bag in the front seat and pulls open the glove box. “A lovely way to look at it. Let’s all thank... Mr. Doyle”—he spins an expired insurance card around for us to read the name Christopher Doyle on it—“for his excellent planning and gas conservation.” We thank Christopher Doyle and head back to Amy and the kids.
