Page 88 of Chaos

“Okay.” I drop the ring into my pocket along with the bullet that shot Wendell. “Yeah.”

“Thanks.” She stands up, shoving the cap into her pocket, and heads out the door.

A year ago, I never imagined I’d ever give a woman a ring.

Now, all I can think is, the first time I give someone a ring like that, I want it to be Frankie.

I follow, and the second I step out into the weather, Church stops me. “We have to talk about clothes for this White Winter thing your not-wife is planning.”

“I wish you’d stop calling her that. I’ve got to get to the suite to grab them for dinner.”

“It’ll take ten minutes.” Jacquetta pokes me in the back and shoves me back toward the door of her cottage. “Colleen and I decided it’s time we look like an army, and it’s time the army sees you as one of its own.”

21|DANGER DANGER

EPHIE

ACROSS THE BANANA YELLOW CARPETof the formal dining room the people here now use as a cafeteria, Frankie, Yorke, Shane, and Auden enter the room for dinner.

The little one and the dog have matching reindeer antler headbands on that waggle as they walk. He’s talking to Shane, his little brows drawn together, his mouth moving fast, hands tucked in his pockets like he wants to be a big man. Shane’s listening intently, nodding. I think he’s hiding a smile, that face of his almost too pretty to be real.

Right behind them are Frankie and Yorke.

Her hand is swallowed up in his, their fingers threaded together.

As they approach an empty table, he shifts her hand to his other one, so he can pull out her chair and help her sit without ever letting her go, like he’s scared if he does, she’ll break.

If I loved someone like that, I’d touch them the same way.

Like a bubble you’re afraid of popping, or a sun you can’t look directly at, something so special you don’t ever want to use because using a thing reduces its value to utility rather than reverence.

Tenderness is written in their every look and touch.

My parents held love like it needed armor and spikes and bloody heads on all the walls, shields always up.

He drags a chair closer to hers and sits, his arm immediately moving to the back of her chair, space between them closing like thick elastic, always tugging them back together.

Auden clambers into a chair beside Frankie like it’s his personal spot, his mouth moving as he says something that makes them all smile. Shane drags out a chair of his own beside Yorke, his lanky-strong arm lazy and flexing under a thin shirt. No hesitation. No doubt. Like he, too, knows his place, and it’s right here.

Frankie reaches into her bag and comes out with more holiday headbands. These have snowflakes on them. It looks like someone—maybe the kid—made them with a hot glue gun with foam balls and glitter.

She plants one on Shane’s head and he laughs, sparkly snowflakes bouncing over his head. She rounds on Yorke who tilts his head and dodges her halfheartedly, and ultimately relents. Auden roots around in the bag and comes up with one for her, and a second later, it’s planted firmly on her head like a crown of glittering green pine trees.

They’re the perfect family of the apocalypse. About as good as it can possibly get now.

Even the dog knows he belongs, right between Frankie and Auden, gazing between them with dark wet eyes adoring under his antlers, tail wagging.

“Sweet on that boy?” Duane’s voice cuts into my thoughts, coming up to sit down beside me.

“Huh?”

“I see you always looking at him.”

I check across the table to be sure no one is listening. Mitsy is glaring at Yorke, and a couple of Duane’s cronies are comparing fingertip blisters from their days restuffing bullet casings. Others are gossiping about a stomach bug that’s going around. How Ben’s been sick and also some guy named Cain, and what they’re going to wear to the party tomorrow night.

“Good looking boy.” Duane runs his tongue along his teeth and makes a sucking sound. “For a cripple.”

My right hand ripples in instant awareness, hating that word, the tone he uses to say it.

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