Cured (18 page)

“Of course the raiders have it. It was left in the middle of a group of them, and they
did
have a dog. Their MO is to sweep for dropped possessions after they catch people—or don't catch them. I don't know if we can get it back, but we need to try.” He presses his lips to my temple and sighs, and it is like someone has set off fireworks beneath my skin.

Fo's eyes grow round. Bowen looks between me and Kevin. His gaze lingers on Kevin's lips, still pressed against my temple. Kevin leans away and clears his throat and moves his hand to my knee. “So, what's up with you two?” Fo asks, her voice nonchalant.

My throat constricts and I stare at her, unable to utter anything. Because what would I say? I have no idea what's up with Kevin and me.

“I've got a major crush on Jacqui,” Kevin says, squeezing my knee. I jump and Kevin laughs.

Bowen scowls at me, his gaze so sharp it could draw blood. “Kevin, would you mind giving us a moment alone?”

Kevin gives my knee another squeeze before he stands and walks into the other room, shutting the door behind him.

The moment the door latches, Bowen snaps, “Are you crazy? Why did you tell him that you're a girl?”

“
Me?
Stop blaming me for everything! I didn't tell him!” I rub my knee, which is still tingling from Kevin's touch. “
You
're the one who told him my real name.”

“I didn't tell him your real name.”

“Then Fo or Jonah must have when you guys were walking to the shelter today.”

Fo shakes her head. “We were only around Kevin for a couple of hours, and so tired we didn't talk unless we had to.”

“And none of us
had
to say your name except to ask if you were dead or alive,” Bowen adds. We stare at each other for a long, silent moment. Finally Bowen shrugs. “One of us must have slipped up and said it, I guess. There's nothing we can do now except hope he's a decent guy. Do you realize how much you're worth if he decides to sell you to the raiders?”

I shake my head. “No, actually. My mom and dad didn't tell me stuff like that.”

“A beautiful young woman could buy him several
years'
worth of food.”

I rub my hand over my buzzed head. “Then I guess it's a good thing I don't fit into the beautiful category.” And it's not like he needs food—not with a warehouse-size room filled with it. He wouldn't be easy to bribe.

Bowen takes a good, long look at me. “Have you actually looked in a mirror lately? You're hot. This whole female Rambo look suits you. I'm sure Kevin would agree.”

“Or maybe I just happen to be the last woman on the face of
the earth who isn't
married
or a beast!” I retort. “Why didn't you tell me you guys got married? And on the day I found you. So this”—I wave my hand around—“is your honeymoon?”

Fo won't look at me. Bowen laughs a cynical laugh. “No, this is definitely not our honeymoon. And at this point, I don't know if we'll live long enough to have one.” He pulls her gently against him and kisses her hair.

I stand and make a heaping plate of food, setting it on the table in front of them. “Well, eat up. At least you won't starve to death.”

I go into the bathroom. Just enough light filters through the skylight to show me my reflection in the mirror. The way I am standing, with my arms folded over my chest and my chin thrust forward, screams boy. I drop my arms, throw my shoulders back, and try to smile. It helps a little bit. But I still look like a boy.

I roll my eyes and leave.

I sleep in one of the chairs, wrapped in a wool blanket, with my feet propped up on the coffee table beside the wire frog and rabbit. I am the first to wake up and smile when I think about taking a shower, even if the water is cold. A cold shower is a lot better than hauling bucket after bucket of well water from the backyard to the bathtub.

My clothes, still laid out in the kitchen, are slightly damp, but I take them into the bathroom with me. With icy water, I scrub myself clean and then put on my damp clothes. Using supplies from the bathroom cabinet, I brush and floss my teeth. I could get used to living here. I could live here the rest of my life. With Kevin. That thought makes me warm despite the cold shower and the damp clothes that are leeching my body heat. I put Kevin's red hoodie on over my shirt and tackle vest, and pull
the hood over my cold, wet hair. Taking the jeans I'd been borrowing, I go into the kitchen and rummage through supply cupboards until I find needle and thread and scissors and some fabric scraps that used to be a shirt.

Sitting at the kitchen table, I cut the fabric scraps to the right size and start sewing them over the tears in the knees of Kevin's pants. When the holes are patched, I wash the jeans in the sink, wring them out as best I can, and drape them over the counter to dry.

My stomach grumbles. With way more anticipation than making breakfast should bring, I open the cupboard above the sink and take out three cans: biscuit mix, powdered eggs, and powdered gravy. And then I start to cook.

“Good morning, Little Red Riding Hood.” Kevin is standing in the kitchen doorway, watching me with a smile on his face. I forget to breathe. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door, and I hear the water running. And then he starts to sing. A few minutes later he steps out of the bathroom. His hair is wet and combed back, his face is smooth and clean, and he smells like a man—like shaving cream, soap, and aftershave. He smiles, and it feels so normal, standing in the kitchen with him just out of the shower while I make breakfast. The empty space in my heart gets a little fuller.

I measure powdered biscuit mix and water into a stainless-steel bowl. “How did you find this place?” I ask.

“Luck.”

“Was all the food here when you found it?”

He stares at me for a long minute, brow furrowed, before
answering, “I scavenged abandoned neighborhoods for food after everyone left. Or died.”

I start to stir the biscuits. “I wish you had yeast. I love fresh bread.” Kevin takes a can of something from the cupboard to the left of the sink. He opens it, takes a measuring cup from the counter, and scoops pale yellow powder out. Without asking, he drops the powder into the biscuit dough. “What was that?” I already followed the directions on the can of biscuit dough, which amounted to adding water to the premade mix. It didn't say to add anything else. I turn and lean the small of my back against the counter while I stir.

Kevin leans against the counter beside me and folds his arms over his chest. “Powdered butter. It makes everything taste better. A trick to living on dehydrated food.” He watches me stir. I can feel the heat from his arm against my shoulder. It makes me feel too light, his closeness, like I might float away.

I clear my throat and stir faster. “You don't think that might ruin it? I mean, good food's so rare. I would hate to ruin these.” My words are rushed and I wonder if he knows how flustered I get when he stands close to me.

He turns his body so it is facing mine, and I stop stirring. Slowly, he unfolds his arms and puts one finger under my chin, turning my face up so I am looking right into his eyes. They're so bright, so focused. He pulls the sweatshirt hood off my head. And then he angles his head to the side, leans in, and our lips touch. I almost drop the bowl of dough.

His lips move slowly on top of mine, and mine respond, like they're dancing with his. We stay that way for a long time, with
both of us holding perfectly still except for our lips. And my heart. It is beating like it wants to break out of my chest.

I hear voices in the other room so I pull away from Kevin and start stirring furiously. Kevin's hand comes down on mine. I look at the dough. It's smooth. Biscuit dough is supposed to be lumpy and have chunks of powder in it. If you stir it too much, the biscuits turn out tough.

“Jack.” That's all he says, but he says it like it is the most important word that will ever come out of his mouth. I look into his eyes and brace myself for his lips on mine again. Instead of kissing me, he says, “If I knew you were going to grace my home with your presence, I would have been sure to have yeast.”

The room seems to darken. He's lying. He
does
have yeast. Lots and lots of it in the food storage room at the end of the cave. I turn away from him and scoop twelve even portions of biscuit dough onto a greased cookie sheet.

“Too bad you didn't know I was coming,” I say, forcing my voice to sound light and happy when I'm reeling with mistrust on the inside.

He steps up behind me, so close that the front of his body is touching the back of mine, and puts his hands on my shoulders. “I'm just glad you're here. And safe.” I fight the urge to squirm away and tell him I know he's lying about the yeast, but I stand rigid.

He steps back, and from the corner of my eye I warily watch him rummage through one of the supply cupboards. He takes out a messy tangle of wire about as thick as paperclip wire, and a pair of needle-nose pliers. Sitting at the table, he starts working,
bending and twisting the wire, forming and shaping. The smell of baking biscuits fills the kitchen, and my mouth starts to water. I make the eggs and gravy while Kevin works at the table, but I'm more focused on what he's doing than on the food. After five minutes, he holds something in the palm of his hand and looks at me. “What do you think?”

He stands and hands it to me. I study the sculpture, a silver wire car with curlicue wheels. “Wow. It's amazing.”

“Do you think the little boy will like it?”

The suspicion I felt a few minutes earlier is whisked away, and my heart warms up. “I don't know. Maybe.”

He smiles and takes the car out of my hand, letting his fingers linger on mine for half a second before going into the other room.

When breakfast is ready, I dish eggs, gravy, and biscuits onto four plates (all of the plates Kevin owns), and carry three of them into the main room, setting them on the coffee table. Bowen and Fo are still asleep on the sofa, tangled in each other's arms. Jonah is in one of the chairs, watching Kevin—down on his hands and knees—drive the wire car across the cement floor in front of the child.

“Here. You try,” Kevin says, holding it out. When the boy doesn't take it, Kevin physically puts it into the child's hand. The child's eyebrows pull together, and he looks at the car, but only for a moment. The car clatters out of his hand, he turns his face up, sniffs the air, and whips his head in my direction. In one leap, the kid is on top of me. I scream and put my hand on my belt, but there's no gun—I forgot to put it back on when I woke up.

“Jack! Don't hurt him,” Jonah says, jumping to his feet. “He's just hungry.”

The boy crawls off me, picks up a handful of eggs and gravy, and crams it into his mouth. He licks gravy from between his fingers, off the nine-legged tattoo on the back of his hand, and I feel a sharp, strange kinship with him. I know just how he feels. If Kevin hadn't been in the kitchen with me while I cooked everything, I would have done just the same thing. Starvation is funny like that.

Fo and Bowen wake, as if they are one collective mind, and untangle from each other. Bowen sits up and takes a plate of food, handing it to Fo. “Thanks, Flapjack.” He smiles a groggy smile at me.

“Jack, you're the best,” Fo says.

I go back into the kitchen and Kevin follows me. My stomach is growling to hurry up and eat. I put the remaining plate of food in the middle of the table and sit. Kevin sits across from me and puts his hands behind his head, leaning against them and watching me.

“Aren't you hungry?” I pick up a biscuit and eat half of it in one bite. It isn't tough. In fact, it is the best biscuit I've ever tasted, as if kissing Kevin while holding the bowl of batter added something magical to it. He watches me load my fork like it is a shovel and smiles. “Well, what are you waiting for?” I ask.

“When you eat, your face softens, you sigh, and it's like you're transported to heaven for a minute. You look so happy. I eat alone down here most of the time, so when I actually have company, it's better than food.”

My fork comes to a screeching halt an inch before it reaches my mouth. “Most of the time? You eat alone most of the time, but not all of the time?”

He nods, still leaning against his hands like they're a headrest.

“Who do you eat with when you're not eating alone?” I've searched this entire place. There aren't signs of anyone else staying down here. … Except … I set my overloaded fork down and my eyes go wide. There are tampons in the bathroom. And the box has been
opened
.

He's still staring at me.

I'm not the only girl he's had down here before. Am I the only one he's kissed? I look at his lips. Based on the way he kisses, like he's done it a thousand times, I'd say he's probably kissed a lot of girls. Probably every girl who's been down here.

“What are you thinking?” His question makes me realize I'm staring at his mouth and scowling. I look at the plate, take my fork, and shove the food into my mouth. And then I shake my head.

“You look kind of worried.” He takes his hands from behind his head and rests them on the table, leaning toward me. His knee bumps mine and stays pressed against it. I move my leg away and shake my head again.

He sighs. “If you're wondering if I bring women down here and mess around with them, the answer is no. Sometimes I help strangers out, and some of them are women. But I never have time to get to know any of them. They just come and go.”

“It's not like you know me either, though,” I point out.

He opens his mouth to say something, pauses, and then
picks up his biscuit and takes a bite. He swallows and says, “But I feel like I know you. I feel like I've known you for months.” He leans toward me and whispers, “When I kiss you, I want to get to know you a lot better.”