My father and mother didn’t talk to me since she was about to slap me.
Did slap me. Rosa just intervened.
I grab fancy porcelain plates when Mrs. Abernathy’s face flashes through my mind, her teeth snapping, me smashing her skull, and I nearly drop the whole stack.
Breathe. Just breathe.
The wedding food we never got to eat sits spread across the industrial kitchen counter before me, little towers of hors d’oeuvres sealed in plastic wrap. Canapés. And shrimp cocktail that’ll go bad first. I arrange them on plates like this is some fucked-up dinner party instead of a zombie apocalypse, while my hands won’t stop shaking.
“Are you okay?”Julien’s question replays in my head.
I huff.
Guess I’m not okay.
And why does he even care? I mean, of course, I lashed out. What would he have done? Hug me close to his chest and stroke my…
I shake my head, banishing the image.
If it were Amelia, he’d comfort her. She’d let him, while I couldn’t even handle the warmth of his hand when everything inside me was frozen.
I load another plate with tiny quiches and try to ignore the blood caked under my fingernails. Try to forget how he looked sleeping on that couch, all that hard tension finally softening, making him almost human.
We are still human.
Before the shower—thank god for small mercies, the faucet still runs—I didn’t feel like it.
“Need help with that?”
I flinch, nearly dropping a quiche.
Sienna stands in the doorway, blonde hair damp from her shower, wearing clothes from the lost and found box. Faded jeans. Plain blue t-shirt. Still looking like a woman who could model mountain gear in outdoor magazines.
“Almost done.” I continue dividing the food.
“It’s weird, right?” She steps into the kitchen, gesturing at the food. “Eating finger food while… everything.”
“Better than eating each other.”
Sienna barks a surprised laugh. “Dark. I like it.”
It wasn’t supposed to be a joke.
My hands move mechanically. This food would’ve fed thirty-five wedding guests. Nine remaining. Eight, if you don’t count the reverend, which I don’t.
Not after what he did.
We’re lucky my father wanted to save money and took the Thursday spot instead of Saturday. Would’ve meant more people. More deaths.
“So…” Sienna rocks on her heels. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine.”
“Amazing. Me too,” she says, voice dripping sarcasm. “Totally fine. Not traumatized at all. Nearly got my throat ripped out at my boyfriend’s wedding to another woman, watched people get eaten alive, and now I’m camping in a church with my boyfriend’s almost-bride and her family, who hate me. Living the dream. I…”
I glance up, meeting her eyes.
“I wanted to thank you.” Her mouth quirks up like a shrug. “For saving my life back there.”
