*
They settle down for the night in Lilly’s makeshift living room amid the cardboard boxes and carpet remnants and useless things left behind by nameless former residents. Lilly makes them some instant coffee on a chafing dish, and they sit in the lantern light and just talk. They talk about their childhoods—how they share similar innocuous suburban backgrounds full of cul-de-sacs and Scout troops and weenie roasts—and then they have that patented post-Turn discussion of what they’ll do if and when the cure comes and the Troubles go away. Austin says he’ll probably look to move somewhere warm and find a good woman and settle down and build surfboards or something. Lilly tells him about her dreams of being a clothing designer, of going to New York—as though New York still exists—and making a name for herself. Lilly finds herself growing more and more fond of this shaggy, good-natured young man. She marvels that he is such a decent, gentle person underneath the swagger. She wonders if the playboy routine wasn’t some kind of messed-up defense mechanism. Or maybe he’s just dealing with the same thing every other survivor is dealing with right now—the thing nobody can put a name to but feels like some kind of virulent stress disorder. Regardless of her epiphanies about Austin, however, Lilly is glad for the company that night, and they talk into the wee hours.
At one point, very late that night, after a long moment of awkward silence, Lilly looks around her dark apartment, thinking, trying to remember where she put her little stash of hooch. “You know what,” she says at last. “If memory serves, I think I have half a bottle of Southern Comfort hidden away for emergencies.”
Austin gives her a loaded glance. “You sure you want to part with it?”
She shrugs, getting up off the couch and padding across the room to a stack of crates. “No time like the present,” she mutters, rifling through the extra blankets, bottled water, ammunition, Band-Aids, and disinfectant. “Hello, gorgeous,” she says finally, locating the beautifully etched bottle of tea-colored liquid.
She comes back and thumbs off the cap. “Here’s to a good night’s sleep,” she toasts, and then knocks back a healthy swig, wiping her lips.
She sits down on the sofa next to him and hands the bottle over. Austin, who cringes again from the pain in his side, takes a pull off the bottle and then grimaces from the burn in his throat as well as the stitch in his rib cage. “Jesus, I’m such a goddamn *.”
“What are you talking about? You’re not a *. Young guy your age, going on runs … kicking ass outside the safe zone.” She takes the bottle and slugs down another gulp. “You’re gonna be fine.”
He gives her a look. “‘Young guy’? What are you, a senior citizen? I’m almost twenty-three years old, Lilly.” He grins. “Gimme that thing.” He takes the bottle and swallows another gulp, shuddering at the burn. He coughs, and holds his side. “Fuck!”
She stifles a giggle. “You all right? You need some water? No?” She takes the bottle from him and takes another sip. “Truth is, I’m old enough to be your … older sister.” She belches. Then she giggles, covering her mouth. “Jesus Christ, excuse me.”
He laughs. The pain surges up his rib cage again and he flinches.
They drink and talk for a while, until Austin starts coughing again, holding his side.
“You okay?” She reaches over and moves a lock of his curly hair out of his eyes. “You want some Tylenol?”
“I’m fine!” he snaps at her. Then he lets out a pained sigh. “I’m sorry … thank you for the offer, but I’m good.” He reaches up and touches her hand. “I’m sorry I’m being so … cranky. I feel like an idiot … like a fucking invalid. How could I be so fucking clumsy?”
She looks at him. “Would you shut up? You’re not clumsy, and you’re not an invalid.”
He looks at her. “Thanks.” He touches her hand. “I appreciate it.”
For a moment, Lilly feels the darkness around her shifting and spinning. She feels a loosening in her midsection, a warmth flowing down through her from her tummy all the way to her toes. She wants to kiss him. She might as well face it. She wants to kiss him a lot. She wants to prove to him he’s not a * … he’s a good, strong, virile, decent man. But something holds her back. She’s not good at this. She’s no prude—she’s had plenty of men—but she can’t bring herself to do it. Instead she just looks at him, and the look on her face apparently sends a signal to him that something interesting is going on. His smile fades. He touches her face. She licks her lips, pondering the situation, wanting so badly to grab him and suck his face.
At last, breaking the tension, he says, “You gonna hog that bottle the rest of the night?”
She grins and hands it over, and he downs a huge series of gulps, polishing off a major portion of the remaining booze. This time, he doesn’t cringe. He doesn’t flinch. He just looks at her and says, “I think I should warn you about something.” His big brown eyes fill with embarrassment, regret, and maybe even a little shame. “I don’t have a condom.”
*