Page 28 of Doomsdate

But man, sometimes doing the right thing is incredibly annoying.

After a quick sweep of his house, I find, in no particular order: an impressive first aid kit ( points for that one, philanderer), a browning bunch of bananas in an otherwise depleted kitchen, and the cat, whose collar reads Chicken. Cruel people.

Chicken is friendly, though. She immediately twines herself around my legs, reowwing up at me, then follows me back downstairs, hopping nimbly over the decapitated-zombie/comforter situation.

As I kneel beside Everett’s still frame with the medical supplies, his long, dark lashes flutter. I press a wet compress against his temple, and he leans his stubbly jaw into my hand, nuzzling into me there. I freeze as the sensation of his warm, spiky skin slides against my palm. The gentleness of the unconscious affection makes my belly flutter involuntarily.

Scoundrel.

His eyes flicker open, unfocused and disoriented, before fixing on mine. They widen as he realizes whom he’s nuzzling. It’s sad, watching his reality crash down on him in real time. Remembering who I am, where we are, the whole collapse of American society.

And, apparently, what we were fighting about.

“Widowed,” he rasps. “I’m widowed, Maisie. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” He gingerly takes the compress from my still-frozen hand and presses it against the wound, then slides up onto one elbow, glancing from me to his groin, where Chicken’s transformed into a lush gray shoebox. “You found my cat.”

“The zombie was trying to eat her,” I say stiffly, the word widowed bouncing around my chest, as if unsure where to land.

A corner of his mouth quirks up, and a dimple appears. “Then you saved my cat,” he corrects himself. “I’m forever indebted to you. Thank you.”

I bite my lips in, but the question comes barreling out anyway. “When did she die? Your wife, I mean?” I clarify unnecessarily.

“Three years ago.” Everett eases up to sitting, careful not to disturb Chicken. He begins to stroke her fur, watching his hand as he does. “I know it looks bad, keeping all her things…I wanted to box them up, and I’ve tried so many times, but I just—can’t. It feels wrong to erase her, even though it’s absolutely suffocating to be here.”

Then I feel it. The weight of all the sadness he wears. How trapped he must feel by this house, her things. How helpless. I knew how that felt, once. After Mom died, the weight of her mental illness and all the extreme decisions she’d made on our behalf crushed me beneath it, trapping me until I finally got the courage to leave.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice quiet. “For yelling at you.”

“No, don’t be. It’s my fault.” Everett finally meets my eyes, sheepish. “Last night was the first date I’ve been on since I met my wife ten years ago, and I completely bungled it. Not exactly Dreamsdate material, huh?”

I snort, but it’s more out of sympathy for this poor, sad professor than anything. “More like Doomsdate.”

Everett laughs. “You know what? I’d watch that.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, it’s not the worst date I’ve ever been on.”

“Our date ended with the zombie apocalypse.” Everett raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “How can anything be worse than that?”

“One time, I met a guy on Craigslist.” I breathe in deeply. “He brought his tuba.”

“To play?”

“To sell. To me.”

Everett laughs, a delightful huff completely at odds with the grimness of our situation. The smile that sneaks onto my face feels like a traitor. I haven’t decided to forgive him yet, but…maybe I have. “Here, let me see your head.”

He removes the compress. Tentatively, I reach and push a lock of his wavy brown hair behind his ear, the move somehow more intimate than anything we did last night. I swallow roughly and lean closer. The bleeding’s stopped, but the cut’s longer than I thought. After I clean the wound, I riffle through his first aid kit until I find some butterfly closures. “These should do.” He winces as I begin to gently seal the cut closed, his warm breath skating across my neck as I hover over him. “No stitches necessary.”

“You can do stitches?” He glances up at me, his reverent face framed between my arms as I work, and I struggle to maintain my balance. Nobody’s ever looked at me this way, and there’s something about seeing him beneath me that…

I breathe in, training my focus where it belongs. “Stitches on humans? In theory. Oranges? Absolutely. I took an online EMT course.”

Everett smiles with a wince. “I’m honored to be your first non-fruit patient.”

I lean back on my knees, already missing the aura of warmth that surrounds him like a force field. Everett’s tall and strong and seven years my elder, but sitting here all bandaged up with his back against a couch he didn’t pick, petting his little cat, he looks like a boy. A scared one. The idea of leaving him here with barely any food and a head injury tugs at my heart. If this really is a full-blown zombie apocalypse, he’ll die on his own. How long can he last when he’s this unprepared? What piece of furniture will take him out next?

“What’s your game plan, Everett?”

He blows out a long, defeated breath. “Kind of playing it by ear.”