by Tara Brown
“Did you find clothes for you?” Zoey asked, popping out of nowhere.
Rozzy and I both jumped, making the lid on the salts shake in Rozzy’s arms.
“Oh my God, you’re so small and quiet. Legit, make noise.” Rozzy huffed her breath and steadied the lid.
“Sorry,” Zoey muttered.
“I did find clothes. Milo’s aunt was clearly on the chubby side of things, but her husband was skinny. And I think they had a daughter. She has some nice clothes. I’d say about your size, Celeste.” Rozzy eyed me up and down, contemplating.
That meant the clothes wouldn't fit Rozzy or Zoey. Both were considerably smaller than I was. Not just in height but girth.
“And I have a couple of changes of clothes in my bag still. You can borrow something of mine, Roz. Not that it matters what we wear. I’ll just be pumped to change. I smell.” Zoey lifted an arm, grimacing.
“Me too,” I agreed.
“Not me.” Rozzy hugged the salt container and shook her head. “I’m part of the two percent of the population who don't have body odor. I’ve never had BO in my life. I thought I did once, but it was my foster sister’s shirt. Her BO.”
“What?” I scoffed. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is. I Googled it and it’s linked to dry earwax. Mine is super flakey.”
“I don't think that’s a thing,” Zoey pursed her lips.
“It’s a thing.” Rozzy rolled her eyes at us and put the salt down on the now-crowded countertop. She lifted her arms in the air. “I’m not wearing deodorant. Have a sniff. I haven’t worn it since seventh grade.”
I glanced at Zoey who shrugged and leaned in, taking a hesitant sniff of Rozzy’s armpits. She frowned and leaned in more. “You smell like a baby.”
“And that has been my smell my whole life. I thought I wasn't finished puberty or something. Underdeveloped. But I guess it’s a thing.”
“Lemme at it,” I said, unconvinced. But she was right. Rozzy smelled like a baby. “No deodorant?” She didn't smell like deodorant or like Zoey and me. She smelled like a baby.
“Nope. Have you seen me put it on? Or change my clothes in two days?” Rozzy lifted an eyebrow.
“No.” I was still skeptical, but she was right.
“I get SWASS, but I don't get any BO.”
“SWASS?” Zoey and I asked at the exact same moment.
“Yeah, sweaty-ass smell,” Rozzy snapped. “God, you two are annoyingly naive about shit. It’s like you never read the Urban Dictionary.” She lifted the salts again and sniffed them.
“I won’t miss the Urban Dictionary, not even a little. I’m glad SWASS and all the text talk and weird abbreviations of our generation are going to die with us,” I huffed.
“Me too. I hope the survivors are left with nothing but classic novels and old ladies,” Zoey said with a chuckle.
“Hot water coming in!” Owen called out. The three of us hurried from the bathroom and ducked into a bedroom so the guys could get by us. They had three large pots of warm water. “It won’t be deep, but it’ll be good enough. So everyone gets clean water and the ten minutes it takes to make more warm water.” He poured the water into the tub I had plugged. Milo and West followed. “Who’s first?”
“Me!” Rozzy leapt, carrying her salt into the bathroom and closing the door.
“My aunt has an extensive collection of wines. I forgot she was quite the traveler. Why don't I make some dinner and organize some wine, and by the time we’re done with baths there should be food,” Milo offered. “Can anyone cook?”
“I can.” Owen grinned wide. “Don't listen to anything Zoey says.”
Milo leaned past Owen and asked with his eyes. Zoey wrinkled her nose but remained silent.
“She’s a liar.” Owen pointed his thumb at her.
“I’ll keep track of the meal,” Milo promised us and turned, walking back to the kitchen. Owen was hot on his heels.
I was alone with Zoey and West, a fate worse than anything at this point. So I scrambled after Milo. “I’m not a great cook, but I can open wine.”
For the first time in a few weeks, I had hopes this might be a great night.
22
Devirgining
Zoey
“Hi,” Westley said, his eyes boring down on mine.
“Hi,” I squeaked back, sounding as tense as I was.
“Can I take back what I said?” He scowled and I shook my head.
“No.” The word was soft and breathy and for the first time, possibly in my life, I was about to do something forward. Beyond telling a racist asshat off. “I like what you said.”
“You do?” The hopeful expression that lifted his eyebrows made my stomach lurch a bit. “Really?” He swallowed a visible lump.
“Really.” I tried to slow my heart down and get control of my breathing. I was going to start nervous sweating soon. “But you’re wrong on a couple of accounts.”
“Zoey—”
“No.” I fumbled for words, desperate to say something not stupid. “I—you were right. I was always in love with Owen and he didn't know. Doesn't know.” My stomach turned to acid. “And I didn't want to admit that he broke my heart because he’s my best friend. But I don’t love him like that, not anymore.”
“Can you guys do that somewhere else? I have like seven minutes left, and I don't want to listen to this shit! Just make out and get it over with,” Rozzy shouted at us through the door.
I covered my mouth with my hands and stifled a laugh, hating that she’d heard us.
West grabbed my hand and pulled me to the closest bedroom. He closed the door and pressed his back against it. “Continue,” he whispered.
“I don't even know where I was—”
“I was right, Owen broke your heart, but you don’t feel that way about him anymore.”
“Right.” It was my turn to swallow a lump. “And when that happened, I sort of shut off. I didn’t really feel that way about anyone. Like I didn’t have feelings.”
“Okay.” He said it as though he didn't know where this was going.
Where is this going?
“And when we were at my house, and you said you couldn’t breathe, and you cried and kept holding my hand—” I couldn't repeat what he’d said. “It was like I turned back on.” Not the most thought-out way of saying my heart switched back on. “My heart, I mean—like—” Shit!
He stepped toward me as I bumbled the entire thing, but he didn't seem to care. He lifted his hands to my cheeks, cupping them with cool fingertips that suggested my face was flushed. He stared into my eyes, making me swallow at the same moment my stomach landed with a thud. It was exactly like the football game. Only better.
We lived a lifetime, as far as I was concerned, in those few seconds. I saw it all. The kiss. The sex. The love.
His tilted my face, lowering his and brushing his lips against mine.
The kiss was soft and strong and everything I’d ever imagined a first kiss, for a second time, would be. His hands trembled a bit, leaving my face to run down my arms and to my back, but he didn't press me into him. He savored the kiss, going slowly as he deepened it. My heart raced and the fireworks of excitement and disbelief burst behind my eyes.
It was exactly how I wanted it to be. Special. Meaningful. Lacking braces attaching to flesh and boys screaming. There was no crowd of people. No hurt Owen watching. Just us, a quiet room, and my finally open heart being offered to someone who already cherished it.
He pulled back, leaving my mouth agape and my breath huffing from me. A small sound, not a moan or a word but somewhere between, escaped my lips. Like voicing regret he’d stopped but without saying it.
Our eyes met and a thousand ideas flashed in our minds. I witnessed his and combined them with mine and waited for him to act again. But he didn't. He paused, his eyes darting to the bed and back to me.
We moved quickly, undoing pants and lifting off my outer layer. The smell almost made me gag.
“No
,” I whispered, realizing how I smelled and how dirty I was and the word “SWASS” came back to haunt me. I meant to say “not yet,” but it didn't come out right. I wanted to consider making out and see where it went, but not smelling the way I did.
His eyes lowered. “I didn't mean—”
“It’s fine.” I stepped back again.
“Okay, I’m done,” Rozzy shouted, saving us with a knock on the wall.
“I better go help get more water.” He reached behind him and grabbed the door, pulling it open and pausing in the doorway. “Sorry.” He stepped out and closed it before I could say anything. I squeezed my eyes shut and wished I could just explain what I’d meant.
“You going next, Zo?” Owen shouted.
“No, let Celeste go next,” I said through the door.
“Oh, you’re in here.” He burst into the room, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Why?” He blinked a bunch of times, too excited about this.
“So I could humiliate myself,” I confessed.
“What?” He slumped. “Don't tell me you blew it.”
“I blew it.” I stumbled forward and left the room.
West was in the hall, coming toward me with a massive pot of warm water. “Sorry,” I said and stepped back into the room with Owen. He spun me and closed the door.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we kissed and his eyes darted to the bed, and I realized I smell like the south end of a north bound cow and told him no,” I whispered harshly.
“So you’re making out. He looks at the bed and you say no? Just no?” he whispered back.
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you just tell him after bath time? Or be like ‘Look, this is on but we smell. Let’s get clean first.’” He sounded baffled by the obviousness of it. Of course, why hadn’t I thought of just explaining properly?
“Because”—I leaned in, exasperated—“I like him and he likes me, and the world is ending and I’m an idiot, and I can’t take all the stress! I’m terrible at peopling and I don’t do boys and crushes. I like my romance novels where the kiss is the fade to black and the rest is left unsaid but you know it was perfect. Not a hot mess like me.”
“You’re going crazy. I think adding the pressure of an unexpected devirgining is stressing you out. You need to stop thinking about it and just get clean and have some wine and eat some pasta because yes, Milo is making fucking pasta. Praise all that is holy!” He hugged me tightly, way too animated, even for Owen. “And then when things calm down, you can revisit the making-out thing. Another night. And maybe explain the smell so he doesn't think you’re playing weird hot and cold head games.”
I slumped, desperately not wanting to explain that I reeked, but it was really the only way West wouldn’t have hurt feelings or think I was head gaming him. I didn't have any game . . .
“Come on, stinky. Let’s get you some bathwater going.” Owen nudged me out into the hallway, right into West who was leaving the bathroom.
He caught me and Owen closed the door to the bedroom, leaving me in the hallway with West holding me.
“I smell,” I blurted and closed my eyes when I realized I’d said it aloud.
“We all smell, girl.” Celeste chuckled and hurried into the bathroom, closing the door.
“What?” West asked.
I took his hand in mine and dragged him to another bedroom, closing the door again. I sighed and closed my eyes and whispered words laden in dread, “I smell. I wanted to kiss you and maybe more, but I smell, bad. I need a bath. I didn't want you to smell me.” I covered my face with my hands, pretty much searing the flesh of my palms with my burning cheeks.
“Oh.” I could hear that cocky smile in his tone. “That’s it?” he asked, laughing a little. He sighed heavily and pried my fingers from my face. “Zo, we all smell. I understand. Completely. And I’m glad you wanna make out.” His grin spread as did the heat on my face.
“Great.” I didn't know what else to say. How did I tell him I couldn't have this conversation? It was killing me.
“So, rain check?” he asked like we were talking about something so normal.
“Sure,” I blurted with a laugh.
In the entire apocalypse, this was the weirdest moment yet.
23
Monsoon
Celeste
A bath, pasta with a stunning basil and tomato sauce his aunt had canned, corn, beets, and wine had made the night perfect. We’d finished off with cookies, eating to excess and laughing. Bed had been amazing. Me, Zoe, and Rozzy took the master suite, sleeping on a lush king-sized bed.
Milo had his cousin’s room and Owen and West shared the guest room.
Waking in the morning to the smell of coffee, I stretched and for half a second I forgot where and when I was. I blinked a few times before the two sleeping girls next to me clicked into place.
The disappointment that I wasn't at home and was instead here, in the throes of a death plague, was heavy.
I climbed out carefully, noting the glow of the morning sun peeping through the curtains. The sun still shone. The dust still danced in the beams of light. The world still smelled like coffee and happiness.
Only we were different.
And eventually the smell of coffee would be few and far between.
Was that even a world I wanted to live in?
I staggered out of the room in the cousin’s clothes, the comfiest yoga pants I’d ever worn and an oversized sweatshirt, my new favorite outfit, and headed for the kitchen.
Milo grinned at me. “Morning, sunshine.” He sipped a large coffee.
“Morning,” I grumbled and poured myself some of the Bodum coffee he’d made.
“Want cream?” he asked cheekily.
“Of course. And maybe a stack of fresh pancakes. Blueberry, if we’re putting in orders.”
“Well, not much I can do about blueberries, but the pancakes and cream and Canadian maple syrup, I got.” He rose and came over with a container of cream.
“Oh my God!” I shrieked. “Is that real?”
“Of course.” He beamed with pride. “I milked the cows this morning. Poor things were needing it.”
I moaned as I poured the fresh cream and layered the caramel-colored liquid. “I love you, Milo. A lot.”
“I love you too, Celeste.” He side-arm hugged me and sauntered back to the table. “Aunt Nomi had a griddle here somewhere for that outdoor cooktop. I should be able to make pancakes,” he said and sipped his coffee.
“Is this Monsoon coffee?” I recognized the flavor immediately.
“The lady knows her java,” he said, impressed.
“I do indeed. I’ve been to the roastery, just outside Stratford-upon-Avon. I love small-batch, boutique-roastery coffee. My mom special orders it in from the UK all the time,” I said the sentence without correcting myself but knew of the lie I’d spoken. She didn't do that all the time. Not anymore. Nor would she ever again.
“My aunt was the same. She visited Stratford-upon-Avon for a Shakespeare festival and ended up bringing home three suitcases of coffee and a brownie recipe from some little café there. She had a whole cellar of it.” The same regret lingered in his eyes as perhaps the morbid situation we were in, speaking as though these people were real, set upon us.
“Why are we even leaving here?” I asked as I sat, taking a sip and letting the hot caffeinated heaven flow down into me.
“Because your sister and her two kids need you, and eventually, we will run out of propane. I’d love to stay here, but it’s not reasonable.” He gulped. “For us all.” The way the words sounded, I wondered if he was thinking he could stay and the rest of us would have to leave.
It was his house. His family. He could choose that.
But there was one thought.
“And no one wants to die alone.”
“Right.” He lost that glint that had lingered in his gaze. “There’s that.” He mourned his idea for a moment before he perked up. “So we enjoy it now, for
a day or two. And then we get on our way.”
“I’m sure the compound at NORAD has everything you could possibly want.” I tried to make him feel better about leaving. I suspected this was how I would feel when I got home. Like this safe place, though Milo hadn’t been here since he was a little boy, it was a home in his heart.
Whether I went to my sister’s or my parents’, the houses would be home in my heart too.
“This coffee is amazing, Milo.”
“Well, like most young gay boys, I worked as a barista.” He winked and I chuckled.
“Was it fun?”
“It was easy. Not like being a realtor, I worked nonstop. Hunter used to get so upset that I was taking another call at nine at night on a Sunday. He came from one of those traditional families where Sundays were sacred.” He sighed.
“How did you two meet?”
“I sold him his condo. It was beautiful. He wanted a house, but he didn't need one. He didn't need the space or yard work. He worked long days and traveled a lot for work. So I put him in his place and told him we were going to start condo hunting. The day he signed on the dotted line, we went for dinner and as they say, the rest is history.”
“Did you like him the moment you met him?” I thought of Darius.
“I did not.” His smile said otherwise. “He was obstinate and snobbish. And he’s a sports fan. Always going on about Tom Brady.” He made a face.
“Patriots.” I scowled. “No way.”
“That’s what I said. I purposely cheered for whatever team they played against. Just to razz him. He hated it.” He stared longingly at the window, or perhaps just into space. His voice cracked the next time he spoke, “And when this started, he couldn't do it. He told me that. He said he couldn't do a countdown. Told me to take care of Stan, made me promise.” He blinked a fat tear from his eye, making tears spring to my own. “He lasted as long as he could. He didn't do it near the condo. He went out, into the Everglades. I got a call about the body the next day. But I already knew. When he didn't come home, I knew.”
