Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
The can of fruit cocktail was covered in dust. One edge of the can was dented, and it reminded Blake of the time his dad told him that sometimes stores sold dented cans at a discount.
Turns out that discount didn’t apply to soda cans.
That was the day Blake learned that smacking a can of soda into the corner of a metal case of baked goods would not simply dent the can but destroy it. And that baked goods will retain the taste of Coca-Cola even through the plastic.
Blake’s eyes had burned as he blinked the carbonation from his lashes, soda dripping down his hair and pooling around him like a big, guilty spotlight.
The manager had been so pissed, but his dad had just shaken his head and silently paid for everything.
Blake had expected a lecture when he got back to the car, but all his dad did was rip open a wrapper and hand Blake a cinnamon roll.
“You better eat the evidence, kid,” he’d said, the corner of his lips curling.
They never told his mom. It was like their little secret.
Blake ran his finger along the warped rim of the fruit cocktail can and tried to ignore the way his chest squeezed at the thought of his dad.
Thoughts of his parents were never far from his mind, but it was moments like these when he wished he could talk to them.
Even if it was just a quick phone call. He wanted to tell them he was sorry for misunderstanding the way they raised him.
For not trying harder to be a good kid. That he loved them.
He couldn’t remember the last time he told them.
Tommy grunted behind him, and Blake looked over to see him struggling with a jar of pickles. The lid wasn’t budging, and Tommy bared down, face twisted as he tried to get the top to twist.
“Do you need help?”
“No!” Tommy snapped, face turning red.
“I could go get Phin.”
“And this jar could ‘accidentally’ slip out of my hand and crack your head open. Is that how you want to die, Blake? You want to survive an alien invasion only to get killed by pissed-off pickles?”
Blake stared at Tommy, mouth agape. The thin man lifted up his sweatshirt so he could wrap the hem of his t-shirt around the lid for grip. It didn’t work, but at least the thought of picklecide knocked Blake from his reverie.
Tommy puffed up his cheeks, a vein in his neck throbbing as he bent over the jar.
“You’re going to pop an aneurysm,” Blake chided, reaching for the jar only to have his hand swatted away. Tommy slammed the jar back on the counter, chest heaving with exertion. He braced himself, head bowed as he caught his breath.
It was then that Blake took a good look at him.
It was warmer in their little cafeteria, the big windows concentrating the light from the afternoon sun like a magnifying glass.
They’d shed most of their outer layers, and for the first time since winter came, Blake got a look at Tommy without all his outer clothes. He looked thin.
They were all a little gamey—too much work, not enough sleep, food combinations no human should ever contemplate—but Tommy was worse. His collar bones were pronounced under the sagging neckline of his red hoodie, and his hair hung lank over sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones.
Tommy had always had a youthful energy about him. Cute, chubby-cheeked, with bright dark eyes. But now he was dull and looked much older than his years.
All traces of teasing were gone from Blake’s voice when he asked, “Tofu, have you been eating?”
He scowled. It was a bit like a fluffy kitten hissing at him, but it was uncharacteristic for Tommy. “I’m trying to eat some pickles.”
“I’m serious.” Blake tried to remember the last time he’d seen Tommy eat something substantial. “What protein have you been eating?”
Tommy gave up on the jar, tossing it onto the counter. It hit with an unsettling thunk, rolling next to a useless toaster they hadn’t bothered to toss.
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Blake said, voice sharp.
Tommy glared at him sullenly. “I’m not lying to you. I’m doing the best I can. It’s not like I have a lot of choices.”
Blake teased Tommy about being a vegan, but he respected it.
For someone who ate most of his food out of plastic wrap and brightly colored cans, Blake couldn’t imagine the dedication it took for Tommy to not only be cognizant of what he was eating, but where it came from.
To be so dedicated to his principles, he refused to give them up, even when the whole world was crashing down around him, was impressive.
It was also going to fucking kill him.
“I know we’ve talked about it, but Tommy, you have to eat something. You can’t just—”
“Don’t.” Tommy’s words were icy. “Don’t do it, don’t—you can’t ask me to eat meat.”
“Even if you starve to death? I know you don’t want to, but with hunting, we might have more reliable sustenance than Twinkies and fruit that’s more sugar than nutrition.”
Tommy’s shoulders hunched, and he turned to face Blake. He looked like he was trying to collapse in on himself. “I can’t.”
“I know it’s hard, but if we use every part of the deer and…I don’t know, maybe we can hide it in something, so it seems less meat-y.”
“It’s not that,” Tommy said, hugging himself. “I mean, it is, but it’s more like…I don’t know who I am without being a vegan. And if I give it up, if I let go of these principles, I don’t know...I’ll lose myself.”
“Tommy…” he cut himself off, listening to what he had been saying.
For as long as Blake had known him, Tommy had been vegan.
It was more than just his diet; it was part of his personality.
And not in the obnoxious shove it in everyone’s faces way, but in that it was part of his moral fiber.
Tommy was all doe eyes and compassion; it was stitched into his soul.
It was rescuing stray animals when he couldn’t even take care of himself, and staying beside Blake when he was at his worst.
It was in his single-minded determination to open a jar of pickles that he probably wouldn’t even eat. He’d give it to one of his chickens and lie when someone, probably Phin, asked him about it.
This wasn’t a diet or a fad. This was who Tommy was.
“I get it,” Blake finally said, hating himself for the surprised look on Tommy’s face. “No meat. But maybe you could eat the chicken eggs? I know that’s not vegan, but at least you know these chickens. They’re not being tortured. Hell, they can even leave whenever they want.”
Chewing his lip, Tommy looked like he was considering that. Which was more than he was willing to do before. After a moment, Tommy nodded.
Dystopian living must have made Blake soft because the urge to tug Tommy into a hug was so strong, he had to physically hold himself back. He settled for ruffling Tommy’s hair so hard his whole body shook.
“And maybe the other teams can start looking for that tofurkey jerky crap you like. There’s no way that stuff will go bad. It’ll probably outlast the Twinkies.”
Tommy smiled up at him, his nose wrinkling. “Yeah, yeah.”
They got back to making lunch, the silence between them lighter.
Tommy even started humming—some catchy tune that teased the edges of Blake’s memory.
Just when he thought he knew the song, a note would change, and Blake was left hanging, grumpily telling Tommy to stop.
The little shit just started whistling instead.
Preparing lunch was mostly just opening cans and plastic packages, seeing what could be heated up, and what needed to be burnt to a crisp on the off chance it might kill them.
Tommy dropped a tray of what looked like radioactive potatoes. Little twiggy branches were growing out of the pits in their skin. Tommy just hacked them off, wiping the potato dust off his fingers.
“How are you doing?” he asked as he tossed some nuked potatoes into a pot of water.
“Better before you make me eat whatever that is.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “I meant with the whole…existential crisis, stare into the river moment you had. You and Gabriel are better, yeah?”
Blake fisted the can opener and wondered who he wanted to stab more—Tommy or himself.
It’s not that he didn’t want to talk to Tommy about his lingering issues with Gabriel; it’s that he didn’t want to have the problems at all.
He wanted to shove them down. Push them so deep that a century from now, when some intrepid, underpaid scholar dug up his bones, they’d find the pain hidden behind his ribs, written in a script so faint it would come off with the rest of the dirt.
But unfortunately, no matter how hard he pushed, dug, and hid, they wouldn’t stay down. It was like closing a fridge door and hearing a thump. It’s someone else’s problem. Then the day comes when it’s him opening the door, and he’s hit in the foot with…a jar of pickles.
Full circle.
Gabriel had been trying. He was being more open, including Blake in decisions and conversations.
He was making time for Blake, doing chores with him, eating with him.
It was nice. And Blake would be lying if he said the burden hadn’t eased a little.
But no amount of banter and flirting over collecting firewood would stop the nightmares.
The sickening guilt that dragged at him like thorns, cutting deeper the harder he tried to pull away.
Because the only way to deal with a thorny bush was to stop.
Examine it, and carefully extricate the tip.
And most times it hurt. Sometimes it bled.
Guilt was like that too. But Blake couldn’t remove this thorn.
It burrowed deeper and deeper into his skin, not bleeding.
No, this was worse. This was more like just underneath the skin, and no amount of picking could pull it out.
You just had to wait for it to pop out on its own.