“Definitely.” I sigh longingly. “I wonder where that list ended up.”
“Yeah, me too.” Silence takes over before she adds, “It was bound to get lost one day.”
“Right,” I agree, though I sense there’s more meaning behind the comment. As if the trip itself was a wish of its own, one destined to fall away like the relationship itself.
Still, reminiscing with her feels nice. I glance over, wanting to promise her that we’ll go there one day, but it’s a promise I can’t keep without her will to make this work, so I sigh, clear my throat, and say something else instead. “I miss this.”
Brinley tucks a strand of auburn hair behind one ear. Her shoulders soften. Her face does too. At last, she nods. “Me too. I used to love hearing about your day. Telling you about mine. Talking for hours…”
Her words feed a famished part of me. It’s not the ego monster, but it’s just as strong. Men are needy creatures, I’m the first to admit it. And what I need right now is for Brinley to remember how good we were together.
“You know,” I say, “one of the hardest parts for me to get into was the role of Mitch Teeter in Spun. He was such a pathetic character. Chasing after Molly Phelps—a woman who couldn’t stand him. Doing anything he could to get her back. I seriouslyhatedthe guy. So how was I supposed to make America love him?”
Brinley looks off as if she’s trying to recall the show. “Molly and Mitch. I remember that one,” she said. “You shot it right after we…” She dies off there.
I nod. “Yep, right after we broke up. I was bitter and hurt,” I admit. “Furious is probably a better word for it. And stubborn too.” I shrug as I recall the shell of myself studying that script. The role of a man I didnotwant to be.
I fight off a chill as the emptiness pushes through me in a wave, surprised that it still hurts this much.
“Anyway,” I continue, “from where I stood, Mitch Teeter didn’t have an ounce of self-respect, yet I had to somehow redeem him, inwardly at least, until the storyline came around to his favor. It was the only way I could play the part.”
Brinley leans over her straightened legs and rests a hand on the bed. “So how did you do it?”
I catch the scent of her tangerine lotion and gulp. “I pretended Molly was worth chasing.” I pause there, summoning words that feel more like a confession. “I pretended she was you.”
CHAPTER13
Brinley
“Let’s go over that scene one more time,” Dawson says, “but let’s try it with the actions now—me chopping wood, you taking a seat on the desk. Then we can call it a night and get some grub.”
I smile at his word usage, guessing it’s inspired by tonight’s menu. Thegrubhe’s referring to will be served buffet style. Smoked ribs with sides like baked beans, mac and cheese, and cornbread.
Dawson’s air changes as he strides to a corner of the room, the way it has with each line he’s delivered. He’s not Dawson Cain anymore, the charming heartthrob with a brooding streak. He’s Nick—an angst-ridden, zombie-killing, rabble-rouser who’s—at this point in the script—getting fed up with my character Libby.
He leans down and feigns propping a log in place. Then, he fists his hands as if grabbing the handle of his axe, and grunts as he swings it up and back with his massive arms. His biceps bulge and I can’t help but wonder if he should be doing the scene shirtless.
His brow furrowed in concentration, his face clenched with convincing exertion, Dawson brings the axe down hard.
My heart flickers like a light about to surge.
He hunches down and pretends to toss the split wood while I pretend this isn’t a seriously sexy sight to witness. I hate every woman who’s ever worked opposite him.
No, I don’t. That was bad.Focus.
I force myself to set down my script since I have this part memorized. I move to sit on the edge of a desk and imagine it’s as tattered and torn up as it’s supposed to be for the scene.
I’m Libby, I remind myself because I really want to try my hand at this. Maybe I can play a convincing role too. Heaven knows I have a killer mentor.
We’re two half-Zs, hoping to outlive the full-Zs of this land so we can start anew. Unless, of course, Nick is a zompire. That’s Libby’s fear. Her reservation that has kept Nick’s lips off hers despite the legend ofThe Fixthat says it could save them both.
Though we have approximately nine months, or two-hundred seventy days, before we morph into full, flesh-eating zombies, approximately two hundred of those days have already passed.
The kiss is the answer, of course, unless Nick wasn’t bitten by a mere zombie. His lesion looked very different from Libby’s from the start; it looked more like a zompire wound instead. That’s the crux: if Nick’s laceration came from a full-Z, he’s Libby’s only hope. But if a zompire sank his teeth into him, Nick is her biggest threat.
“Hey,” Dawson says as he fake-tosses split logs onto a make-believe stack. He pretends to set up another log, then swings his massive arms up over his head again.
“Hi,” I say shyly. I think back on all my character has been through. She got in a car accident one day, then woke up three years later in a rundown hospital room during a zombie apocalypse.
