Page 37 of 10 Things I Hate About Zombies

‘Well, Ainsley brought the whimsy,’ admitted Zoey. ‘I just brought the boyf— the guy with the truck.’

She flushed, hoping that he hadn’t caught her blunder. She’d course-corrected quickly enough, hadn’t she?

‘The guy with the truck, huh?’ Nick stepped back, regarding her with dark, amused eyes. Zoey felt electric. ‘Is that who I am in your phone?’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Zoey, putting her hands on her hips. ‘I’d never dehumanise you like that. You’re under Mushroom Guy, obviously.’

‘That’s Mister Mushroom Guy, thank you,’ Nick teased.

‘You’ll have to work for the honorific,’ she said archly, although she could hear the humour in her own voice. A humour that hid her mortification.

Sure, she’d said guy with the truck, but she’d come so close to saying boyfriend. But how? They’d only been out a couple of times, and even then mostly under the guise of work. Which was the whole problem, really. All this working together and spending time with friends together was confusing things. She felt like … she knew him. But did she? Could she? Could she ever truly know anyone? She’d thought she’d known Kit, and look at how that had turned out.

Zoey forced her heart back into its little cage. No, not cage. Life preserver. Although immediately said heart jumped back out again, although this time from surprise.

For a group of twenty-somethings had rounded the corner and was lurching down the other side of the street, arms out and groaning in unison. One, clad in a puffer vest and oversized glasses, was bumping along on an electric skateboard with a single, central wheel. Wasn’t that the guy who’d taken over Nestor’s desk at the coworking space after the HR incident that Sascha had delightedly told Zoey about as she’d placed an order for a Drama Banana smoothie, extra cinnamon? Biting. There’d been biting. Perhaps Zoey hadn’t been so far off with her whole serial-killer assessment.

‘The youth these days,’ said Nick. He leaned forward, adding in a whisper, ‘Were we that weird?’

‘Ah, it’s probably just an improv group on their way to Hawthorne.’ Zoey did not want to go on the record saying that yes indeed, she had been that weird. Was any of this lot wearing home-made velour flares or carrying a magpie puppet that quoted Auden? Unlikely. ‘There are like ten comedy theatres down there.’

‘Yes, and?’ said Nick, shooting her a grin.

Zoey gave him a shove. ‘Yes, and we are absolutely not doing improv. Especially not after the slam-poetry thing.’

‘Well, then, how about dinner at my place? I’ll have you back in time for work tomorrow. Promise.’

Zoey bit her lip. That … actually sounded lovely. She was curious to see his mushroom greenhouses and his no-doubt extensive library and, perhaps, his bedroom. Just so long as he wasn’t a doomsday prepper. She wasn’t sure she could handle that.

‘Sure, assuming brains aren’t on the menu,’ she said, as the group shuffled past, grunting and moaning.

‘Figuratively only,’ he promised, watching them go with a furrowed brow. ‘Because I’m such a good conversationalist.’

‘Well then, sold.’ She glanced down at her grass-stained jeans. ‘Do you mind if I’m a bit sweaty and covered in dirt?’

Nick leaned on a Ro-mayor-O poster. ‘Mind? What more could a guy want?’

11

Zoey

‘Wow, this is way out,’ said Zoey, as the truck roared down the 205, heading over the Columbia River with its forested banks and through the sprawling expanse of Mill Plain. Alice was on Zoey’s lap with her head out the window, her tongue lolling in joy as she drank in all the sniffs and scents of the countryside.

‘Let me guess: you don’t head this side of the river much.’

‘I’ve been to Seattle,’ said Zoey, folding her arms in indignation.

‘Ah yes, Seattle, just a three-hour jaunt up the road.’

‘I’m not a snob,’ protested Zoey. ‘I’m not one of those people who bang on about Bridge and Tunnel people.’

‘I’d hope not, because this is Portland, not New York City.’ Nick pulled off the interstate and headed down a dusty stretch of narrow highway. ‘Actually, my sisters live in Seattle. They’re talking about coming down for a visit in a couple of weeks.’

Nick had mentioned his sisters before: there was one who was a lawyer and one who was chronically undecided career-wise. He spoke warmly of them, and Zoey got the sense that he was close with his family. That he was close with everyone, really. Which seemed odd, given that he lived by himself on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Well, not nowhere. In the middle of lots of trees.

Cars flashed their lights in greeting as Nick trundled down the highway, and he did the index-finger steering-wheel wave.

This wasn’t so bad, thought Zoey. Maybe there was something to be said for the countryside. No wait, that hand-painted sign up on a half-uprooted tree stump that, to paraphrase in an extremely euphemistic manner, warned that city ways weren’t welcome here, was saying plenty. Ainsley definitely hadn’t been consulted on this particular sign.