He turns to Maria. “I’m going to Paul’s tomorrow. I don’t think they left Bay Ridge. When I get back, we’ll decide what we want to do about going upstate. I can go and check the cabin, then bring you there if it’s safe. If it’s not, we’ll figure out something else.”
Maria frowns. “You’re not ready for either one of those things.”
“Maria, I’m fine. His house is less than two miles. I’ll take a bike.”
“And just how are you planning to get out of the city after that? Especially since you got sick coming in.”
She waits for his answer with dual arched eyebrows and a set to her mouth that suggests there’s no correct answer. Eric’s healthy glow pales a shade. Not scared of Maria, my ass. “I’ll check the bridges first—”
“You want to get killed?”
“I thought you’d want me to go,” Eric says quietly.
“I don’t want you to die. I won’t send you off to die.”
“How about he goes to get his friend and then you discuss it?” I ask. “He has to at least go there. Paul has a kid.”
Maria crosses her arms, but she knows she’s been outplayed. Eric winks at me. Earlier, while we mixed the cake batter, he said he wouldn’t have been able to build a better solar oven out of the same materials, which pleased me more than one would expect. It’s bizarre that someone complimenting my solar oven has become high praise.
I know I was driving him crazy about the food, but just when I thought everything was settled, Eric appeared. Maybe this food wasn’t originally Maria’s, but the majority of it genuinely belongs to Eric. As does this house, the bedroom, the books and all the other things that have kept us alive for the past weeks. But I’m fairly certain he doesn’t mind us here, and I’m trying to hold fast to that certainty the way a rational human would. Operation Sane Sylvie has been put into effect.
Grace swallows her last bite—even Grace can’t say no to cake—then sets down her plate and stares at the floor while pulling her lower lip. Years of friendship tell me she’s working up to something big. Finally, she meets my eyes. “I was thinking…maybe we could go to my house tomorrow, too.”
I freeze with a mouthful of icing. There’s only one answer I can give here, especially since her attempted poker face is one step away from tears. I knew this was coming, although I wasn’t prepared for it now, when I’ve been lulled into complacency by cake.
I swallow. “Okay.” That response lacked the required level of enthusiasm, so I add, “You’re right. We definitely should.”
It makes sense. Eric is rounding up new people. The longer we stay here, the less I’ll want to leave when it’s time. And it doesn’t matter how much I want to stay when Eric, Maria and Jorge are leaving at some point. Everything is up in the air. I don’t need retirement and a pension, but I’d like some inkling of my future. I need an inkling. I’m not good with the unknown when it’s entirely out of my control. I spent my entire childhood in the unknown, and I haven’t been back since.
“Now you’re leaving?” Maria’s eyebrows are almost to her hairline. “What is wrong with everyone?”
“You knew we were going,” Grace says, without guile and in a sensible way, as if that’s going to work.
“You just decided to leave!” Maria sputters. “How are you getting there? What are you taking with you? When will you be back? Do you have a plan?”
Grace and I eye each other. I rally and say, “We’ll work all that out tonight. We’ll ride bikes, too.”
“Oh, you don’t want to rush into anything with the planning. It’s how many miles to Brooklyn Heights?” Maria flaps a hand in the air; she’s on a roll now. “Why make a plan? Maybe you should leave now, in the dark.”
Eric clears his throat. “It is really dangerous. You need a good plan. Why don’t you wait until I’m back and can help?”
“You’re the one who said sooner is better than later,” Grace reminds him. “I think you were right.”
Eric’s eyes flash, but he can’t argue with his own words. The fact that he’s also leaving gives him less of a leg to stand on, in my opinion, and I don’t think he’s going to have any earth-shattering ideas. The plan is simple: ride bikes, kill zombies, maybe die, the end.
“Have you made a single plan that went smoothly since this started?” I ask. He opens his mouth and then shakes his head. “Right. We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about us.”
His jaw bulges. Maria looses a string of Spanish. I have no idea what she said except that it wasn’t good. A lifetime of rebukes has inured me to all but the most serious outbursts, but Grace is a softie. Maria exhales at the sight of her rounded shoulders and damp eyes. “I know you want to find them, Grace, but what good is it if you can’t get there?”
“I’m coming,” Jorge says. His arms are crossed and his face resolute.
“I really do appreciate it, Jorge, but no,” Grace says. “What if we find them and stay where they are? We’ll come back if we can’t make it.”
“Even if you find them, bring them here,” Eric says, and then turns to me. “Don’t go to Guillermo’s like you said.”
Every eye in the room is on me, and none of them are thrilled. “You were going to go to Guillermo instead of us?” Maria asks in a quiet, wounded voice that’s worse than a shout.
Heat blossoms from the collar of my shirt to the roots of my hair. I’d rather be here than anywhere else. I said we’d go to Guillermo’s to give Eric an out. I like to give people an out; otherwise I’m never sure they meant what they said. Although I’m not entirely sure even after they don’t take the out. Admittedly, it’s not the best strategy.
“I just thought, if we found them…” I say, and reach for something that will exonerate me without having to explain what makes no sense and has the added benefit of making me seem crazier than I already appear. I go with the usual: defensive. “You’re all leaving for upstate at some point. Eric’s bringing people back, and they’ll need to eat. There’s more food at Guillermo’s. He wants to be a Safe Zone. If we can get across the water, there’s always Stuyvesant T—”
I stop at Maria’s muttered curse. Grace does the Head Shake of Disbelief my way and says, “Maria, I have to look for them before it’s too late. I need to know. But we’ll do our best to come back with or without them.”
“Okay, sweetie,” Maria says. She squeezes Grace’s hand and lifts her chin to give me an icy glare. “Someone has the sense God gave them.”
I look away first. I’ve fucked this up, as usual, and it makes the sweet aftertaste of cake sour in my mouth.
Chapter 53
I plan to sleep on the parlor floor couch. That way I can wind the lantern all night and avoid the people who are pissed off. Grace and I have plotted and planned for the past couple of hours: taking the higher avenues, which means a roundabout route, but Guillermo says they’re less congested; packing food for three days, even if it should only take one day to get there; making sure we leave our sanity here, although I’m fairly certain sanity flew out the window when the plan came to fruition.
We’ve done all we can without knowing what lies ahead, but the hollow feeling in my stomach cancels out any pleasure that we might find Logan and her parents. Jorge still likes me. Maria and Eric will barely look my way. I wouldn’t admit I want to return, so I had to argue and then mention Stuyvesant Town as though I couldn’t wait to breeze across a bridge. I could really use a do-over.
“What’s going on with you?” Grace asks.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
I fold up the map and tuck it in my messenger bag. “Why wouldn’t you let Jorge come?”
Grace blinks a few times. She didn’t expect me to turn it around on her. “It’s too much to ask him to risk his life to find my family. And nice try, but I didn’t forget my question. What’s going on with you?”
“I didn’t mean to make them angry.”
“They’re not angry. They’re hurt that you said you didn’t
want to come back.”
“I never said I didn’t want to, only that we didn’t have to. And then I insulted them by offering to not eat their food so they die a few months later than they would otherwise? They should be thanking me.”
Grace shakes her head so hard her hair bounces. “Why is it so difficult to believe that people might want you around?” I’m about to remind her that history has shown this to be a pattern, starting with my own mother and father, when she adds, “Forget it, don’t answer.”
I brace myself for another alphabet lecture, but she kisses the top of my head and departs for the downstairs couch. I re-wind my lantern, throw a blanket over my head to block the light and open my book. But even one of my favorites, Watership Down, is no match for the deafening thoughts in my head.
A hand brushes my shoulder. I fling off the blanket and jump to my feet, sending the lantern across the floor. Eric chases after it and picks it up. “Sorry, it’s only me.”
I hold a hand to my thumping chest. “You know there are zombies, right? Is it a good idea to sneak up on people in this day and age?”
“I whispered your name. You didn’t answer. I thought you might be asleep.”
“What if I’d had a gun?”
This is not a frightening thought, as is plain by the way his eyes glitter with mirth he’s smart enough not to express aloud. “I’ve seen you with a gun. You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“I could shoot someone standing in front of me.”
“I’m not sure you could,” he says. I could shoot him right now with the big jerky smile he wears. He settles on the couch and pats the cushions. “What’s up?”
I stay on my feet. “Am I supposed to answer with what’s actually up or do I just say what’s up back? Does it mean hello or how are you? I hate that greeting.” The second it leaves my mouth, I wish I could take it back. He’s here, which might mean he doesn’t hate me and wants to talk, so I went ahead and criticized his opening words.
“I think you’re giving it entirely too much thought,” he says with a chuckle. “It can mean whatever you want it to mean.”
I was sure he’d storm off in exasperation like any sane person would, but, so far, Eric defies all expectations. I sit on the opposite end of the couch. No matter what I tell myself, I want to leave things on a good note. “I give everything too much thought. Open-ended is no good. What if you only want me to say it back, but I go into a whole spiel about how work sucks and how I had to take my dog to the vet and I’ve contracted measles?”
Eric leans away. “You have measles? Do I need a cooties shot?”
“No, I don’t have measles,” I say with a laugh. “I don’t have a dog, either. Those were examples.”
“How about work? Did work suck?”
“Doesn’t most?”
Eric gives a thoughtful nod but then shakes his head. “Mine didn’t.”
“Well, then I guess you didn’t write copy so corporations could sell useless crap to unhappy consumers.”
“Can’t say as I did. I was getting my doctorate. I taught undergrad classes in environmental science.”
I envy him—he did something he loved. After a long day and the prospect of work the next, I couldn’t stand the sight of another word-processing program. I turned words and phrases over in my mind that never saw the light of day. My hope was that one day I’d sit down and it’d all come out in its most perfect form. Eventually, I acknowledged that was a slim hope, but I vowed I wouldn’t be that person who never got off her ass and did what she wanted to do. And, if writing didn’t work out, I would do something else. Something admirable.
Quitting was only a few short months away. I wasn’t going to waste any more time—only it turns out the time I shouldn’t have wasted was the time spent working for a bonus and saving every now-worthless penny.
I push down my rush of regret. There’s nothing to do about it now. “So you weren’t a sellout like me.”
“I don’t think you’re the kind of person who sells out.”
“You’re right, my plan was to bring down The Man from the inside,” I joke, to which he grins. “No, I got the job easily and then I had money. I’d never had that much money. I could afford my own apartment. I wanted to be an adult.”
Eric points a finger. “Well, that was your first mistake right there.”
“Tell me about it. Why? Have you not reached adulthood yet?”
“Putting it off as long as possible. Were you good at selling useless crap to unhappy consumers?”
I shrug, although I was great at it. “Unfortunately. You have to find the weak spot and run with it. The worst part is that it can be used for good, but I used it for evil.”
Eric scoffs, but he never sold out, doesn’t understand that it creeps up on you. Another line you cross. Another corner you back yourself into.
“You’re lucky,” I say.
“I know.” It’s not a brag, just a simple, appreciative statement. “How long have you known Grace?”
“Since the first day of high school. We’ve been best friends ever since.”
“I can tell. It’s good of you to go with her.”
“They took care of me a lot growing up.”
“Can you fit your solar oven in that bag of yours?”
I’m mystified as to why he’d ask something so odd, until I recall I mentioned bringing my solar oven when I thought he was unconscious. “Did you hear everything I said?”
“Most of it.”
I hardly remember what I said. I’m sure it all will return to haunt me at some point, which is an excellent reason to stay in Brooklyn Heights. I change the subject. “It’s good of you to go for your friend. Paul.”
“He’s like a brother. A little rough around the edges but a great guy.” I nod. The silence spins out until Eric asks, “Are you scared?”
I don’t want to think about tomorrow. When I do, my heart accelerates and I forget how to breathe. Breathing may be involuntary, but once I concentrate on my lack of breath, I’d swear I’m asphyxiating. “Am I scared to leave here and travel through zombies with a screwdriver as a weapon? Nope.”
“Why would you be? But, I have to ask, why a screwdriver?”
“Or my chisel. It doesn’t get stuck in the bone like a knife. I don’t like guns.”
“There’s nothing to be scared of,” Eric says. “A gun’s a tool, like a screwdriver.”
“Except a screwdriver won’t accidentally blow my head off.”
“Neither will a gun, if you know how to use it. I can give you lessons when you get back.”
I run a finger along the smooth fabric of the couch. “If we get back.”
“That’s why I came up. To make sure you’re coming back. Bring whoever—Grace’s parents, her husband, her neighbors—just come back.”
“Why?” It’s needy and possibly borders on pathetic, but it doesn’t feel that way to ask it of Eric. It feels honest and straightforward, like him.
He watches the dark windows while he contemplates. When he turns to me, his eyes shine as they did the morning I made him laugh instead of cry, which didn’t backfire the way it so often does. I don’t know what it is—a mixture of sorrow and bleakness, maybe—but it’s quickly replaced by something bright and anticipatory.
“Do you know how many people I’ve seen in the past few weeks? Maybe two hundred, total. Out of millions. We need to stick together. And Maria will kill you if you don’t. You yourself said Maria was great except for the cake thing, remember?”
I remember. And I remember that Jorge is as even-tempered as Eric. Except for one brief spell at Grace’s, I’ve never lived with people who are joyful because it’s their baseline. They start from happy, whereas it takes me a step up to get there. I want to acquiesce, but I can’t so easily. If they knew how much I want to be here, or how badly I want for them to rub off on me, they’d know how pathetic I really am and ask me not to return.
“Plus, I owe you more cake,” Eric says, to wh
ich I roll my eyes. “Stop pretending you don’t want cake. Your cover’s been blown.”
“Fine. I’ll make a deal with you. Stop bringing up things I said when you were supposed to be unconscious and I’ll come back.”
“How is that a good deal for me?”
“Honestly, it kind of sucks for you.”
He lets go of a laugh. “I’ll take it. I think you’re getting the short end of the stick, though. I’m getting my way.”
“I have a feeling you’re used to getting your way.” Eric is sure-footed, both mentally and physically. He does everything so fluidly he reminds me of water. When it comes to human interaction, I don’t think he breaks a sweat, and I’m sure he doesn’t do a mental instant replay of every moment in his life until he wants to punch himself.
“Not always.” He squints one eye, head tilted. “Well, most of time. But not right now.”
“None of us is getting our way right now. Welcome to the real world, Golden Boy.”
“Glad to be here,” he says, his grin so wide and white that I’m surprised there isn’t a ting of light. Golden boy, indeed. “Are you going to your apartment?”
“There’s nothing there. Grace is the closest thing I have to family.”
Eric taps his fingers on his leg. “Can I ask you a question?”
I know where this is going, so I answer before he can ask. “My father left when I was seven. I never saw him again. Last I heard, he was still alive. I’m an only child.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“Why not?”
“I have no idea,” I say, and laugh at how ridiculous it sounds. “It’s what I always say. It usually gets people to stop asking me questions.”
Eric grins. “But then I come along…”
“But then you come along, undeterred by my standard brush-off.”
“Okay, I’ll stop. Ask me anything. It’s only fair.” He cracks his knuckles and looks at me expectantly. “Unless you want to pretend to be unconscious and let me talk for a few hours.”
The City Series (Book 1): Mordacious Page 31