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“What I’d give to sleep in a bed,” I remark.
“So do it.” Chris kicks his boots off, rolling onto the mattress. “I forgot what it was like to sleep on a bed. Get over here, Cassidy.”
“I’m not sleeping on a bed with you.”
“In a bed with me.” He pulls back the covers, waving me over. “It’s warm.”
I roll my eyes, looking over the contents of the dresser. A string of faux pearls is hanging on a jewelry tower. A half-empty perfume bottle is tilted sideways against a wooden box full of earplugs and defunct hearing aids. Apparently whoever lived here was on the older side.
“I wonder where they went,” I say. “If they took all their stuff, maybe they had a working car.”
“Probably.” Chris spreads his arms across the pillows. “Cassidy?”
“Hmm?”
“Come here.”
My hand hovers over a stainless steel bracelet etched with the name A
I walk over to Chris. He’s conveniently propped up on his side, waiting for me to crawl in bed. “Trying to seduce me or something?” I say, raising an eyebrow.
“Obviously.” Chris offers a handsome smile, hooking his thumbs around my belt loops, pulling me forward. “What are you so afraid of?”
I swallow, suddenly feeling very warm. I brace myself against his shoulders, Chris leaning up and kissing the bottom of my chin. I close my eyes, relaxing into him, just as he presses his lips against mine. The heat of the kiss is intense — different than when I kissed him earlier — as he pulls me closer, tighter. I link my hands together behind his neck, Chris rubbing comforting circles into my arms.
“Chris,” I say, breaking the embrace.
“Mmm?” He strokes the side of my face with his finger.
“I’m sleeping on the couch.”
“Are you kidding?” He grins, sitting up, holding me in his lap. “And miss out on all this?”
“Exactly,” I breathe, hot. “I just...I’m tired. Okay?”
“Really?” Chris looks amused. “Come on. Stay.”
“No.”
He presses the tip of his nose against mine, closing his eyes.
“I’ve been sleeping beside you for months,” he says. “Whether it’s in the snow or on a bed doesn’t really make a difference, does it?”
I take a shaky breath, my hormones going wild.
“This is different,” I insist.
And it is. If there’s one thing I know about Chris, he does things all the way. He doesn’t stop. He’s the logical, steady man when it comes to any situation except…well, this. I may — possibly (probably) — be in love with the man, but I’m only nineteen. He’s twenty-eight, he’s ready for this kind of thing. And I’m not.
Not yet.
“Sorry,” I say, kissing his forehead. “But it’s the couch for me.”
“Cassie,” he replies, laughter rumbling in his chest. “I’m not going to—”
“—Don’t even say it!” I cut in. “Please.”
“Say what?”
Thank God it’s dark in here. I’m blushing fire engine red.
“I’m not talking about that with you,” I say, shifting back.
“You’re too easy to read, Cassie.” He grins again. “Extremely easy.”
“Not that easy.” I swing my legs around and sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m just saying…I don’t…” I rub my temples. “Never mind. Goodnight.”
Unperturbed, Chris keeps his arms around my waist.
“Trust me,” he says.
I turn around to face him, his voice getting soft. He’s making it hard to say no to him. “Fine,” I reply, squeezing his hand. “I trust you.”
I slip under the heavy quilt of the bed — having a blanket is almost better than having hot food — and Chris lays his arm across the pillow. I rest my head against his bicep, comfortable just lying close enough to take in his scent of spice and coffee.
“Goodnight, Cassidy,” he says, his voice teasing. Fingering my shirt.
“Goodnight.”
As I fall asleep, all I can think is,
One of these days I’m going to get the hang of this love thing.
The next morning I wake up alone in bed. Groggy, I sit up and make a note of the fact that it’s gray and foggy outside. For the fifty-millionth time. “Chris?” I slip out of the covers and place my feet on the floor, yawning. I glimpse my reflection in the dresser mirror. Bad hair day.
Bad hair month.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping into the living room. Chris is dressed in his jacket and boots, checking his weapons — or as I like to call them, his “arsenal of awesome.”
“Hello?” I fold my arms over my chest, glancing at his face. “What’s wrong? Are we in trouble?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Cassie,” he grins. “Relax.”
“Then what’s up with all the weaponry?”
“I’m hungry.” He gestures towards the kitchen. “I need more than veggies and soup to keep alive. I’m going hunting. You stay here, okay?”
“Are you kidding? You could be gone for hours.”
“Most likely.”
He slings his gun over his back, picking up a few more, leaving me with a couple of knives and a rifle that’s about twice my size. “Go back to bed. Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”
“Can’t I come?”
Chris shakes his head, fighting a smile.
“No. You’re a little too impatient for hunting.” He moves in to press a kiss against my cheek. “See you later. Do not leave the trailer. Don’t draw attention to yourself. I’ll be back by sundown.”
“And if you’re not?”
“You stay here and wait for me until I show up. Period.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Stick to the plan.”
“Be careful,” I warn.
“Yes, ma’am.” He gives me a Boy Scout salute before heading out the door. I lock it behind him, uncomfortable being alone in an abandoned house by myself. So I start digging around in the kitchen, searching for the rest of the ca
Bavarian sauerkraut.
Okay. Not exactly an appetizing name.
I set the can aside and decide that I’ll only be eating the contents if it’s the only food I can find in the kitchen. Thankfully, I come across some cans of fruit and vegetables in one of the cupboards, sparing me the misery of eating the sauerkraut. I eat it cold, feeling a rush of energy come with the sugar.
The day is long and boring without Chris around. I’ve got nobody to talk to besides myself - which makes me feel like I’ve gone crazy- so I resort to reading some of the books lying around the home. Whoever lived here had really dull taste in books. Nothing but poetry about forgotten love and a framed magazine article from Reader’s Digest. Inspirational stuff.
I actually do end up taking a nap through the afternoon. I guess I’m more tired than I thought I was. By the time evening rolls around, I’m antsy, bored and in dire need of a television or computer.
It’s sucks to be a survivor of an EMP. There’s nothing to do.
“This is riveting,” I mutter, flicking a crumb across the kitchen table.
But when nighttime comes, I start to get worried. Tick, tock. My mental clock is ticking — loudly. Chris said he’d be back by nighttime. With di
At around eight o’clock, Chris still hasn’t returned. I’m not worried in the normal sense. More like concerned. Maybe he got hurt and it’s taking him a long time to limp back to the trailer. Maybe he ran into a gang. Maybe there was nothing to hunt so he decided to travel farther away from the trailer park to find food.
All possible scenarios. All things I imagine to keep myself from panicking.
Another hour drags by.
I throw on my boots.
Twenty minutes.
I put on my jacket.