by A. M. Geever
Only a fool would let an opportunity for happiness pass them by. You had to grab it while you could because it might never come by again. Tomorrow might never happen. If Miranda had learned nothing else from living through this zombie apocalypse, she had at least learned that.
“Only the horriblest,” she said with a grin.
Emily laughed. She honest-to-goodness laughed, and it sounded merry, not tinged with fear or hysteria. Miranda looked at her friend and then at Mario as he approached holding three glasses between his hands.
Well goddamn.
Soon the bar was busy. A pickup band played and lots of people were singing along and dancing. Emily had gone to the bathroom, leaving Miranda and Mario alone at the table.
“So what exactly did you do?” Miranda asked Mario. “Before.”
Mario smiled. “I was probably someone you wouldn’t have had much time for.”
Miranda’s brow wrinkled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You strike me as someone who doesn’t have much tolerance for bullshit.”
“I guess that’s true,” she admitted, feeling caught out.
“I was pretty full of myself before.” Mario sat up straighter and puffed himself up. He had a way of holding himself completely straight, even stiff, but when he moved, he reminded Miranda of water. “I have doctorates in Computer Science and Biochemistry, from M.I.T. and Stanford, mind you. I started a biotech company called GeneSys and we had just received a second round of venture capital funding. I was CEO and awfully important.”
“So you were Chief Ego Officer?” Miranda asked, grinning.
Mario laughed. “Something like that. Turned out the most important thing about me is our lab facility is built like a bunker.”
A spray of liquid accompanied Miranda’s bark of laughter.
“Oh God, sorry!” She choked as Mario tried without success to duck out of the way. He handed her a napkin while he mopped up the table with his handkerchief.
“You couldn’t have been that bad,” she said.
“I was worse. Trust me.”
“So what were you doing with those important Ph.Ds.?”
“Mycoviruses. They’re viruses that infect fungus. There were lots of applications. We were going to make a shitload of money.” Mario smiled as he shook his head, as if his former pursuits had been childish. “Now my work actually means something. We know it’s a virus that turns people into zombies, but there’s something else, I’m sure of it. Just haven’t figured it out yet.”
“So you might be able to prevent people from turning into zombies?”
“Wouldn’t that be great? I’d win the Nobel Prize.” He took a drink of his beer and grimaced. “What the hell are they making this from?”
“I stick to the moonshine. The beer is bad, and the gin is worse, and if you start comparing it to what you remember, you might as well not bother. Moonshine, on the other hand, is supposed to taste like paint thinner. It’s disappointment free.”
“You’ve thought this through.”
“Are you calling me a lush?”
“I’ve heard some stories.”
Miranda tried to glare but couldn’t keep up the pretense.
“So you’re the one who got the farming started here,” Mario said.
Miranda shrugged. “There were a lot of people involved in that.”
“A good friend of mine went to Santa Clara Law. Our favorite Frisbee spot is planted with beans.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No complaints from me,” Mario assured her. “I was reading about those Vertical Farms that Emily said you want to build.”
Here we go again, Miranda sighed to herself, another ‘Are we going to starve?’ conversation. She felt disappointed that Mario would turn out to be just like everyone else.
“I’m not sure we even can build them, but I think they could shore up the food supply.”
“So what is it? What do you love about it?”
“Love about what?” she asked, uncertain what he was getting at.
“Farming, growing things.” Mario’s eyes glowed with curiosity. “I can tell from the look on your face it’s about more than making sure we have enough to eat.”
No one had ever said that before. Miranda felt seen, known, in a way she hadn’t in a long, long time. Aloud she said, “I’ve always liked to grow things. My nana used to have this amazing garden when I was a kid. I’d help her, digging, planting, staking tomatoes—”
“Italian grandmothers,” Mario interjected. “It wasn’t just my nana’s recipe for her sauce that was top secret. She wouldn’t even tell people what variety of tomatoes she used.”
Miranda nodded, grinning. “Mine was the same.” Thinking of her grandmother, who had died long before zombies came along, made Miranda feel alone, even in the middle of the bustling bar. “Mostly I liked hanging out with my nana.”
“It’s your connection to the old world, to the people you loved.”
The hairs on the back of Miranda’s neck stood on end. “I miss them all so much,” she whispered, eyes filling with tears. She looked away, horrified that she could not suppress the grief that had welled up within her. Her pain was no worse than anyone else’s and here she was, whimpering like a baby.
Mario took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze. He didn’t say anything, just moved his thumb back and forth across the palm of her hand. She felt so comforted by the simple gesture, but also like she was standing on a precipice. His sly grin was gone, eyes gentle instead of teasing. And he still held her hand, long after most people would have let go.
Mario released her hand and smiled sheepishly. “I’ll go see what’s happened to our girl.”
Miranda watched his ramrod-straight form that somehow moved liked water work its way into the crowd. What had just happened? She had not known it herself—the Farm, what it meant—until she heard him say it. How could he have known what she didn’t know herself? She had scurried off, not wanting to be there when he got back.
Miranda ran her thumb along the edge of the picture. Then Em got pregnant and that was that.
They became more accustomed to the “new normal.” Getting the Farm underway kept Miranda busy, but she still went on missions. She developed a reputation as an expedition leader, regaling her friends with tales of derring-do. Her skill at killing zombies was second to none, yet Mario urged her to be more cautious.
“You don’t have to sign on for every dangerous thing that comes down the pike,” he would tell her.
“And if I don’t, who will?” she would always reply.
Miranda smiled as she remembered how, after a while, he began to preempt her by adding, “And I don’t care who will if you don’t.”
Mario worried about her, but he was a worrywart. Anyone still in their right mind worried when a friend went outside the walls, and Mario had become one of Miranda’s best friends. Maybe he worried a little more than he should, but best friends worry more. That’s why they’re best.
He almost always managed to be there when she rolled home, always on his way somewhere else but long enough to see that she was back in one piece. Sometimes the look of relief on his face unnerved her. She was happier he was there than she had a right to. She tried not to be. She told herself she shouldn’t look forward to seeing him so much, but it did not make any difference. She couldn’t stop feeling that way. She gave up in favor of trying not to let it show, even as his smiles grew tighter and his hugs more fierce.
And so it went, until the night he offered to walk her home from The Hut. Emily had canceled the sitter and stayed home with Michael, who was almost two and running a temperature. Karen had departed before them with the latest Asshole du Jour. Doug, who had not yet felt God’s tap on the shoulder, waved them on. He was busy chatting up a girl and told Miranda he’d never get lucky while she was around muddying the waters.
They set out from the bar, but as was becoming their custom more and more when they
were alone, they ended up in the St. Clare Garden. The garden was a relic from when SCU had only been a university. It was the length of a football field from the bar, and its small square space offered nothing in the way of privacy. There were two benches on one side. Herbs, succulents, and flowers filled the rest, planted around a statue of the community’s patroness.
“I hate that statue,” Mario said as he sat down. “She looks sad and worried. Saints should look serene.”
“You’d look worried if your kid was being nailed to a cross—oh, no, that’s Mary. You can’t even see her face from this side,” Miranda countered, as if the thought had just occurred to her rather than their banter being the same as the last time and the time before that. She gave Mario a nudge as she sat down. “Budge over so I can stretch out.”
The warm night air felt soft against Miranda’s skin. She lay down so that the top of her head almost touched Mario’s thigh, then extended her right leg over the arm of the bench to elevate it.
“How’s your leg?”
“Doc says I’m fit as a fiddle, but it feels better if I set it up for a bit when I’ve been standing.”
Mario began to tickle her nose with the ends of her ponytail. “I almost had a heart attack when I saw you brought in on that stretcher. Your broken leg took years off my life.”
“Stop that,” she said, batting the hair in his fingers away. She felt a little dizzy, with just enough of a buzz that she would not feel it tomorrow. “You always go straight to the disaster scenario. Tickle fights happen all the time when you’re waiting to clear medical, and Doug is a sadist, I swear. Never occurred to me I’d thrash my way off the damn truck.”
“I wish you’d quit doing expeditions,” Mario said, his voice unhappy.
Miranda sighed. They’d had this conversation a million times.
“You know I can’t do that. There are so many things we still need that help your research. The sewers aren’t going to keep working unless we get out there and take care of them. If they don’t work then we’ve got cholera, and typhoid, and–”
“I know,” he interrupted. “I just wish you weren’t doing it.”
Miranda closed her eyes and listened to the symphony of crickets. She turned her head toward the center of the garden, felt Mario’s hand brush against her head as he fidgeted. He did that when he was unhappy.
They had been doing this for months, hanging out like this. Fifteen minutes here, an hour there, never doing anything she couldn’t tell Emily all about, but she felt guilty anyway.
“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll sign a ‘No Dying’ contract,” she offered, trying to sound lighthearted. “We can even get it notarized.”
She could feel his frustration in the long pause before he said, “That’s not funny, Miranda.”
“I was just kidding,” she huffed, annoyed.
“No, you weren’t. Whenever I try to talk to you about anything real, you make it into a joke to shut me up.”
Miranda sat up and turned to face him. “That’s not fair!”
“For Christ’s sake, Miranda. At least have the courtesy not to insult me.”
Mario hadn’t raised his voice. It wasn’t even tight or angry, but it felt like he had slapped her across the face. The garden wasn’t lit well, but it was not completely dark, either. His face was stamped with longing and fear and something that looked very much like hunger.
“You’re the only thing I think about,” he said, his voice pitched low. “I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s not right, but God help me it’s true. Knowing I’ll see you is what gets me out of bed every day. You’re the first thing I think of when I wake up and the last at night, and every damn minute in between. And I think you know it.”
Panic and excitement seized her. “You shouldn’t—” she whispered, but then he flung himself headlong into the void where she hid all the feelings she worked so hard to deny.
“I can’t stand the thought of losing you, Miri, and I cannot pretend for another second that you’re just a friend. I’ve tried to ignore this, pretend it’s not real, but I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t pretend anymore.”
Miranda tried to speak. She should say something to save them from doing what could not be undone, but instead she leaned into him. They both hesitated when his lips brushed hers, as if to gauge, would the other change their mind? And then they were kissing, a tangle of tongues and lips. The reservoir of pent-up longing she had denied for so long blazed and exploded like a solar flare.
Mario held her tight in a hungry embrace. His lips moved to her forehead, her eyelids, the hollow of her throat. She felt the air slip past her scalp when he inhaled, greedy even for the scent of her hair.
“This will kill her,” Miranda whispered. “If she ever finds out…”
His hands settled on either side of her face. “If I can’t feel you, be with you, I’m going to lose my mind.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know… The only thing I know for sure is that I love you.”
Her heart soared to hear him say it. She wasn’t carrying a lonely torch. It wasn’t her imagination. Mario loved her like she loved him. The rest didn’t—couldn’t—matter.
They started for Swig without a word. The two-minute walk seemed to take forever. They sauntered through the lobby with exaggerated nonchalance, never looked at one another in the deafening silence of the elevator as it groaned its way to the top floor. Miranda fumbled with her keys outside her apartment, cursing the lock before it finally gave way.
As soon as the door shut behind them, the facade slipped away.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he said, pulling her to him.
Miranda could not catch her breath to answer. Eventually they made their way to her bed. Their naked bodies intertwined on the soft, worn blanket. He entered her with a gasp, and then they moved as one. Climbing and rising, riding a wild desire filled with longing and need, desperation and joy, until his cries of release had mingled with hers.
Miranda put the picture back, drowning in sweet melancholy for a thing so rare and so irretrievably lost. They had been so innocent then, as they tumbled from grace to answer love’s heady imperative. Another Miranda, another Mario, another lifetime ago.
“You can’t still miss me, you can’t still care. You can’t still love me. You can’t,” she whispered. Tears blurred her vision. The smiling faces of the photograph warped and ran together. “Even I wouldn’t wish that on you.”
20
“How the hell did you think it would turn out? Did you really believe that we would just magically get along?” Mario snapped. He pulled his shirt over his head and threw it to the floor.
Emily glared across the bedroom at her husband. “You didn’t even try!”
“That is such bullshit. I lost my temper when she made that crack about the tomatoes. I admit it. What the hell was I supposed to do?”
“Act like a goddamn grown-up,” Emily shouted. “That’s what you were supposed to do!”
“You’re the one who insisted that I be here for your little reunion. ‘It’s been almost five years, Mario. It’s time you two got over yourselves.’ Now we know! Five years wasn’t enough.”
“What did you say to set her off? Why do you have to be like this?”
“You’re not on the receiving end of her relentless disappointment so don’t fucking lecture me,” Mario growled. He turned on his heel to leave, before he said something he would really regret.
“You’re jealous, aren’t you? You saw her with Connor, and you got jealous.”
Her words froze him in place.
It always came back to this.
His anger, and the energy that came with it, abandoned him. Mario felt hollow and exhausted and worse for all the bourbon he had knocked back after locking himself in his study. He turned around to face his wife.
The color drained from Emily’s face. “Oh my God, you are. You’re jealous.” She crumpled onto the bed and began to c
ry.
Great, fucking great. Way to go, asshole.
Mario walked over and sat next to his wife. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She didn’t pull away.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said, remembering his first glimpse of Miranda earlier in the day. She had been holding the back door of the Rover open for Delilah, who barreled straight to him. He knew right then he was in trouble because he was so happy to see that damn dog. The memory of surprising Miranda with the half-starved, flea-infested puppy he had found hiding behind a dumpster outside the GeneSys lab had overwhelmed him. Until that moment he had not understood just how much he nursed the futile hope that it might work out for them in the end.
He blew out a deep breath. “I was jealous.”
“I thought our family was important to you. Important enough—” The rest of whatever Emily had been going to say was lost in a frustrated growl.
“You know you and the kids are my first priority.”
It was true. He absolutely meant it. And it had taken every gram of self-control he possessed to not drag Miranda away and tell her everything, consequences be damned.
“I stood by you, Mario,” Emily said, a note of reproach in her voice. “I paid a price too.”
His anger blazed bright once more. Emily had gotten what she wanted in the end, yet thought she was the one who had suffered?
“You haven’t spent the last five years punishing yourself because you loved me and can’t accept what I did.”
Emily’s breath caught in her throat. Her body went rigid before she pulled away. He was never this honest when it came to Miranda. The carefully constructed truce that was their marriage did not allow for it. But this time he couldn’t help it; it just came out.
“I guess I thought after all this time—” Emily started. She stopped and sighed. “I know our marriage doesn’t have everything you want.”
Like love? Mario thought bitterly, but he knew that was unfair. Emily wasn’t the one who had confused the impulse to protect with love. She had been so beautiful and terrified, had needed someone to make her feel safe so badly. No one had twisted his arm to be that person. When Emily realized she was pregnant, there was never a question in his mind about what to do because now she really needed him. The baby would need its father in this dangerous new world. Of course they got married. It had been a no-brainer.