For the time being, there was still hot water and electricity. I took a long shower. Wrapping myself in a thick white robe, I poured myself a large glass of vodka. The sun had set. I flipped on the small living room lamp and sat down on the floor. My cell had died—no signal—but the old mantel clock showed it was nearly 11:00pm. The autumn air had a hint of chill in it. I lit a small fire.
I knew I should eat, but I couldn’t get myself to budge. I sat, staring at the fireplace. I tried to process everything, but I felt completely overwhelmed. How had this happened? What were we going to do? My grandma was gone.
The radio in Grandma’s room still reported contamination and quarantine. After a while, I realized it was the same news report I’d heard that very morning—it was a looped recording. I tried the T.V. but there was only static.
It must have been sometime after midnight, and two glasses of vodka later, when I saw headlights shine through the small cracks between the boards on the picture window. I went outside to see a truck sitting on the other side of the gate.
I grabbed a gun. “Who’s there?” I called, the headlights blinding me.
At first there was silence. The driver cut the lights and engine. “It’s Ian.”
My heart leapt to my throat. I grabbed the flashlight, slid on a pair of slippers, and went to the gate.
“It’s late,” I said.
His face looked haggard in the glow of the flashlight.
“I know. I’m sorry. I just . . . can I come in?”
I unbolted the gate. I propped it a little, letting him in, then locked it again. Wordlessly, we went into the house. Once inside, I motioned him to sit in the living room while I went to the kitchen to pour him a drink.
“God, Layla, when did you get the house all boarded up?”
“Grandma,” I replied.
“Jamie told me about her. I’m really sorry.”
I handed him a drink and sat down on the couch beside him. He looked handsome but tired. His straw-colored hair fell over his blue eyes. He had dirt smudged on his chin and arms. His tribal tattoo showed from under his torn and stained white t-shirt. I wondered if anyone else knew the tattoo’s meaning.
“I’m a mess,” he said.
“That’s the last thing to worry about.”
“But you smell so clean, so nice,” he whispered.
“Well, I figured I should take a hot shower while I still had a chance.”
He smiled and then there was awkward silence. Every fiber in my being wanted to pull him into an embrace, to hug him, to smell him, to feel his chest pressed against my body, but I reminded myself his wife had died only hours before.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Layla . . . I . . . When it all started to go down, I tried to keep my family safe, but I kept thinking, ‘Where is Layla? Is Layla alright?’ I was praying to God you were not still in D. C. Did you see? They rained missiles down on that place. Blew it up. It was one of the last things I saw on cable. I thought I saw your car the other day so I hoped. When Jamie opened the door today, and I saw you standing there, like some kind of Amazon angel, I couldn’t believe it. At that moment Kristie was dying, but you were alive. I felt happy. I am so ashamed. I felt so happy.”
“I seriously hope you didn’t come here just to confess,” I said. Part of me was elated, but the other half of me was disgusted.
“No. I just wanted to see you. I wanted to tell you how I felt. I’m so happy you’re fine. You’re alive. And you’re here. I just, Layla, you know I never stopped loving you,” he said and then pulled me toward him. Before I knew it, we had fallen into a deep kiss.
How much I had missed him. Every muscle in my body melted. My mind, swimming in a vodka haze, let go of guilt. I relaxed into his embrace. My hands greedily roved over his shoulders, neck, and under his shirt to touch his skin.
Untying my belt, he pushed the robe open. I was naked underneath. He kissed my neck and shoulders, his hands gently stroking my breasts. I shimmied out of the robe and pulled his shirt over his head. I pulled him against me, his bare skin against mine. We lay back on the couch. I could feel him, hard, inside his jeans. I took his hand to guide it between my legs, but when my fingers interlaced with his, I felt his wedding ring. Shame washed over me. I opened my eyes. I pulled myself upright and slid my robe back on.
“Layla?”
I stood up, picked his shirt back up, and threw it at him.
“Get out,” I said.
“Layla? What happened?”
“You can’t solve every complex feeling you have by fucking someone. Get out. Go home and mourn your wife like a real man would,” I said and opened the door.
Shame-faced, he pulled his shirt on and went outside. He stopped on the porch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t come here for that. I just came to say I am so glad you’re alive,” he said and walked away.
I slammed the door behind him. Outside, the metal gate opened and shut. A moment later the truck started and the headlights disappeared back down the road. I slid down the door to the floor and put my head on my knees. Then there was a strange buzzing sound, like the sound you hear during a bad storm, followed by a pop. The lights and all the appliances went out.