Page 59 of 10 Things I Hate About Zombies

Ainsley snorted. ‘I have my own genie to text, thank you.’

‘Hang on. You don’t mean …’

Ainsley was diffident. ‘We’re just talking. And we have a cheese-and-wine date in her new Pearl apartment.’

‘How did she score that place? No roommates, right?’

‘Apparently Wall of Knobs licensed a song to Spirit Airlines. For their safety video. You know that one with the lyric “Put on your life jacket”?’

Zoey did indeed: like all of their songs, it had only the one lyric. The titular one.

Ainsley leaned back on a crocheted cushion. ‘Anyway, she has a retirement account now and everything.’

‘Damn, go Celeste. And go you. Assuming that getting back together is what you want.’ Zoey cocked her head. ‘Is it?’

She wasn’t sure how she wanted Ainsley to answer. Yes, she wanted Ainsley to be happy, whatever path that took. But a small part of her couldn’t help but take it as … a betrayal. Ainsley and Zoey had been best friends for years. What would she do if Ainsley moved on? What did it mean if Ainsley did?

She took a deep breath, thinking of what Nick had said about not relying on just one person, but on a community of people. And she had a community, didn’t she? She had Nick, and her roommates, and Terriffany, and Kenard at Punk Broc, and even her new friends Reba and Gracie.

Zoey chugged the rest of her wine – which was quite the dramatic gesture given how ghastly it was. ‘I think I know what I need to do to make it up to Nick.’

‘Punk Broc, baby!’ shouted Kenard, as he often did, punctuating the refrain with a whack of the van horn. Zoey had wondered whether it was a tic, or whether he was just very enthusiastic about the punk-rock rehabilitation group he ran. Not that it mattered, really: the outcome was the same.

Zoey was in the front passenger seat of the Punk Broc van, praying that in the event of an accident, the three diaper pins stitching her seatbelt together held. Behind her were five punks of varying ages and mohawkiness, although all jangled with leather and metal studs (both in their clothing and in their skin). And behind the Punk Broc van was a vibrant VW Kombi that was positively vibrating with Grateful Dead jams. And weed smoke. Zoey was quite surprised that Reba could see to drive. But less surprised that Ainsley and Celeste had chosen that particular ride.

‘I’m proud of you for putting it all on the line for love.’ Kenard waved to let a Mercedes with the number plate LAW DIVA zipper-merge. ‘Helping others is the way to go. And my punks here are happy to be a part of it. Not to mention that a couple of these guys are into mushies, and seeing a real-life, functioning farm is fuckin’ great for morale. You can see it, you can do it, you know?’

Zoey nodded, trying to ignore the fact that one of the punks was drumming on the back of her seat.

‘And I know you’re busy with your shop, too.’

This was true. Since InkWell, The Smoothie Maven had skyrocketed up the Portland foodie destination rankings, and the morning queues were growing exponentially. There were people waiting outside for a solid half hour before opening.

But Zoey had timed this particular mission around the shop’s opening hours: they closed Saturday afternoon and had Sunday off, so she’d be back in time for the Monday-morning rush. Something which was vital given that Terriffany’s availability had shrunk since her pitch-session acceptance, and Zoey hadn’t had time to interview anyone to potentially replace her. It wasn’t Zoey’s fault that she wasn’t interested in franchising her store and tapping into the exponential growth plan that Terriffany had plotted out in Excel, was it?

As Kenard’s van pulled up at Nick’s farm, a wave of anxiety rolled through her stomach. She knew she’d handled the tattoo situation poorly, but her flight instinct had kicked in when Joaquin had come at her with that tattoo pen.

Nick had taken the whole thing in stride, but Zoey had spent that night – and the ones after it – trying to read in bed while glancing down at her bare wrist and wondering how things might have gone differently. It wasn’t the tattoo itself that scared her. It was the meaning behind it.

I like the idea of having you right here, always, he’d said.

But always was a long time. A time that Zoey wasn’t quite sure she could fathom – let alone commit to. And she’d made that very, very clear by running away.

Zoey picked at the safety pins on her seatbelt as she wondered if, for all her fear of others letting her down … she’d perhaps let Nick down.

He’d never say it, of course. He wasn’t the type to hold something over you or keep score. But she’d agreed to something and then walked it back at the last minute. Under all that affable cheer and damn smiliness, he surely felt disappointed.

Which was why she was here with two vans of helpers ready to help Nick figure out his fencing situation. Because he’d shown up for her over and over. And now it was her turn to repay the favour. No, not the favour, because Nick had made it very clear that it wasn’t about keeping score. It was her turn to be someone who could be relied upon.

Zoey hopped out to open the massive farm gates, waiting for both vehicles to pass through before she closed them.

‘Want to ride the rest of the way with us, babe?’ shouted Reba, winding down the Kombi’s window with a squeak. Clouds of greenish smoke spewed from the vehicle. ‘We make a grand old entrance.’

‘Save your lungs,’ called Gracie. ‘Go with the punks.’

Zoey shot her a grin and climbed back in with Kenard. The van trundled up the long driveway to the house, the punks headbanging along with every bump.

‘I haven’t moshed this hard since I saw The Adicts at the Olympic Auditorium in 1984,’ said Snarlin’ Carlin behind her, with sincere reverence. ‘Oof, my back. My lumbar’s never been the same since.’