by Laila Blake
It was getting cold, but as long as they clung together, Emily hardly felt it. She leaned her head against his, soft and gelatinous.
“Thank you,” she finally whispered and kissed his shoulder.
“For what?” His tongue felt swollen and slow, voice almost rasping.
She inhaled but then didn’t answer, she just pulled back and smiled at him. For the first time that evening, the corners of her mouth moved up all by themselves. He found himself struck by just how beautiful she was, as though he’d not quite noticed it until that moment, until she smiled at him with a tiredness that came from something other than another day in the van, with a smile brought on by something other than obligation.
“I guess you’re welcome, then,” he said, smiling a little, then more, touching her chin with his fingers. She reached for them and moved them up to her lips, kissing each of them, one by one, and her eyes fell closed again.
Chapter Fifteen
Aaron slept, and he rarely did, so that when he woke in the morning, it was with a start, sitting up swiftly with his hand already outstretched for his gun. He felt stupid almost immediately, but looked around the room with a certain amount of confusion.
It was flooded with light in a way that didn’t make sense—could it really be that late in the morning already? Guilt shot through him, the sense that he might have been derelict in his duty by his charges somehow. Slowly, quietly, he shook off his blankets and got to his feet in the freezing room. A glance at the window explained the light easily, as he looked out over fresh and glittering landscape.
Snow. A storm had hit overnight, and quietly covered the property by several inches, thick and white. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, grateful they’d stopped the night before and wondering how long it would be until it would be safe to drive again. Moving away from the window, he looked back over at the piles of blankets and sleeping bags, the old sagging couch. Song was snoring, arms thrown over his head, curls disheveled, hand dangling near Emily’s face. Her expression was serene, for once, hands tucked under her cheek, that loose ring pressed into her skin, and hair spread on the blanket under her head. He found himself watching her, the near-silent breaths she took, the pink flush over her cheeks, the colorful bird tattooed on her clavicle, the freckles on the tip of her nose—had he ever taken the time to notice all those little things?
And had the night before actually happened? Aaron still felt heavy with sleep, and, for a few minutes, he was almost unsure. He wasn’t scared anymore, that low-lying sort of fear that tended to follow a brush with death, and his mouth felt a little stung, fingers straying to his bottom lip. He wasn't stupid or wishful enough for such lucid dreams, and, so, they'd had sex, just in the next room, quiet and desperate and so fulfilling, his pelvis ached again, suddenly, just at the thought of it.
He let them sleep; there was no point in waking the two, not when they were warm and comfortable. He restoked the fire and got it going, put water on to boil, then slipped outside into the freezing air to see the unmarred snow, the land untouched for miles. They were safe.
Emily, waking, noticed the different quality of the light too, groaned in recognition and let herself fall back onto her blanket. She didn’t want to be awake yet, didn't want to think yet.
Song flailed in his sleep, and his hand hit her on the nose. She grunted, rubbed it and gave up. Dragging herself into a sitting position, she looked around the room. The fire was starting to crackle, though and she finally wormed herself out of her sleeping bag, yawned and padded closer to the heat.
She could start thinking after a cup of tea, after just a little more time had passed.
As there wasn’t much to look at outside—clearly they were the only ones who had been through there in some time—Aaron came back in after a few minutes, kicking the snow off his boots onto the front porch. His smile was small, but pleased, as he took in Emily, barefoot and blinking in the strange white light of sun on snow.
“Thought you might sleep in,” he said, shrugging apologetically and going to fetch the cups they used for tea and coffee. “Shoulda known better?”
“I think I forgot how,” she admitted watching his back as he bent over their pack. She remembered all too vividly clinging to that back the night before.
“How bad is it? The snow I mean?”
“Not bad. It’ll be clear by tomorrow, it’s so warm. It’s just soggy and wet out there, don’t want to risk gettin’ the van stuck.” He straightened up and held her cup out to her. “Shouldn’t be a problem after, though.”
“Song will be excited,” she replied, taking the cup from him and swishing through it once with her sleeve. In a way, she was too: a day just standing still. She looked up at Aaron, but just when their eyes met, something in them made her look away again, poking at the fire as though she could make it heat the water faster.
“It’s not so bad here,” Aaron agreed, digging out the precious few last teabags and the little bit of freeze dried coffee they had in a box.
“Place is sturdy enough and we got a fire. Might let him play in the snow if we can get his feet in those boots.” He was just rambling, and as she wasn’t looking at him just then, he could watch her little gestures without being caught. Her fingers curled in the cuffs of her sweater, and her hair swished slowly along the curve of her neck. She shook herself a tiny bit every time a shiver went down her spine and finally, smiling at him, went to find her socks, two pair, one tight and thin, the other huge, fluffy and multi-colored. Sitting down on the floor to put them on, she stretched her leg out in front of her, pulling and tugging at the fabric until she grew aware of Aaron’s gaze.
She swallowed, gave him a small smile and got back up.
“It’ll be good for him to run around a bit...” she said, a little hoarsely. She still felt good, soft and pliable and aware of her body as she hadn't been in months, and she didn’t want to spoil it just yet.
“Kids need that,” he agreed, easily, lifting the pot from the fire and nodding at her to hold her cup out, carefully pouring the water over the tea there, careful not to spill any on her fingers.
“I can make oatmeal if you want,” he offered, not pouring water in his coffee just yet, looking up at her.
“That sounds good, really good actually.” She felt her stomach rumbling in that pleasantly needy way it only could after sex and she poked it gingerly with her index finger, a crooked smile on her face.
“I... I can help? I mean, if you need any.”
“No, really, I’ve been up and around already. We can relax for one day,” he added, digging out the container of oatmeal, and then a jar of preserves he rolled between his hands before setting on the floor. “Kinda nice to not have to plan anything, ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” she admitted, yawned and settled herself on the floor next to the fire against the warm wall. She wriggled her toes and held the cup close, cradling it between her hands. “I don’t know how you do it, really, all this traveling all the time. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m incredibly glad and grateful that you took us with you, but I’ll be even happier with a place to stay.”
His smile was a little wistful, but less so than the weeks before.
“I like to feel useful,” he said, simply, adding more water from a jug to the pan and putting it back on the fire.
She nodded again, nipping at her tea even though it hadn’t soaked through yet and tasted watery. It didn’t really matter.
“Do you have anything in mind? I mean... where we might be going?” Emily was careful but curious, had been for a while.
Aaron was quiet for a moment, considering the water that was just starting to simmer. “There’s some farms,” he said, finally. “Down near Kentucky, if I’m remembering right. It’s mostly news passed on from one person to another,” he added, apologetically. “Can’t really say if it’s true or, if it is, those people are still there.”
“Sure,” she said quickly. She gently pushed her foot against his, looking up at hi
m from where she was sitting on the floor.
His gaze lifted from the pan and over to her.
“Hey,” he said, but stopped, trying to read her face but coming back with little but the same ache as before, sweeter. “Um... last night?”
Emily bit her bottom lip far to the side so that it gathered in a pink fold for a moment before her smile ironed it out.
“Yeah,” she agreed and pulled up her shoulders, keeping them there.
She was even smaller when she did that, delicate and impenetrable at the same time, and, really, all it did was make him want to gather her up in his arms all over again, but he stayed put.
“Just...” He shrugged, let her have her bit of protection, privacy, and reached for the oatmeal though the water wasn’t quite ready. “I didn’t want things to get awkward. Like they were before.”
Stretching her leg out even more she managed to place the entirety of her sole against his ankle, warm and solid.
“Neither do I,” she said softly, quietly. Her forehead knotted and she looked down at her cup; she remembered once upon a time watching Darjeeling slowly color the water brown in swirls. When you added cream it looked like beige clouds. Her head felt like that, clouded and churning.
She was still difficult to read, but Aaron didn’t mind it. He nudged her foot back with his own.
“It’s not then, right?” He wanted to tell her it was good, that they were good, that he thought she was beautiful and felt incredible, but she looked shuttered again, and Song was stirring, and that was just fine.
Emily managed a little smile and a nod and then Song’s eyes blinked open. He looked around sleepily and yawned, stretching his hands and lanky arms far from him. Then he pouted at them from between his sheets, huffed and pulled his pillow over his head.
“I’m thirsty,” sounded his muffled voice.
“Got some water here, buddy,” Aaron said, cheerfully, filling up the little tin cup they kept for Song with cold water from the jug and handing it over to Emily. In spite of the proclaimed thirst, though, Song was not happy to come out from under his warm bedclothes, and stayed put.
“Snugglyduck...” Emily sing-songed, touching his arm and puckering her lips. “We have a surpriiise. Do you wanna know the surprise?”
“No.” A pause and he lifted the blanket and pillow slightly to look out at her. “Yes. Maybe. What?”
“No car today,” she smiled, wide and happy as though she could carry the message with her enthusiasm and make it better, brighter than it really was.
“Why?” Song was instantly suspicious and, really, Aaron couldn’t blame him. He dumped the oatmeal into the water, moved the pan to the side to cook, and grinned in the boy’s direction.
“Maybe you should look outside,” he suggested.
Song eyed them both before he struggled out from under his pile of blankets to land his small feet on the cold floor. He winced, but padded over the uneven floorboards, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the snow—clearly he did not harbor the same negative feelings about this particular weather phenomenon Emily did.
“Can I build a snowman?” he asked, bouncing up onto his toes, and Aaron chuckled, glancing at Emily. Who worried about zombies when there was fun in the snow to be had?
“Maybe after breakfast,” he suggested, winking at her.
“And if you get all snug and warm, sure,” she smiled and followed him. He was only a few feet away and she got there on her knees, still wrapped in blankets. She opened her arms like wings of warm fabric and enveloped him with a smile.
“Come on, it’s gonna be great—we play games and read stuff and lie around...?”
“Like back in New York,” he piped up; there had, indeed, been some snowstorms when he was little that had shut down his preschool, and all three of them would stay home then, in pajamas with hot cocoa and Disney movies and his train set.
“Yeah,” she whispered, kissing his cheek and trying not to get too lost in those memories. “Like in New York. With food and books and cuddling—like a holiday. Snow day.”
“With zombies,” Song pointed out: so he hadn’t forgotten about them. But his expression was much more cheerful than either Emily or Aaron's, and he wiggled out of her grasp to go over and peer into the pot.
“Oatmeal?” he asked, on the verge of complaining.
“I got out preserves, Lil’ Whiner,” Aaron interrupted, holding up the jar. “But you gotta help clean up a little first. And brush your teeth, you smell like you ate yourself a warthog.”
Song cackled but did as he was told, kicking together the blankets and searching for his toothbrush. While Emily was helping, she gave Aaron a little grin.
“Smelled many warthogs in your time, have you?” she asked, bit her bottom lip and then, when Song tugged at her hand, she helped him build a pillow camp for them to be snuggly in.
“The things I’ve seen,” Aaron sighed, stirring the oatmeal. When it was cooked through, he served it up for each of them, adding an extra scoop of the jam to Song’s who, despite his earlier protests, scarfed his bowl quite easily before scrabbling for Emily’s backpack to root through the contents within.
Emily was distracted enough by her own food and by her train of thought not to notice, still more engrossed in the night before than she had expected to be. Conducting long internal debates with herself on how she had a right to this and didn’t have to feel guilty—or not too guilty, anyway—kept her occupied. But then she heard the rustle of paper and looked over at Song.
“Looking for anything, Duck?” she asked, somewhat afraid for some of those papers to get torn or crinkled.
“Hey,” came his response, holding up a handful that had spilled from an envelope. “These are from Daddy. Can I read 'em?”
Emily caught her jaw before it could fall, but she had sudden dizzying sensation of having done something wrong. She swallowed, then licked her lips.
“Um,” she started, staring at the letters and forcing herself not to snatch them away. He was being polite and nice but Emily tightened her jaw.
“Yeah, um, sure. Lemme check, okay? Some are... well more for grown-ups?” Again she licked her lips and for a moment didn’t care how it sounded. Sullivan had had a tendency to be brutally honest in his well-crafted, beautiful letters—and there were certain truths about his father that she didn’t think Song needed to know.
He frowned, but handed them over, squinting at the squiggly handwriting as he did so to spot anything on the pages. He couldn’t read all that well, though, and for once, Emily considered it a blessing. After sifting out one that was all too explicit on his touring adventures with other women, she found three for Song that actually mentioned the boy and how much he missed them and handed them back.
“Here you go, Duck—do you need help reading his handwriting?”
“No.” A pause, again, and then: “Maybe.” He tucked both feet under him and smoothed one letter out on the floor: it had been folded and refolded so many times, there were all kinds of crinkles and creases.
“Dear Em,” he read out, the top line easy and short. “We made it to... to...” He huffed a breath through his nose. “What’s that word?” he asked, pointing to his father's loping script, spelling out Louisiana. Emily provided the word and in an almost deadened voice showed him the letters, which one was which and where they ended. Her face was ashen though, and she tried to hide it. Listening to Sullivan’s words from Song’s mouth was a harder challenge than she had imagined, shooting through her with the intensity of a punch to the gut.
Aaron remained quiet, watching them as he cleaned up the dishes, trying not to overhear out of some kind of politeness, but unable to do anything else. What Song read was rambling, and a little difficult to decipher in his child’s voice, but Aaron understood the descriptions of the South, of the road and sky and cities, and, certainly, the end where he talked about showing Song the strange streets of New Orleans, the sinking city, dreams and devastation.
The letter ended
with “Love you, Sully” and Song paused, flipping the paper over, then back again, before looking up at Emily.
“We never went there,” he noted, tone a bit perplexed. “Did we pin it on the map?”
Emily blinked, she had that wet feeling in her nose and throat and had to cough hard before she could force an answer.
“It’s... pretty far from New York, but... yeah, we pinned it,” she sniffed with that all too bright smile.
Song bent over the letter again. “He went lots of places,” he mused, squinting at the words again; some had been difficult for him to pronounce, and Sullivan packed a lot of them onto a tiny piece of paper.
“Yeah, he did,” Emily answered, managing simple responses more easily. “It’s in the job—when you’re a touring musician you travel a lot.”
“When’s he gonna come back?” He looked up at her then, and Aaron found himself holding his breath, without thinking.
Song had his father’s eyes, and his gaze, unflinching without meaning it to be. He had the same soft curve of his lip, too, and messy hair, but it was all offset, unlike Sullivan, by full chipmunk cheeks and little buck-teeth, too, a button nose and incredibly long eyelashes.
“He’s not, huh?” he provided, not waiting for Emily to find the words to answer him. Even then she could only shake her head at first. She kept his gaze though, and reached to cup his cheek, and then leaned over and buried her nose in his full head of hair.
“No...” she finally whispered. “No, he’s not...”
Song let her cling to him.
“The zombies did get him, didn’t they?” There were times when he sounded entirely too old, and this was one of them. He patted her arm. “So no more letters?” She nodded and then pulled away to look at him, almost scared of how ancient his eyes glimmered.