Chapter Forty
JASPER IS THE SPITTING IMAGE of Grandma, swaying in a wooden rocking chair with a glass in his hand—except he’s drinking wine, not sweet tea.
Moths swarm to a lantern set on the ground next to his feet.
All that’s missing is an edition of Playboy hidden inside a Better Homes magazine. Grandma’s favorite pastime.
Jasper’s eyes peel open as I approach, a relieved smile forming on his wine-tinged lips.
He’s happy I made it back.
I pause at the bottom of the steps, trying not to think about how those lips would taste pressed against mine. I shake the thought away. “Waiting up for me?”
He smirks. “What would you say if I was?”
Thank god it’s dark outside, else he’d see the blush spreading to my ears.
Why must I blush so easily? And aren’t I supposed to be mad at him?
I mosey up the steps and add an aloof edge to my voice as I ask, “Has this rocking chair always been here?”
“Nope.”
“Who’d you take it from?” I ask. His face shows no signs that he’s picking up on my tone.
“Someone less deserving than me,” he answers, the chair creaking as he sways.
“Figures.”
Before yesterday, I would have put myself on a moral high horse for hearing him say this. Today, I wish he’d stolen two.
After a long silence, Jasper says, “Listen, about earlier, I’m sorry—oh shit.” He swipes dribbles of wine off his bloodred lips and hastily sets down his glass. The alcohol-induced haze clears from his eyes. He jumps off the porch and kneels down before me. “Kota, your ankle.”
“Oh, that?” I wave a hand. “It’s just a scratch.”
Except it’s not. It is throbbing. Like a mofo.
“What happened?”
“Did you know zombies can swim? Me neither.”
Jasper stands and grabs my hand. “Come with me. We need to get some antibiotics on that or—”
“As far as I know, nobody’s turned into a zombie from claw marks,” I say, more to comfort myself than him. And also, “You haven’t seen that happen before either . . . right?”
Jasper shakes his head and pulls me inside. “No. But if this gets infected, you will die. And you will turn into a zombie.”
My chest collapses. “Comforting words, as always.”
“Kota, I’m not here to comfort you.”
His words are stern, but his eyes are muddled. For once, his eyes and his words don’t seem to match.
“I think you are, though.”
Jasper sucks in a breath but says nothing. We stand there, looking at each other, in complete silence, for quite a while. The air grows heavy. My tongue rests heavy in my mouth.
Finally, Jasper says, “Let’s just clean this wound before you get infected.”
“Zombie infected or infected infected?”
“I think it’s spreading.”
“What!”
“To your head.”
“Oh my god.” I lightly smack the side of his head, and a low, velvety laugh escapes from his lips. “Do I spot dimples under there?” I poke his prickly beard, and the divots beside the corners of his mouth deepen.
Instead of swatting my finger away like I expect, he catches it and then wraps his hand around mine. A thousand sparks race up my arm.
“You should laugh more,” I say. “It suits you.”
I try not to limp as he guides me down the short hallway toward his room.
The cottage is dark and moody—dare I say sexy?
Our feet are quiet on the stone floor, and I wonder if he can hear the loud thumping of my heart, too.
That same damn heart plummets into the recesses of my belly when he pushes open the door.
“I thought you hid your bodies in the basement, but are they all actually in your room?”
Jasper ignores me, releasing my hand.
I already miss his touch.
He lights a half-melted candle resting on his dresser.
Soft candlelight flickers as wind flutters in from the wide-open window on the opposite side of the room.
A gentle breeze wafts inside. Crickets chirp, singing a song for the glistening moon above.
The room smells of lavender soap and musk and wood.
“I’ve come so far,” I whisper. “Please don’t ax murder me.”
“I don’t have an ax.”
“And if you did?”
“Best not to speculate.”
Jasper winks and eases the closet door open. He pulls out a red first aid kit—very school nurse of him. Inside, there’s rubbing alcohol, gauze, Band-Aids, and—
“I don’t need stitches, do I?”
“Sit down,” Jasper says. I take a seat on the hardwood, but he shakes his head. “The bed is much more comfortable.”
“I—um . . .”
Jasper raises an eyebrow.
He’s not here to seduce you, Kota. He’s here to fix you.
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”
The cream bedding is soft and clean. No yellow spots, no dirt, nothing. Not only does this impress me greatly, but it also turns me on.
Pull it together, Kota!
I rest my head against the headboard and extend my left leg out toward Jasper.
He roots around in the first aid kit and pulls out my childhood enemy: a needle.
The bed sags as Jasper sits near my feet.
He gently turns over my leg, inspecting the gaping, still-bloody lacerations.
His fingers linger on my skin too long. No, not nearly long enough.
I want those damn fingers to graze my calf, my inner thighs, my ass, my—
“Just a few stitches, I think.”
“No,” I rebut, shaking my head and staring at the evil, pointy needle clutched in Jasper’s fingers. “Please. No stitches.”
“Kota, you just went to bat with a zombie. And you’re scared of a little needle?”
“Yes,” I answer matter-of-factly. “Yes, I am.”
I was also scared of the zombie, thank you very much.
Jasper rolls his eyes but reaches into the first aid kit and pulls out a teeny-tiny little bottle. “This will help.”
I twist open the cap and sniff. A spicy, bitter smell skips my nostrils and directly hits my brain. “Vodka?”
“My favorite,” he says, opening the bottle of rubbing alcohol. “Drink it. This will hurt.”
I nod and slam down the mini bottle of vodka. The warmth from the alcohol slithers down my throat, to my chest, and finally settles in the pit of my belly.
I take a deep, full breath and stare into Jasper’s eyes. “Do it.”
This is gonna hurt.
I guess I expect some sort of countdown, but Jasper makes his own rules. As he douses the open wounds with rubbing alcohol, bright, white, searing pain flashes through my leg. I bite my tongue so I don’t scream. Coppery blood swims on my tongue.
“You all right?”
I try to keep quiet, I really do, but my mouth has other plans. “Jesusfuckingchristthathurtsofuckingbad.”
“I’m sorry—come again?”
“Are you done?” I ask, my chest heaving, and my body filling with heat.
Jasper wiggles a needle in my face. “Time to stitch. Focus on something else.”
As he slides the needle into my flesh, I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes the pain worse. I’m suddenly in the lake again, the zombie’s fingernails digging into me. My eyes snap open, and I involuntarily yank my leg away. The sharp sting intensifies as the needle plunges deeper.
“Kota,” Jasper scolds, gently guiding my leg back in place.
I grit my teeth. “Sorry.”
Heart racing, I force my focus somewhere else. Anywhere else. I look around the candlelit room. My eyes land on a framed dragon-shaped collage on the top of his bedside table. The art is small, and the paper used is colorful. When I make out a few words, nodes of cherry, it dawns on me.
“Is that dragon made out of wine bottle labels, too?”
“What’d you mean, too?”
“As in, also.”
“You’re cute.” Before my cheeks have a chance to turn rosy, Jasper sews two pieces of flesh together. The pain is searing hot, and it takes everything in me not to slap his hand away.
Why do things have to get worse before they get better?
“You made that art piece in my room.” I wince. “The framed collage. Gah. Made out of wine labels. Fuck. Right?” Jasper ignores my eyes. He couldn’t possibly be embarrassed. But the look on his face . . . Through gritted teeth, I say, “It’s beautiful.”
Jasper wipes the needle off with rubbing alcohol. “There. You’ll be healed up in no time.”
The stitches are clean, the skin red and puffy. While my leg may not be a work of art, it sure as hell looks twenty times better than it did ten minutes ago.
As Jasper packs up the first aid kit, I say, “So. You can clearly clean a wound. Can you clean a fish?”
HEAR ME OUT: I’VE NEVER been to a joint fancier than Olive Garden. But I swear to God, this fish could be plated in a Michelin-Star restaurant, and critics would be none the wiser.
Could be the Old Bay seasoning. Could be that it tastes better tipsy. I’ve got a hunch, though, that the exquisite flavor has nothing to do with the fish and everything to do with me. I fought tooth and nail for this food. I won.
Bass Jack is the best thing I’ve ever eaten. And he washes down good with wine.
Jasper and I eat it simply: with our fingers on a rock next to the creek in his yard.
He started a small fire for us to roast it, and I found a stick.
The flames crackle, sending billows of smoke floating above us.
I lick my greasy fingers clean and wipe them on my jeans.
We sit in silence, staring at the rippling water and listening to the sounds of nature.
As my head starts to nod forward, I yank it up and slap myself in the cheek.
“What the hell was that for?” Jasper asks.
“Sleepy,” I say. “Old trick West taught me—my brother.” I turn to Jasper and force a smile. “And I can’t fall asleep before I tell you something.”
Jasper tilts his head to the side. “Hmm?”
“I—I’m leaving.”
Silence lingers as Jasper soaks up my stuttered words. There’s a flash of confusion in his brown eyes, but it’s gone as soon as it comes. I twiddle my fingers, staring absently at a loose thread on my rolled-up pants.
Jasper’s quiet voice shakes me out of my thoughts. “Where are you going?”
“We ran into someone outside the Split. No, not just someone—Andrew. Greeley’s backdoor neighbor.”
“He still rocking swim trunks?”
For once, I don’t smile at Jasper’s coy remark. “He was. He . . . didn’t make it.”
And it was my fault.
Jasper asks, “Did Gree have something to do with that?”
I nod. “So did I.” I search Jasper’s eyes, but I don’t see the judgment I expect to find.
I see pity. Pity, perhaps, because I’ve finally bent to the new world.
I’m no longer the same meek Kota who was kidnapped and brought to Macoby.
“And so his place is empty. Greeley’s keeping watch tonight, since it’s vacant, and I’m here.
But tomorrow, I plan to make Andrew’s house my home. ”
“You don’t want to live here,” he says. Not a question.
“I want to live stay in Macoby.”
“But not here.”
“I’ve overstayed my welcome,” I add, unsure what he wants me to say. My mouth is a fountain, and I keep going. “You took me in as a favor to Chief. You fought for this place—and I’ve just barged in like it’s mine. But it’s never been mine.”
You’ve never been mine.
“What if I . . .” Jasper trails off. The rhythmic chirps of crickets have never been so loud in my ears.
What if I what? What if I wanted you to stay?
I stay silent, yearning for him to open his mouth. To say what I desperately want to hear. But he just shakes his head, his brown curls tumbling over his forehead.
Finally, he clears his throat. “Okay. When are you leaving?”
That’s it? That’s all I get? Fine.
“In the morning.”
I can’t bring myself to turn down one last night with Jasper—even if he won’t admit he wants me to stay. I crack my knuckles then yank on my thumb, all but pulling it out of its socket.
Jasper breaks the tension. He says, “I’ll help you pack,” and we both laugh.
Quickly, my smile falters. “I only have two things, but they’re on the other side of the Split.”
Bunny and Grandma.
“We’ll get them back.” Jasper lands a gentle hand on my knee.
I gape at both his touch and his words.
“Are you—are you comforting me?”
“I guess I am.”
Jasper and I sit together, his hand on my leg, staring at the moon shimmering behind the tall trees, until I finally nod off.
At some point in the night, I wake up in bed. Much as I’d like to stay awake, to soak up the stone surroundings and memorize the collage on the wall, my eyes can’t stay open. I blow out the flickering candle on my bedside table and fall asleep in Jasper’s house, for the last time.