I try for indifference. “It’s not the worst sob story in the universe. My point is that I know what it’s like to be stolen from, and it sucks.” I don’t think I nailed the indifference, so I try to lighten the mood. “Anyway, I’m sorry I threatened to murder you in your sleep and stuff.”
“I thought I was a goner for a minute there,” he says, playing along, though his eyes are full of compassion.
“Well, you did make the decision to stay without asking me what I thought. And then you told me to be quiet.”
“You’re right, I should’ve asked. And I’m sorry I told you to be quiet, although I still would’ve thought it.”
“I’m sure you think it a hundred times a day.” He zips his lips and tosses the imaginary key, and I flick water at him. “I don’t like when people take advantage of me or use their power indiscriminately, and I can’t keep my mouth shut when they do. And then, to top it all off, you used our word. That was unscrupulous. There’s only so much a girl can take.”
“All’s fair in love and word games.”
“You’re going to be sorry you said that,” I warn. Eric gives an overdone shudder. He’s making this too easy; it hasn’t been much of an apology thus far. “I am sorry. And you were right—I’m glad we stayed.”
“You wanted to but you didn’t want to give in to them. You could teach a mule a thing or two about stubbornness.”
“Where do you get these sayings? Goner, a dog’s age, stubborn as a mule, all in the course of three minutes. I think you might be a sixty-year-old man in a twenty-six-year-old’s body.”
“My dad was fond of them,” he says.
“I don’t think your dad was the only one who was fond of them.”
Eric laughs. I dump the remaining soapy water down the backyard drain, wipe out the bin with a dishtowel and set the dishes in to bring to the kitchen. He comes around the table to stand beside me. “Thanks. For telling me about your mom.”
I nod and busy myself drying my hands, surprised that he gets it. For most people, sharing those details would mean nothing, but for someone who plays everything close to the vest, it feels as though I gave away a part of myself. Cold air whistles through the small hole it left in my armor; a way in for a dagger. But Grace says this is how you do it—you hand them the dagger and trust they won’t use it.
“I guess we should go in,” I say.
We bend for the washtub at the same moment. I’m not sure if the crack of our heads bashing together is audible to the rest of the world, but it’s deafening in my skull. I curse. Eric clasps his forehead. “I knew you were hardheaded, but damn.”
“That was so your fault!”
“My fault?” Eric asks. “How was that my fault?”
“I can’t remember because I have amnesia now.”
“Think you’re funny, do you? Okay, I’m going to pick up the dishes. Don’t move.” He bends cautiously, grabs the bin and jumps back. He’s still grinning at his own antics on our way to the back door.
“You also seem to think you’re quite the comedian,” I say.
“Maybe we should take our act on the road.”
“I hear Madison Square Garden is a packed house.”
Eric sets the washtub on the kitchen counter and turns to me with creased cheeks and crinkly eyes. I can’t tell if he’s amused or thinks I’m out of my mind but, even if he is laughing at me, it’s not mean-spirited. I don’t think he has a mean-spirited bone in his body. He makes it very hard not to like him. I’m growing alarmed at how much I like him.
“We thought maybe you got kidnapped again,” Grace calls.
We enter the living room. They’ve put up the blackout shades and lit a lantern. Going to bed early is depressing, so we’ve been splurging on an hour or so of light. Good light—not windup lantern light.
Jorge looks up from the dominoes he shuffles on the coffee table. “You in? Grace wants to play.”
“Sure.”
“Why don’t you play?” Maria asks Eric. “I’ll watch.”
“I don’t know how.”
“None of you gringos know how,” Jorge says. “Especially this way. Sit down. Ladies against gentlemen.”
It’s easy enough in theory, but winning requires both strategy and luck. We take turns matching up our tiles—or, as Jorge calls them, bones. I can’t talk to Grace and have no idea what tiles she has, but how quickly or slowly she throws down a tile gives me hints. I watch Eric deliberate too long over a turn and on my next turn play a tile that forces him to pass. Grace and I cheer at his bad luck.
“So not cool,” Eric says.
The rounds only get more cutthroat from there. By the end of the game, Grace and I have whooped their asses. Maria leaps from the couch and does a little dance before she gives us both high fives. “That’s my girls!”
“All right, you won fair and square,” Jorge says.
“How does it feel to be beaten by a couple of gringas?” I ask him.
Jorge pounds his chest, which is just as broad but definitely more solid than it was. “I’m man enough to take it.”
“You forget that they’ve known each other for years,” Eric says. “They probably communicate psychically.”
Grace holds her forehead and squints at me. I nod and turn to Eric. “She said, Don’t try to make excuses for sucking so bad you lost.”
Maria hoots while Grace and I dissolve into laughter. “I also said it’s your job to clean up, as the big, fat losers of the game,” Grace adds.
Jorge and Eric return the tiles to the box while grumbling. “Just because the women are better than you is no reason to be a couple of sore losers,” Maria says.
“You should see Maria play,” I say to Eric. “She’ll school your ass.”
“Your ass is grass tomorrow,” Eric says. “Right, Jorge?”
“You kidding? You never have to ask me twice.”
Once everything is packed up, we get ready for bed. Eric walks down the hall with me and stops at the base of the stairs. “That was fun.”
“Except for the part where you lost,” I joke.
“Even the part where I lost.” He leans in with a smile. “Goodnight, Sylvie.”
I think I say goodnight, but it’s possible I move my lips and nothing comes out. All I can hear is the way he said my name—soft and fond, as if he likes to say it. Which is a ridiculous thought, but I can’t help thinking it.
I listen to his footsteps up the stairs and wonder what would happen if I followed him to his room. I haven’t forgotten the feel of his neck on my lips or the time I spent in the bakery with his arm around me, and it’s hard not to imagine how good he must smell now that he’s had a date with a pot of hot water. I drag myself from the door and get in bed with Grace.
“You and Eric seem like you’re getting along just fine,” she says after she’s switched off the flashlight.
“Why wouldn’t we? I am capable of being a civil human being.”
She makes a noise in her throat. “You’re so annoying when you do that. He spends half his time watching you and the other half talking to you whenever humanly possible. And you spend way too much time not watching him.”
The only reason I can ask my next question is because it’s dark. “He watches me?”
“Like you’re primetime television.”
My stomach leaps, but it’s quickly followed by a flood of trepidation. I can start things, and I win awards at ending things in an explosive fashion, but it’s the middle part—the hardest part, the most important part—at which I suck. Big time.
“He’s funny, he’s totally good-looking,” Grace says. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
“He’s funny and attractive. That doesn’t mean I want to sleep with him.”
“That always means you want to sleep with someone.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say. “Was that a thinly-veiled slut accusation?”
“That’s funny, it wasn’t supposed to be thinly-veiled.”
&n
bsp; I elbow her. “Well, I don’t want to sleep with him.”
“Right.” Grace draws out the word.
“Okay, fine.” My face is on fire. Of course Grace knows. I might as well admit it. “But what would happen if I did, therapist lady?”
“You’d run in the other direction. Except there’s nowhere to run, so it’d be awkward and then you’d hardly speak to him.”
“Exactly. And I don’t want to never speak to him again.”
Grace is silent. Just when my sweatiness has subsided and I’m sure she’s asleep, she whispers, “Wow, you really like him, don’t you?”
“As a friend. Okay, session over. Goodnight.”
Grace giggles. “A friend you want to sleep with.”
“Shut up.”
“You want to do the nasty with that there friend. You want to get all up in your friend’s pa—”
“Shut. Up.”
The bed shakes with her laughter. “You want to engage in some gland to gland combat with that good fr—”
“Gland to gland combat?” I ask with a laugh. “Really? Where the hell did you hear that one?”
“Logan. That guy Brent at his work says it.”
“Is Brent the one who accidentally rubs his pelvis against women when he walks past?”
“Yup.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Grace’s giggles turn to sniffles. She hasn’t mentioned Logan, so neither have I. Honestly, I’m not sure it’s better that way. She examines every zombie she sees, and I think it’s to make sure it isn’t Logan or her parents.
“I know you’re doing what you have to do to get by,” I say, “but it’s okay to have some hope.”
“Sylvia Rose Rossi, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
She squeezes my hand before she flips on her side. There’s nothing more to say.
Chapter 70
The next day, everyone but Paul waits for India at the appointed house. Someone had to stay with Leo, and he watched us leave with hands tight by his sides. That’s another thing about kids: they cramp your style. Though I will admit Leo is sweet and says amusing things, both of which I attribute to his mother, since Paul has the personality of a rock. And I wish his mother were here, for Leo’s sake and Paul’s sake and even, possibly, my sake. I can’t help but think Paul would be nicer if she were. There has to be a reason Eric likes him.
Now that Grace has brought it to my attention, it’s obvious how Eric seeks me out to joke around and bother me twenty times a day about insignificant things. I can’t pretend I don’t want him to, not even to keep the peace with Paul. The only thing I can do is not rise to the bait Paul dangles in front of me, and that’s difficult enough.
The meeting house has exposed brick and modern furniture in the tradition of gentrifying yuppies everywhere. Maria turns from the window where she keeps watch. “They’re coming.”
Seven people trot down the block and up the stairs to the door. After they enter, India moves to Maria, hand out. “Hi, you must be Maria.” She smiles at me and Eric. “Thanks for coming.”
The five boys and Eli stand behind her. India introduces them, and Maria does the same. When she gets to me, Eli says, “Hey, Scotch-Brite.” The rest of the group titters.
“Long story,” I say to Maria’s curious look.
We lead them to Guillermo’s, where Eli kills the one zombie in our way with a strike that looks more like a knife sliding through butter than a hack into bone. I raise my eyebrows at Grace. She fans herself with a hand. Eli has the bone structure of a god, expressive lips, and eyes that are warm when they want to be but cool and pragmatic when not. Even his voice is smooth. Apparently, he was a lawyer, and I’d bet anything he was a good one.
When we reach Key Food, we wave to the sentries and hop the car wall. Guillermo has added more brick to the intersections farther down. They’ll have all of the park walled off soon. India’s charges take in the sights, laughing and shoving each other on our walk to the main house. The Jayden and Vinnie who pointed guns at us bear no resemblance to these grinning, goofy teenagers.
India mutters under her breath and stops short. After a deep inhalation, she turns to the boys. “Please, please don’t say anything stupid. Do you hear me?” They quit with the horseplay and stand at attention. She bows her head, hands in prayer position. “Thank you.”
“What’s up?” Guillermo asks, jogging down the stairs. “Why didn’t you come in?”
India steps forward before we can explain. “I’m India. Eric and Sylvie told us about you. That maybe you could help us out.”
Guillermo gives her his undivided attention. India doesn’t need makeup, but I’m pretty sure she’s applied mascara. Her dark eyes match the hair that frames her face in a halo of puffy curls, and she’s approachable yet sexy in her vintage brown leather coat and tight jeans.
Right off, she tells Guillermo where they live. “We’ve been okay, but I’m having a hard time keeping up. Sylvie said you were thinking of expanding.”
Guillermo finally drags his eyes away to inspect the boys. “You live here, you work. You do what I say, no complaints.”
“Same as my house.” India rests a hand on his arm, and Guillermo’s posture softens at her touch. I should take notes—her way is much more effective than mine, which basically shouts fuck you.
“Let’s talk in the yard,” Guillermo says.
We follow him through the house while he lists his expectations, which are mainly not to be a jerk or a thief. Once out back, a crowd gathers around Guillermo and India. I pick out Carlos and Micah, along with other faces that have become familiar, but there are new ones in the mix. The trees in the yard have filled out, and they’ve one-upped us by building a greenhouse out of salvaged windows. Our plant starts now live in a greenhouse made of clear plastic.
“Looks like it may work out,” Eric says from behind me and Grace.
“I hope so,” I say.
I look at the sky. Dust-streaked clouds float in brown-tinged blue above the buildings. The wind has stirred up our ruined city again, and New York hangs above us in a billion particles of destruction. It’s warm and getting warmer every day. The cold seems far away, and I wonder where I’ll be this winter. Grace hasn’t yet mentioned a return trip to Brooklyn Heights. All she has to do is say the word. I feel guilty for not bringing it up, but I’m scared—of the zombies and of leaving here. We might never get back.
“It’s going to be cold this winter,” I say.
“If they freeze, we can live anywhere,” Grace says. “I don’t see how they won’t freeze. They’re still bodies.”
“Dead bodies that walk around, so who knows? But we’re going to freeze.”
“Oh ye of little faith,” Eric says. “Don’t you think I have a plan for that?”
“Won’t you be upstate?”
“We’ll all be upstate.” He raises his eyebrows. “Right?”
I look to Grace, who for once manages to wear an unreadable expression. I can’t answer that question unless she does. “When are you going?” I ask the ground.
“After we plant the gardens, I’ll see if I can get out of the city. Then I’ll be back to get everyone.”
“So we’ll talk about it then.”
He frowns and points to the generator Gary uses. “If all else fails, we can find a generator and use electric heaters. All those abandoned cars have a lot of gas. We should use it up before it goes bad.”
“Gas goes bad?” Grace asks.
“Eventually.” He describes something having to do with oxidation, while Guillermo’s speech ends and the crowd breaks up. India and the boys talk with those who linger.
We make our way over. “So, it’s a go?” I ask India.
“It’s a go,” she says. “Now I just have to keep my kids from fucking it up.”
“Good luck with all that.”
She laughs and raises a finger to where Guillermo waves her over. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Okay
, looks like I’ve got to go charm someone.” She takes a couple steps and turns back. “Hey, call me Indy.”
I watch her stroll away and decide I should work on walking like her, too. Eric pulls his hand from behind his back and holds out three dandelions. “A nosegay. For you.”
I make no move to take them. “You’ve sunk to a new low.”
“Sylvie!” Grace admonishes.
“Nosegay is our word,” I say to her, and then turn to him. “Do three dandelions even count as a nosegay?”
“The definition is a small bunch of flowers.” He takes my hand, pries it open, and folds my fingers around the stems. “And that, my sweet, is a small bunch of flowers.”
“Fucker,” I mutter.
“She doesn’t like to lose,” Eric says to Grace.
“Tell me about it.”
I hate to lose, and I’ve had a lead thus far, but he’s closing the gap. Maria walks over. “We should get back and work in the yard. Nice flowers. You have a secret admirer?”
“No, I have an opponent who’ll stop at nothing to win.”
Eric’s laugh fills the yard. He rests an arm on my shoulders as we walk to say goodbye. “I would’ve given them to you anyway, as your not-so-secret admirer.”
“Are not,” I say because I’ve regressed to the word skills of a kindergartener. I keep my eyes on my yellow flowers and wonder if he means it. Because even if my nerves jangle and I can barely fight the fear that rises at the thought of acting on the feelings I keep tamped down, I really, really want him to mean it.
He leans in. “I admire you very much, Scotch-Brite.”
I kick him.
Chapter 71
Less than a week later, we’ve potted every last seed and some of the first have sprung two tiny leaves. The gardens where seeds were sown directly into dirt look greenish at certain angles. I have absolutely no idea what anything is or how much food it will create or any interest in eating three-quarters of it, but it still makes me happy to see—there’s something satisfying about creating something new out of almost nothing.
Grace finishes watering a patch and hooks the hose to the side of the barrel. Eric bolted a barrel to a rolling cart and attached a hose with a shower head to the spigot on the bottom. We roll it around the yard to water, which is both ingenious and much easier than dumping buckets of water without destroying the delicate plants.