Chapter Twenty #3
Corinne stops at each table, introducing us around.
“This is Erica—she’s the leader of the Chelsea vegans—her delegation is visiting for a couple of days while they weigh their options.
” The Chelsea vegans smile and tell us their names, and it’s honestly the nicest reception a group of rich women in their twenties and thirties has ever given me.
They don’t look put off by the fact I’m wearing a stolen space suit, or suspicious of my amateur haircut.
They just look happy to meet me. Happy that we’re all alive here, in this safe place, together.
Apocalypses—bringing formerly judgmental women together since 2027.
“This is Ellie, gluten-free,” Corinne says, tapping on a thirtysomething white woman’s shoulder where she’s filling up at the complimentary coffee station. The baby-faced woman turns around, her brown hair tied up in a messy bun on top of her head, and again, we’re greeted with real enthusiasm.
“Hi, nice to meet you. Congratulations on being alive!”
I laugh, pleasantly surprised. “Thank you.”
“Ellie’s a feminist romance podcaster,” Corinne says, her hand still affectionately on Ellie’s shoulder. “Her show’s Rebel Ever After, ever heard of it?”
Everett and I shake our heads. Ellie sighs good-naturedly. “Well, nobody’s perfect. I’ve temporarily converted the podcast to apocalypse news and survival tips while the Wi-Fi holds out, but if you’re interested in my backlist, it’s still available for now.”
“She has quite the audience,” Corinne says. “I know it may feel otherwise on the road, but based on Ellie’s comments section, there are many people out there still living, trying to figure out their next steps for survival, too.”
“That’s wonderful.” Everett meets my eyes, his brimming with a lovely, tender hope.
Hope for what exactly, I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine a scenario where the world bounces back from what’s happened.
Is a happily ever after even possible in postapocalyptic America?
I almost ask Ellie, since she’s the expert on HEAs, but Corinne’s already moving on, still taking us on the meet-and-greet tour of the survivors’ colony.
She introduces us to the Korean family that owns the market next, the chaotic remnants of a high school field trip, and some poor Germans who picked the absolute worst time ever for their first visit to New York.
Everyone is completely, unequivocally lovely.
Ellie invites us to sit with her and brings us coffees, and soon we’re all chatting, sharing our wheres and whens and how we ended up here in this chain hotel’s ballroom in the middle of Queens.
The fact that these kind people are sharing their refuge with us, their food, company, and trust, with nothing promised in return, is astounding.
A testament to what humanity can aspire to as well as an ironclad rebuke to the part of me that feels safest believing other people are inherently dangerous.
After dinner is served and cleared, a group effort through and through, the lights are suddenly dimmed.
My pulse picks up erratically, fear sliding through me for the first time since we arrived, but then Ayana appears in the doorway, illuminated by flickering flames atop a beautiful tiered cake.
A cake for me, I find out, which she spent the afternoon baking from scratch when she heard that it was my birthday.
The love of it all takes my breath away.
Because even with as little experience as I’ve had with it, I can still see that’s what this is.
Love.
Freely, recklessly, heedlessly given love.
All these voices of survivors, of people I would’ve never met, lifting sweetly to sing me “Happy Birthday” off-key, send tears rolling down my cheeks.
They don’t know that the reason I’m crying isn’t because of all the people who aren’t here with me to celebrate, but because of all the people who are.
That it took the world ending for me to have my first birthday party.
To hear this song sung with my name, eyes pointed in my direction, for the first time.
Mom didn’t celebrate our birthdays—she never saw the point of celebrating life on this earth.
But here I am, thirty years old, and I’ve never been so happy to be alive as I am right now.
Everett’s smooth voice is the loudest of all because of his proximity by my side, his arm still wrapped around me like I really am Maisie Shenandoah.
His eyes are on mine as he sings, “Happy birthday, dear Maiiiiisie…”
Like I really am his wife.
Here, in this moment, on my birthday at the edge of humanity’s existence, I let myself believe that I am. That these people are my friends and family. That my life is full and wondrous and not controlled by fear any longer.
And my heart, oh, my heart.
It throws open every window, every door, and the love comes streaming in. Fresher than morning air, brighter than the sunrise, sharper than the sharpest knife.
Because how on earth will I ever survive letting this go?
The answer comes barreling forward, from the deepest parts of me.
I won’t. I can’t.
And if that means laying my heart on the table and telling Everett exactly how I feel, even after I swore I wouldn’t fall for him, so be it.
I’m going to take my cat’s advice and ask Everett to stay together, and yes, I know exactly how crazy that sounds.
But Chicken’s right. My fear of rejection doesn’t compare to the fear of living my life without them. And if all else fails?
Maybe I really will Misery him.
“Make a wish!” they all say as I lean over to blow out thirty flickering candles, with one to grow on.
And I do.