8. Free-Range Zombie Pigs
Free-Range Zombie Pigs
Josie
Getting Wyatt’s big injured body down the sagging front steps and to his car isn’t quite as hard as it was getting him in bed earlier. That’s not to say it’s easy .
“You’ve got to keep moving,” I grunt as Wyatt’s nose finds my hair.
“You smell like pie. Coconut cream—no! Buttermilk.”
I would laugh. I want to. Because this is ridiculous.
Also, buttermilk and coconut pie both sound delicious right now. My stomach rumbles and I tell it to settle in—I have a feeling it’s going to be a while.
Wyatt tossed one of his crutches in a bush outside the house, muttering something about liking me better. Now I’m his human crutch as we hobble awkwardly to his Bronco— which he insisted in his sloppy, feverish state that I drive.
I am limping along, all sweat and screaming muscles, as Wyatt nuzzles my hair. Apparently, feverish Wyatt sheds the Grouch for a full-on snuggler. It would be endearing if I weren’t about to collapse.
We finally reach the old Bronco, and I lean against it, breathing heavily as he slumps his full weight onto me. I need a moment to recover. Even my bones hurt.
But then his nose moves from my hair to my neck, and I freeze.
“Mmm,” he says, inhaling audibly. “Pie.”
I don’t know how I smell like anything but sweat and possibly dish soap at this point, but I’m not going to argue with the man.
Especially not as his nose traces along my throat, sending waves of goose bumps over my skin.
My nerve endings electrify and the temperature goes up at least ten degrees instantaneously.
This is...weird. And kind of delightful. Which makes it very, very dangerous.
“Wyatt.” I shake him a little with my hands on his lower back, like he’s falling asleep and I’m trying to wake him. He might as well be.
Underneath his sweaty shirt, he’s a solid mass of muscle. I can feel him flexing as he shifts, mumbling something.
I need to get him in the Bronco and off me. But now that we’re leaning against it, I still don’t know if I can get him in there unless he can actively help.
“I think we should take my car,” I say again. It’s low. I can open the door and pretty much shove him inside. This would involve less touching, which is a very good idea right now.
“Too small,” Wyatt slurs. “Like you—tiny.”
“You’re just a Sasquatch. I’m an average height,” I say, not sure why I’m defensive.
He lifts his head slightly, and his scruff brushes my cheek. We are way too close. I try to lean away, but that only makes him lean harder into me. He drops the other crutch.
“Nothing about you is average,” he murmurs, his breath on my jaw.
I have no response to this. There’s no reason to respond. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. And it’s probably not meant as a compliment anyway, even if that’s how it sounds. Then again—he did call me pretty. And say I smell like pie.
It’s irrelevant , I tell myself. He won’t remember this. He doesn’t mean this.
But every touch, every kind word, every little moment with this foreign version of Wyatt is setting itself up as a core memory. I can almost feel the tectonic shift happening as my brain adjusts to thinking of him in a new way. A softer and kinder way.
Maybe also a semi-romantic way.
That realization is enough to get me moving again. Because under no circumstances am I allowed to have any kind of feelings for Wyatt.
Wiggling out from under him, I manage to maneuver him off the passenger-side door. He’s as floppy and unruly as an overcooked noodle. And still much warmer than I want him to be, especially after the ibuprofen.
I press him against the car as I open the door, and his head lolls forward. Even with his eyes closed, he’s smiling. It makes me feel a bit better. But only the tiniest bit. Instead of putting him in bed with ibuprofen, I should have gotten him to the hospital.
Still, I refuse to devolve into panic about infection. Or sepsis. He’s going to be fine. I’m both sad and relieved thinking about him returning to the grump I know. The grump is safer than this version of him.
Holding him in place with a hand on his chest, I give his cheek a little slap. When he doesn’t react, I take a breath and slap him a little harder.
His eyes blink open, unfocused at first. Then his gaze locks with mine. He smiles again. “Hi.”
“Wyatt, you’ve got to get in the car. I can’t lift you.”
“M’kay. Keys are in my pocket.” Heavy breaths punctuate each word. “Here.”
He thrusts his hand into his pocket, nearly taking down his shorts, then tries to pass me the keys. But my hands are full of unwieldy man, and the keys fall to the driveway.
He frowns, looking like he’s about to grab for them.
“Leave them,” I say firmly. “I’ll get them in a sec. You—get in the car.”
Speaking firmly seems to be the most effective way to get him moving, and though it’s awkward and he almost slides right back out, he mostly makes it into the passenger seat.
I think of all the ways I’m going to kill my brother. And also how much these tasks will be worth on my itemized list.
Half carrying Wyatt to the car: a hundred dollars. No—five hundred. Hoisting him into the seat is another two-fifty.
Listening to his feverish rambling and having my face pressed into his cheek will earn me overtime.
“Can you lift your leg in there so I can shut the door?”
“Too tired,” he says, lips barely moving.
With a sigh, I put both hands behind his knee and gingerly lift, being careful with the boot. I haven’t had a chance yet to look up the injury he mentioned, the one that sounds like a woman’s name.
While we’re at the hospital, I can get caught up on exactly what I’m dealing with. I couldn’t connect to Wi-Fi at Wyatt’s house, and the internet on my phone is too slow without it. Maybe I’ll even get to talk to his doctor and get the number for his PT.
The moment I’ve got his leg and foot safely inside, his eyes open. There’s that unfamiliar smile again, this time a little mischievous.
“I was faking,” he whispers dramatically.
“What?” I’m tempted to smack him again, but for wholly different reasons this time. Also, there’s no way he’s faking the fever and this whole mood shift.
“About my leg. I just wanted you to touch me.” He wiggles his leg as though to prove his point, still grinning before his smile fades and his eyes close again. “I like it when you touch me, and you never do.”
I stare for a moment at the stranger in front of me, then slam the car door on him because what is happening?
Wyatt is fever-flirting with me. That’s what’s happening. He’s making it sound like I’m not in the running for his least favorite person on the planet.
And it’s breaking my brain.
Though I need to get my purse and his crutches, I pick up the keys and walk around to the driver’s side first to turn on the AC. I’m not about to leave Wyatt in a hot car. Even if it would be an exact sort of revenge.
A minute later, I’ve shoved the crutches into the back next to a bunch of hockey gear and am reaching for the driver’s side door.
It opens with a creak, a sound that reminds me of my childhood.
Newer cars don’t make these sorts of sounds; they probably aren’t even made of the same material.
This door feels weighty in my hand, the whole car like a tank, really. I like it.
Unlike the house, which is in a sad state of disrepair, it’s obvious that painstaking care has gone into restoring the vehicle. I find myself wondering whether Wyatt worked on it or just bought it like this.
I adjust the seat and mirrors, then catch Wyatt watching me. No smile right now, but his gaze is softer, not the usual flinty gray.
“You like vintage cars, huh?” I ask.
Wyatt makes a choking sound that turns into a laugh. “Vintage? I’m older than this car.”
“Oh.”
I attempt some math in my head. Fail. Try to think what year this car might be.
Fail. How can I not know how old my brother’s best friend is?
I always associate the two of them together, often forgetting Wyatt graduated from college before Jacob.
Which would make Wyatt five years older than me? Six?
“How old are you, anyway?”
“Vintage.”
Normally, if Wyatt said something like this, it would come out snappish. But he’s looking at me with that goofy grin on his face again.
When he smiles...saying he’s attractive is not an objective observation anymore. I’m not acknowledging it. I’m feeling it.
This reminds me of my favorite episode of The Office , where Pam and Dwight bond only because he has a concussion. If Wyatt kept a spray bottle in the car like the one Jim uses while driving Dwight to the hospital, I’d totally spray Wyatt right now.
Not because he’s doing something wrong. But because I don’t like the way his smile makes my stomach twist.
I need him to snap out of it. I don’t want to get used to this version of him or how it’s affecting me. Because it’s not who he is. He’ll go right back to being a grump in no time.
The Bronco bumps along the oystershell drive, which has Wyatt adjusting and hissing in pain a few times. I slow down, but he waves me on.
As I watch the cottage in the rearview, I remember what Wyatt said in the kitchen.
Putting the pieces together, I’d guess Wyatt’s uncle left him the property when he died.
I wonder if this has anything to do with his current situation and the lack of care about his own health and recovery.
Jacob never mentioned it, which makes me wonder if he even knew.
I reach the end of the drive, turn onto the gravel road, and am forced to stop both thinking and driving.
By a herd of pigs.
Not small, pink piglets either. There is not a Wilbur in the bunch. These are gigantic exhibits of porcine mass. Dark gray, almost black, and with so many fat rolls on their heads that I can’t see their eyes. Which I assume are beady.
“What is this?” I ask. “Because it looks like the start of a horror film.”
Wyatt groans. “Neighbor pigs,” he mumbles. “His fence is always broken, so they’re somewhat free range.”