by Jamie Shaw
“She ate Dad’s slipper yesterday.”
“Oh no.”
“He threatened to eat her.”
“He always threatens to eat her.”
“Do you think Mike likes pigs?”
He must, since he’s dating one. I grin to myself as I walk the dogs back toward the kennels. “Why are you so hung up on Mike, bud?”
I’m guessing it has something to do with the fact that Mike came through and got Luke a code to beta test Deadzone Five. My brother had been so excited, he could barely form a complete sentence on the phone—just lots of “oh my God”s and “this can’t be real life”s.
“I like him. He’s cool.”
“Do you know he’s also in a band?”
“No way.”
I chuckle at the awe in Luke’s voice. I can just imagine the way his chunky blue glasses slipped down on his nose when his mouth fell open. “Yeah. He’s a drummer. His band is pretty big around here.”
“Please date him,” my brother whines.
“Why, just because he’s in a band?”
“And he plays video games.”
“Chuck played video games,” I remind him of the boyfriend I had for a four-month stint five years ago. Chuck and I were friends in high school until one night when we both got tipsy at the town fair and ended up making out in front of the kissing booth. We both felt weird about it afterward, which is why we forced ourselves to give the couple thing a try over the next few months, until I eventually told him that I was too busy with school and the farm for a relationship. I left out the part about just being bored. I shouldn’t have been thinking about math homework when he kissed me, but there I was, mentally solving algebraic equations while he wiggled his tongue in my mouth.
I didn’t blame him for the lack of sparks. In all of my relationships, I’ve never felt them. I’m pretty sure it’s just me—I don’t spark.
“But he wasn’t any good at them,” Luke argues, and I laugh.
“I told you, Luke. Mike’s with Danica. And even if he wasn’t, that’s a terrible reason to date someone.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why is it a bad reason? You have stuff in common.”
A line forms in my forehead as I swing open the door to the shelter and the sound of barking bounces off the walls. Since when did my twelve-year-old brother become a relationship expert? “You know what we don’t have in common? An undying love for Danica.”
My brother makes a sound. “Why is he with her, anyway? Just ’cuz she’s prettier?”
“Gee, thanks, turd.”
“I just mean, like, well,” Luke stammers. “Well, you just don’t wear as much makeup and stuff is all.”
“Digging yourself a deeper hole,” I singsong over the sound of barking, and Luke chuckles.
“You’re prettier on the inside.”
“I’m going to give you the noogie of your life next time I see you,” I threaten, and Luke surprises me with a witty quip.
“I’ll probably be taller than you by then. I’ll just hide the stepladder so you can’t reach me.”
I gasp, and at the chuckle on the other end of the line, I try not to smile. “You are so dead.”
Luke finishes laughing and asks, “Are you coming home to visit soon?”
“Probably not. But I’ll see you in two months at Uncle Rick’s for Thanksgiving.”
“Do you think he’ll pay for my college too when I go?” Luke asks, and even though I’m thrilled he plans on going to college someday, I frown.
Allowing Danica’s parents to pay for my schooling was a last resort, and it’s one I don’t take lightly. Last year, after applying to Mayfield University on a whim and getting accepted, I tried applying for scholarships and more federal aid than I was already getting, but I wasn’t eligible for enough money to afford the ridiculously expensive tuition. All of the student loans and state grants in the world weren’t going to cover Mayfield U’s veterinary science program, and without any substantial savings of my own, I asked my parents to apply for parental loans to help.
And that was how I discovered that they have debilitatingly low credit. I had no idea they’d taken out so many loans to keep the farm from going under, but they had, and apparently they’d been unable to pay any of them back. When I quietly asked if the bank was going to seize our home, my dad took another sip of his beer and solemnly shook his head.
My uncle Rick had paid the loans off. All of them. He saved our farm from going into foreclosure, and all it cost was the deed. Our home is now his home, and my family is just living in it.
I never want to be in that position. I never want to have to rely on someone else to keep me in my home, or worry that I won’t be able to help my children follow their dreams. Right now, I have to worry about myself and Luke, and that’s bad enough. It’s the only reason why I said yes when my uncle offered me his help. It’s the only reason I’m living with Danica.
“I’ll have a good-paying job as a veterinarian by then,” I assure Luke. “I’ll help you pay.”
“What if I want to be a chemical engineer?” he asks, and I groan as dollar signs flash in my eyes and the wolfhound gives my elbow one last big lick before I herd him into his kennel.
“Then I think you better get a summer job and start saving up now.” I pat the wolfhound on the head, knowing that in spite of how overexcited he gets, he’ll be adopted soon. Just like the poodle and the dachshund. I have good feelings about all of them, and I’m usually not wrong.
“I could be richer than Uncle Rick someday,” Luke dreams, and my voice turns wistful as I leave the wolfhound’s cage.
“I hope so, bud. I really do.”
I smell like dog when I leave the shelter that night. I always smell like dog when I leave the shelter, but after eight hours of cleaning kennels and leash-training new arrivals, I really, really smell like dog. The full moon lights the drive back to my apartment, and my legs are heavy as I drag them through the door. I only get two small steps inside before Danica’s voice yells from down the hallway.
“Hailey?!”
“Yeah?”
She pops out of her bedroom wearing nothing but a lacy hot pink bra and a matching pair of panties. “Oh my God. You need to help me!”
She disappears back inside her room, and I rub the corneas off my eyes as I slowly make my way back there.
“Are you coming?!”
I turn the corner into her room and take in the absolute destruction. I don’t even know how one single person can have so many clothes. And every single piece is strewn across the room. There are shoes piled on the bed, bras tossed over the lamp, skirts discarded on the dresser, a thong wrapped around my shoe.
I’m frantically kicking my foot when Danica flies out of her walk-in closet holding a red mini dress in one hand and a gold-speckled white top in the other.
“Which one?” she says. “This dress”—she lifts the dress—“or this top? I’d pair it with a black mini. Or maybe my—oh my God, where is my fuchsia skirt?!”
Both outfits go flying as she tosses them behind her and practically dives onto her bed. She’s a human hurricane, throwing expensive clothes around like they’re nothing but cheap oil rags. I jump to the side as a high heel soars toward my head and bounces off the wall.
“Can you help me instead of just standing there?!” Danica barks, and I kneel down to root through the clothes on her floor.
“Is this it?”
She launches off the bed, snatches the skirt from my hand, and disappears into the closet. “Don’t go anywhere!”
I groan and sit on the edge of her mattress, dreaming of a hot shower and the leftover pizza waiting for me in the fridge. I smell gross, I’m starving, and I’m stuck in a bubblegum-pink jail cell. “What are you dressing up for?” I ask, and Danica shouts from her closet.
“Mike’s taking me out tonight, remember?”
Judging by the way my throat closes up, no, I didn’t remember. Mike a
nd I haven’t spoken since Wednesday, except for a text conversation we had when he messaged me to ask for my Deadzone Four username and Luke’s email address. I gave them to him and thanked him profusely for doing such an amazing thing for my brother.
Are you sure you don’t want a beta code too? he asked.
You just want me on your team, I joked, remembering the way Kyle screamed as I slaughtered him and all of his little dickhead friends.
Of course I want you on my team. You’re on my team in the zombie apocalypse too.
If that team involved Danica, I was pretty sure I’d rather get eaten alive. But I kept her name out of the conversation. You’ll have to clear that with Luke. He already has a bug-out plan.
What is it?
And so I told him about Luke’s zombie apocalypse plan, and we discussed the pros and cons, and in the end, he made me promise I’d save him from the zombies.
Okay, I finally relented. I’ll save your sorry ass from the Walkers.
I smiled as I waited for his text, and I laughed when it finally came through.
Thank you.
You’re welcome.
“I wonder where he’s taking me,” Danica calls from the closet, and I stop fiddling with the buckle of one of the heels in her mountain of misfit shoes. “I hope he takes me to this seafood place across town. That guy from Alpha Sig took me there three weeks ago, and their lobster risotto was so good.”
I’ve never had lobster risotto in my life. In fact, I don’t think I’ve even had regular risotto. What the hell is it? Like, rice?
“Yum,” I say before catching a quiet yawn in my hand.
“Oh, Hailey, you have no idea. It was so good, I just wanted to die.”
“Sounds amazing,” I say, my stomach growling even though I don’t even really like rice. Or lobster.
I eye the pink quartz clock on her wall, wondering how it’s only seven o’clock when it feels like midnight passed hours ago. “What time is Mike picking you up?”
“Any minute!” she shouts as another top flies out of her closet.
I look down at my own clothes—an oversized navy-blue sweatshirt and a pair of mom jeans that smell like sausage-infused dog breath.
“Okay,” Danica says as she reappears in her room. “How do I look?”
The golden sequins of her draped top catch the light in just the right way to accentuate her soft curves, meeting a tight fuchsia skirt that is long enough to be decent, but short enough to be suggestive. Long copper hair that she must have spent hours straightening falls over her exposed shoulders, meaning that she must have skipped her classes today. Again. Her makeup is just as flawless, and even the way she stands seems professional, like she’s ready to walk onto a runway built just for her.
“You look beautiful,” I say, and Danica frowns.
“You think so? This skirt just feels so—”
The doorbell rings, and her eyes go wide.
“Oh my God, I’m not ready!”
I lift a tired eyebrow. “You look—”
“I look like shit!” She bulldozes me off her bed. “Answer the door. Tell him I’ll be out.”
My clothes suddenly feel a whole lot grungier; that dog-breath smell a whole lot smellier. “Uh—”
“Go!” Danica orders, forcing me out of her room and slamming the door behind me. The doorbell rings again, and I stare across our apartment at the white front door and sigh.
One heavy footstep after the other, I make my way down the hallway, through the living room, and to the door. I straighten my sweatshirt—for God knows what reason—and swing the door open.
And there Mike stands, flowers in his hand, a nervous smile on his face. His hair is trimmed and styled, with only a few rebellious pieces escaping onto his forehead.
“Hey,” he says as I run my fingers through my own short curls.
“Hey.”
“Hi!” Danica peeps from the other side of the room, and I turn around just as she careens past me and into Mike. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him on the lips before lowering down from her tiptoes. She’s wearing the same sequined top, but an even shorter fuchsia skirt, and I stand off to the side wondering exactly how many fuchsia skirts she owns.
“Wow,” Mike admires as he takes a look at her, and she spins around, her face lighting up like a one-thousand-watt bulb.
“These are for you,” Mike says, handing her a big bouquet of red roses just as I start to walk away. “And these are for Hailey.”
I turn around to see him holding a small bouquet of orange sunflowers, white daisies, and purple wildflowers. He smiles and extends his arm, and I just stand there staring.
“Why?” Danica asks, and Mike’s eyes and mine both swing to where she’s standing with her brow furrowed at the tiny bouquet in his hand.
“Why what?” Mike asks.
“Why’d you get flowers for Hailey?”
Her narrowed eyes lift from the sunflowers to me, like the answer will burn itself into my forehead or something. I’m fidgeting under the heat of her gaze when Mike says, “Because I thought it would be a nice thing to do?”
“You thought it would be nice to get flowers for my roommate?”
“She’s your cousin,” Mike reminds her. A baffled line etches into his forehead at the attitude Danica is copping. “I used to get them for your mom . . . What’s your problem?”
Watching Danica change her attitude is like watching winter turn to spring. I can’t see the moment it happens, but then there’s suddenly no ice in her voice. Only blistering sunshine. “No problem. I was just wondering.” Her megawatt smile is bright and pretty right before she coils her arms around his neck again and gives him a lingering kiss on the cheek. “You’re so sweet. I love that about you.”
Her feet drop back to the floor, and she shoots me a first-degree burn of a smile before telling Mike, “I’m going to go put these in some water.”
I’m watching her walk away when Mike steps toward me and extends the flowers again. “I thought they might remind you of home. Most farms have sunflowers, right?”
I stare up into kind brown eyes, and then down at sunflowers even bigger than the ones that used to grow outside my bedroom window. Eventually, I take the bouquet and muse, “The ones back home aren’t nearly this pretty.”
When Mike says nothing, I gaze up at him again to find him smiling down at me. His cheek is dimpled, his eyes are soft, and I’m swallowing thickly and taking a step back. “So . . . where are you taking Danica tonight?”
Mike lifts his hand like he wants to run it through his hair, but then he remembers it’s gelled and he drops it to the side. He drums his thumb against the seam of his pants pocket instead. “They just opened a Primanti Brothers across town.”
“Primanti Brothers?” I ask. “That famous Pittsburgh restaurant?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw it on the Food Network channel . . . Isn’t it like sandwiches and stuff?”
“I think they have pizza too,” Mike offers, and I almost laugh.
After glancing toward the kitchen, I ask in a lowered voice, “Want some advice?”
Mike stops drumming his thumb and asks, “Advice?”
“Danica wants you to take her somewhere fancy. Primanti Brothers sounds cool, but . . .” But this is Danica. “Danica mentioned some seafood place downtown. She kept raving about their risotto.”
“Rice?”
“Yeah,” I confirm, even though I’m still not sure. “I think she’s hoping you’ll take her there.”
Mike and I break our whispered huddle just as Danica reemerges from the kitchen.
“So where are we going?” she asks as she grabs a jacket from the coat closet.
Mike glances at me. “Uh . . . Well, there’s this new restaurant that just opened across town—”
“Oh, I love new restaurants!” my cousin cheers as she pushes through the million jackets stuffed into the closet. All of them are hers, since there wasn’t room left for any of mi
ne.
Mike’s shoulders relax, and he says, “It’s called Primanti Brothers, and—”
“Isn’t that a sandwich shop?” Danica says, turning around with her nose scrunched in disapproval.
“Well, yeah,” Mike says as she hands him her jacket. He holds it open for her, and as she slips into it, he adds, “but they’re famous.”
Danica turns around and pouts, “But I dressed up . . .”
Mike’s fingers get caught in his hair when he attempts to rake his hand through it. He tugs them loose and says, “I . . . was also considering this seafood place.”
“Harbor 1921?” Danica squeals, and Mike’s eyes dart to mine before returning to the excited girl in front of him.
“Yeah. Do you want to go there instead?”
“Yes!” Danica exclaims, grabbing her purse and swinging open the door. “They have the best lobster risotto! It’s so amazing. You have to get it.”
Her voice trails off as she walks out the door, and Mike’s eyes meet mine just before he follows her out. I force a smile and give him a thumbs-up, and he drums his fingers on the door jamb before scratching his hand through his hair again. He effectively ruins all the styling he did to it, and then he closes the door behind him.
Chapter 8
That night, my eyes pop wide open in the dark when a crash sounds in our kitchen. And another.
I grip my bedsheets.
And another.
In the dark, I roll out from under my covers and hit the floor, because I am home alone, at night, and I am being fucking robbed.
Someone outside of my room is tearing the entire place apart, and my eyes are frantically struggling to adjust to the dark to find something, anything, to defend myself with.
This is what you get for moving to the city! an unhelpful voice shouts in my head as I stand up, and my disoriented, panicked body spins around and around in the middle of my moonlit room. I’m searching for a baseball bat or a crowbar or anything except the mountain of pillows on my bed. Why the hell do I have so many pillows?!
When the heavy footsteps draw closer to my room, I’m standing there clutching a half-empty bottle of water in my hand. And when those footsteps grow too loud to ignore, I launch myself into the hallway screaming like some demon-possessed tiger-woman.
