Until the End of the World (Book 2): And After (24 page)

Alice, an English-speaking Quebecker, nods and angles her chest at him. “We made liquor from maple syrup, and it’s so good. Like mead. We can hang out.”

“Um, maybe,” Dan says. He looks to me for confirmation, or possibly help, since he looks uncomfortable. “Cass, don’t we have to be up really early?”

I sit up and dangle my legs in the water. “Oh, yeah. Crack of dawn. But if you got started now, you’d have plenty of time.” The girls look at me in delight. Dan stares me down. I’ve made him suffer enough, so I put on an apologetic face. “Oh, but there’s that thing you have to do with the van.”

Dan sighs. “Right, the van. I probably won’t have time.”

Alice and Sofia make disappointed sounds, but I can tell they aren’t going to let him off that easy. I slip into the water and hang on the edge of the raft. “I’m going back.”

“Stay,” Dan says. “It’s nice out here.”

“I really can’t. I’m roasting. See you back on land.”

I grin at his look that says I’m a traitor and push off into the water.

Dinner was salad and pasta. For all its civilized ways, Quebec is good at patrolling, and they’ve made their way to both the outskirts of Montreal and Quebec City this summer. They figure they have enough food for the winter, even if they lose part of their crops. It can be unsettling when you think of how close to the edge we live—we’ve become subsistence farmers and hunter-gatherers.

They can always drink maple syrup. They’ve given us gallons of it and have plenty more. Alice gave us her mead recipe after she finally came to terms with Dan’s refusal to party at their house. Toby agreed, though, and was happily dragged off a couple of hours ago. The rest went with him. The sun is going down, and the hot day is quickly becoming a cool, humid night. I sit by the lake and warm my feet in the last patch of sunlight before I head in to where we’ve spread our sleeping bags on the dining room floor. I take a picture of the lake to show Bits. Maybe next year I can bring her here to swim, if she’s talking to me.

“You’re like a lizard,” Dan’s voice comes from behind me.

I glance over my shoulder and point a finger at him. “Now,
that’s
a line. See? I knew you could do better than ‘a pretty name for a pretty girl.’ It’s not very flattering, but it gets points for originality.”

Dan laughs. “I meant you soak up the sun like a lizard.”

“I thought maybe you were encouraging the use of more moisturizer.”

He sinks into the chair next to me. “Nah, you’re perfect.”

“You really get a kick out of bothering me, don’t you?”

“I’m complimenting, not bothering. You just don’t take me seriously.”

“Very true,” I say.

He opens his mouth but then closes it and watches the puffy salmon and pink clouds. Happy voices from the party house carry to where we sit.

“Listen to what you’re missing,” I say.

“Thanks for saving me. I thought you were throwing me to the wolves for a minute.”

“They’re hardly wolves. Although I hear Sofia is pretty good with a rifle, so you might not want to tangle with her. You’d never have to see them again. And yet here you are, sitting by the lake like an old man who’s forgotten how to have fun.”

“You’re fun,” Dan says.

“Yeah, I’m a barrel of laughs. Maybe I should go drink so I can fall asleep.” I remind myself that no one needs to hear me bitch. That will be step one of the new Cassie—a moratorium on self-pity. “Sorry. Insomnia.”

“Yeah, I know, dingbat. I’m on nights with you all the time.”

“My dad used to call me dingbat,” I say with a laugh.

“Mine, too.” He reaches into his coat and pulls out his silver flask. “Here, drink some of this. It’ll help you sleep.”

“Aha, the flask! I’ve been wondering, why do you carry that around with you? You never drink from it.”

“Just in case,” he says and looks away, tight-lipped.

It ups the mystery. Now I’m dying to know. “In case of what?”

“In case I’m totally fucked and have to finish myself off. I figure it’ll be a little easier if I down this first.” He sighs, and I can see the uneasiness beneath the happy-go-lucky facade.

I shake my head slowly. “That is the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard. I think you may be worse than me. You know what you are? You’re the St. Bernard of Death.”

His laugh is so loud that the birds pecking on the shore rise into the air with a mad flapping of wings. “What the hell is the St. Bernard of Death?”

“You know the myth that St. Bernards carried a cask of brandy to help stranded travelers in the snow?” He nods but continues looking at me like I’m nuts. “Well, I’ve been thinking that you’re like a St. Bernard with that flask, but now I know it’s to be used for death, not rescue.”

I lean over and pat his head like a dog. When his laughter subsides, he says, “What goes on in that head of yours?”

“You don’t want to know. It’s a strange place.”

He hands me his flask. The alcohol burns like crazy going down. I wipe my mouth and hand it back. “That’s horrible. What is it?”

“It’s strong. That’s what’s most important.”

“Well, for death, maybe. But not for enjoyment.”

Dan stands. “Be right back.” He disappears into the darkness of the trees and returns five minutes later with a wine bottle. “Here, try this. Maple mead.”

It’s delicious, with a nice alcohol bite to cut the sweetness. I chug some before I hand it back. “Yum, thanks. How’d you get it and escape so quickly?”

“I said I’d be back in ten minutes.”

“You didn’t! Now they’ll be waiting for you all night.”

“They’re drunk. In ten minutes they’ll have forgotten I was ever there.”

I grin and slap at a mosquito, then another. They won’t leave me alone. I don’t want to go inside because it’s nice sitting out here with Dan, but I’ll regret it in an hour when I’m covered with welts.

“I set up my tent,” Dan says. “We could hang out there to get away from the bugs.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping in the house?” I ask to avoid answering. I feel a little weird about going to his tent even though his suggestion didn’t seem like a come-on.

“I like my privacy, always have.”

“Me, too. There’s not much of it these days.” I try to stealthily slap my arm and scratch a new bite that’s formed on my ankle.

“You’re getting eaten alive,” Dan says. “Let’s go to my tent. It’s cooler than in the house. You can sleep with me, if you want.” I look up from my ankle, eyebrows raised. “I meant in your own sleeping bag.”

I laugh. “I thought you were inviting me to The Love Den.”

“I would, but I get the feeling you’d say no.”

“Right you are.” The thought of kissing Dan rises in my mind. There’s a split second where my body tingles at the idea of someone’s touch, but I quash it before it can gain traction. It’s just the idea of not being alone tonight that’s attractive. “Okay, sure. I’ll go get my sleeping bag.”

I grab my stuff while Dan visits the kitchen. The others aren’t back from the party yet, so I don’t have to explain. I’d never hear the end of it, completely innocent or not. He’s set up his tent by the picnic tables, and I follow him in once he’s turned on the lantern. A sleeping bag covers the floor and his backpack sits beside it, book peeking out of the top. I sit on my sleeping bag and watch as he pours the mead into two cups from the kitchen.

“For the lady,” he says, and hands me one.

“Thanks.”

He unlaces his boots and sets them by the door, then pulls a self-inflating pillow out of his pack and puts it behind me on my sleeping bag. He digs around in his pack again and comes out with his toothbrush and toothpaste.

“All the comforts of home,” I say. I pour more mead for myself and drink it down. It doesn’t take much; I’m already feeling buzzed. I lie back and close my eyes.

“You can go to sleep,” Dan says. “I don’t mind. I’m going to read. You don’t have to be alone.”

It’s exactly what I need—to feel like someone’s watching over me—and I’m surprised that Dan understands. I never know what he’s thinking. He always keeps it light, which is why I’ve spent so much time with him lately.

The pages of his book rustle, and I open my eyes to find him reading
A Walk in the Woods.
It’s not the same copy I took with me when we left Brooklyn a year ago, the one that burned along with my parents’ cabin, but Adrian’s copy is in the farm’s library. I try not to think about that part and say, “I love that book. Do you like it?”

“You recommended another one of his books, remember? I really like it. I’ll read out loud if you want.”

I don’t even consider brushing my teeth. If I fall asleep now, I might get eight hours. I listen while Dan reads about Bill Bryson’s adventures on the Appalachian Trail and laugh when his voice cracks at the funny parts. Adrian and I wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail. It was one of those things we’d planned to do before we had kids. Just us, and two thousand miles of bears and blisters and wilderness.

A rock forms in my throat. I’m so tired of missing him, of feeling lonely. I concentrate on the words until I can breathe again and open my eyes. Dan looks up from the book.

“That life is over,” I say. “Hiking a trail for fun. Eating at restaurants. Not having to be afraid of anything except a black bear.”

“It has to end sometime,” Dan says, and lays the book down. “They can’t live forever.”

“But maybe not before we all die. One by one.”

I want Dan to convince me he’s right, but he only shrugs. “If it’s your time, then it’s your time.”

Well, that definitely wasn’t helpful. I shake my head and say, “I don’t want to die. I want to see Bits grow up. I want to kiss Penny’s baby.”

I want both of those things a lot. A light warmth blossoms in my chest. It almost feels like happiness.

“I want things,” Dan says. “But there’s no guarantee. I try to remind myself of that, so I’m not disappointed.”

“Hence, the flask,” I say, and sit up. He gives me a small smile. “So, what do you want?”

I hold out my cup, and he fills it silently. At first I don’t think he’s going to answer, but then he raises his eyes to mine and his Adam’s apple bobs. “Right now I want to kiss you.”

The heat that floods my stomach has nothing to do with the mead. I want him to kiss me. I don’t want him to. I freeze, cup in the air, until he makes the decision and leans forward. He tastes like maple and smells of lake and leather. I consider pretending he’s Adrian, but I think about Adrian enough. I want to feel something real.

Dan pulls back and his eyes flicker between mine uncertainly. “Are y—”

I cut him off with another kiss. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want anything gentle. I don’t want the spell broken because I know I’ll leave, and I don’t want to leave. I pull off his shirt and move my teeth to the smattering of freckles on his shoulder. When I look again, I’m glad to see the softness in his eyes is gone.

He unhooks my bra one-handed faster than I could. Dan’s unhooked a lot of bras in his life, I’ll bet. I run my tongue along his bottom lip, still sweet from the mead, and trail my hand down his chest to the button of his jeans. He pants into my mouth and sweeps me onto the floor.

The weight of his body is good. It anchors me, keeps me from feeling the way I have—like one of those helium balloons on a strand of curling ribbon I’d get as a kid. It always seemed that they slipped away so easily. I’d watch them after they escaped, becoming a smaller and smaller dot against the blue of the sky, until they were too tiny to see. I’ve been afraid that’s where I was headed, up to where no one could see me or reach me. But right now the ribbon is tied around Dan’s wrist. I’m tethered to the earth.

And then there’s nothing but the two of us. There’s not even room for Adrian. There’s only this tent and Dan and the slippery nylon of the sleeping bag under me, all glowing in the golden light of the lantern.

Dan is asleep, arm draped over my chest, but I still struggle for air after I’ve laid it back by his side. I wish I could take last night back, but all I can do is leave and pretend it didn’t happen. Pretend I’m not the kind of person who sleeps with someone mere months after her fiancé has died. I pull on my clothes and slip out of the tent. The sun is rising and mist swirls along the lake’s shore. I walk to a tree and lean my forehead against the bark. Once my breathing steadies, my stomach revolts. It could be the mead, I guess, but I know it’s not.

I walk toward the stone house, hoping to pretend I spent the night there and am already up for the day, and almost turn in mid-stride at the sight of someone on the deck. I brave a look and sag with relief to find it’s Peter. He’s at the table, bent over a backpacking stove. I walk up the steps and plop into the chair next to his.

“Hey,” he says.

I duck my head. Peter doesn’t say anything more, only places his steaming mug of coffee in front of me. I don’t like coffee, but I need to wash the taste of last night out of my mouth. I take a sip to find it’s a latte, loaded with sugar.

I lift my head in awe. “Don’t even tell me this place has a Starbucks.”

The last latte I had was the day before we left the city, over a year ago. He pulls out a tiny stovetop espresso maker from near his feet.

“I wanted to try it out and knew you’d want one,” he says, and raises a finger to his lips. “But it’s a secret. If everyone knew they’d be ordering drinks like I was a barista.”

“They totally would.” I laugh and take another sip. “This is so good. Thank you, Petey. I’ve been dying for a double-tall, caramel macchiato, ex—”

“Extra hot, extra caramel,” Peter finishes.

“How do you remember that?” I ask. “I guess you bought me enough of them, huh?”

He used to bring me one whenever he came to my house, or have one waiting at his place. They were too rich for my blood to buy every day.

“Thanks for all those, by the way,” I say. “I know you were incredibly wealthy and all, but it was still nice of you.”

I hold the cup out, but he nudges it back. “It’s yours. Maybe one day I’ll surprise you with some caramel sauce.”

I toast him with my cup. If anyone in the apocalypse could make caramel sauce, it’d be Peter. “Oh man, if you do that, I’ll love you forever.”