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There were always girls like her back in high school and college. Ones who pretended to be friends with other girls but whose whole goal was to claim the best guy. So all conversation was focused on gossip, and even the smallest decisions were motivated by getting her closer to whoever her target was. I was burned by girls like that multiple times—assuming they really wanted to befriends but finding out soon enough that they would throw me into the trash at the first opportunity to win an advantage with a guy.

It’s a queasy kind of déjà vu. I might as well be back in high school with a girl who is pretending to have a conversation with me but who really has her eyes on the captain of the football team the entire time.

I have absolutely no romantic or sexual interest in Logan—any more than he has in me—but I feel defensive for him anyway. He deserves better than Trisha.

“I don’t know that much about him,” I say blandly. “He’s a private person.”

“So he doesn’t have a woman?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” I’m not meeting her eyes because I’m not sure I could hide my annoyance.

“He’s too old for me, but he’s still damn sexy. And I like a man in charge.”

She would. Just the power itself is probably what attracts her most.

“But he’s not as big as Deck. What about him?”

I’ve been scrubbing one of her shirts against the washboard, but I halt abruptly, looking down at my own hands. “What about him?”

“What’s his story?”

“Same as the rest of us. Trying to survive after everything went to hell.”

“He needs to shave and cut his hair, but if he did that, he’d be superhot. And there’s something about a man whose hands can span your waist. Or your ass.” She makes a throaty sound of approval.

Clenching my jaw, I scrub and scrub. And scrub and scrub.

She might not possess the deepest intellect, but she’s sharp, and she obviously sees something in my reaction. “He’s not your man, is he? Someone said you two weren’t together.”

“We’re not together like that.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I had a go?”

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

It’s a wonder I’m not shredding the shirt into pieces, working out my suppressed aggression on it.

“It’s not my business. You can do whatever you want.”

“Okay, good. I was just checking. I want us to be friends.”

“Of course.”

To my relief, she gets up to leave after that.

As I finish washing her clothes, I blow out my resentment. I didn’t understand it back in school, and I don’t understand it now.

So many things are central in life. So many things are life and death. So many things matter in all the deepest ways.

Why can some women—even in an apocalypse—see nothing of worth except snagging their next boyfriend?

9

I can’t findany clothespins, so I hang the wet clothes on the line by simply folding them over it. It’s not that windy today, so hopefully they’ll stay put.

By the time I finish, it’s almost lunchtime. After we eat, I find a book on one of the shelves in the house and take it out to a shady spot to read.

I make it through a couple of chapters before I fall asleep.

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