“Is there?” I look up. “Or are we just kidding ourselves?”
“Depends.” He stretches back in his chair, that casual confidence I both envy and admire. “The world’s fucked, sure. But maybe that means we get to decide what matters now. No more bullshit obligations or expectations.”
“Freedom through apocalypse.”
“Why not?” His smile is crooked, challenging. “What would you want? If you could have anything in this new world.”
What would I want?
“For Amelia to get better,” I whisper. “For her to have the treatment she needs.”
He nods, eyes steady on mine. “And for yourself?”
Something that is just… mine?
“I’m not sure.” My thumb finds my inner wrist, circling.
“Then figure it out.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You’ve got time now.”
“Time?” I laugh, the sound sharp even to my ears. “We could die tomorrow.”
“Or we could live.” He takes my plate and walks to the sink. “There was a rain barrel outside. We could heat the water, get cleaned up, and grab some clean clothes. I doubt the owners will mind.”
“Pretty sure zombie apocalypse negates property laws. Though I might leave a thank-you note. Just in case.”
SEVENTEEN
DAKOTA
The hot water was a revelation. And the soap, generic and floral, smelled better than anything I’ve ever owned.
Clean. Normal.
I stand in the bedroom doorway, skin still flushed pink and tingling, wrapped in a borrowed t-shirt and shorts that hang loose on my frame. My hair hangs damp against my shoulders, clean for the first time in days. Julien lies on the bed propped against the headboard, a paperback held in one hand.
He’s showered too, his hair still damp, curling slightly at the ends. His eyes catch mine for a second before returning to the page.
“Thanks for heating the water.” I run fingers through my wet hair. “Didn’t realize how gross I felt until it was gone.”
He dog-ears the page of some thriller with a faded cover and sets it aside. “You feel better?”
“Like a new woman.” The phrase feels silly the moment it leaves my mouth. There are no new women anymore, just survivors with varying degrees of dirt and trauma.
I glance at the bed. The only one in the house. Queen-sized, the sheets rumpled where he’s sitting on top of them. My cheeks heat despite myself.
“Ready to sleep?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I force my feet to move, circling to the other side.
Julien gets off.
“It’s fine.” I sit on the edge of the mattress. “We can sleep in the same bed. I don’t mind.”
He pauses, halfway to the door. “I know.”
“Then what?—”
“Just barricading the door.”
