Chapter 2

Four weeks pass quickly,and I go through most of them in an exhausted daze.

I've never worked so hard in my life.

There are only three other women in the spare room right now—two are youngish like me and one, Paula, is in her sixties—and all of us have assigned chores. Running the farm takes a lot of work, so it makes sense we'd be expected to help out.

Paula has bad knees, so she mostly does mending and kitchen work she can do sitting down. But the rest of us help with raking leaves, feeding the chickens and pigs, and cooking and laundry.

I do know how to cook. Grandpa was a traditional type, so I did the cooking and cleaning while he did all the harder, rougher tasks. But my previous experience with chores does me little good here. Grandpa and I ate only processed foods—either canned or dried for long-term storage—and we had the solar generator for power to help with dishwashing and laundry. Everything at the Carlsons' farm is done by hand, so I have to learn it all from scratch.

The other girls have been here longer, so they know what they're doing. One girl, Laura, was actually born and raised a few miles away, but her parents died from some sort of viral infection two years ago. She, Nicky, and Paula go about their daily tasks easily and quickly, leaving plenty of time for rest and recreation.

I have to work all day long to get my chores done.

Greta is always kind and helpful, but she has certain expectations about speed and performance, and I almost never meet them. More than once, I'm forced to redo a job because I don't accomplish it well enough the first time.

Even when I'm dead on my feet, I never utter a word of complaint or protest. If this is the only way I can survive, I'll attempt any work put before me.

Everyone is nice to me. The meals are better than anything I can remember, and my bed is comfortable. I don't like using the outhouse. In fact, it's incredibly gross. But overall I'm safe and taken care of, which is not a small thing in the world after Impact.

And it's not these people's fault that I'm not used to doing hard work.

Grandpa never made me get dirty or sweaty. He'd tease me and say I was too pretty for hard work. My grief for him is still raw, but occasionally I can't help but wish he expected just a little more out of me.

But it's not his fault. It's mine. I could have learned how to use a rake or a hammer if I'd pushed back against his gender views even slightly.

I didn't. I accepted my cushy situation just like I accepted getting anything I asked for as a kid. So now life has ended up a lot harder for me than it had to be.

So almost a month goes by before I can even begin to adjust to my new position, and I try not to think too deeply about whether my future will consist of nothing more than day after day of backbreaking work.

I used to daydream about being a movie star or marrying a handsome billionaire. About traveling all over the world and living a life of luxury. About being loved and adored and envied by everyone I encounter.

I haven't fantasized about anything like that since Impact. It's no longer even dream material. My only daydreams now are safety and security and to maybe one day be able to have an afternoon to read again.

Not that I have books any longer. Grandpa's collection is lost to me along with him and everything else we used to have.

This is what I have now, and it's not likely to change anytime soon.

That's what I believe and keep telling myself, and I have no reason to think differently until a Saturday exactly four weeks since Jimmy brought me to the Carlsons'.

Sundays are their real rest days, but even Saturdays tend to be lighter in work than the weekdays. Most of the people in this neighborhood get together for big meals on the weekends and talk and sing and share news and generally have a good time.

I've been looking forward to today, hoping it will grant me a bit of a reprieve, and I'm utterly thrilled when—after breakfast when Greta hands out chores for the day—she asks if I'd mind helping her bake bread.

She makes bread from scratch, and naturally I've never done it before this month. But I picked it up quickly, and it's one thing I actually enjoy. Kneading and pulling and pounding out the dough. Letting it rise. Forming it into loaves. Sliding them into the oven. Waiting for them—like magic—to turn into warm, bready goodness.

I've rarely done anything so satisfying.

Plus baking bread always happens on a clear timeline. It will get done in the morning, leaving the afternoon for me to rest.

So I'm happy as I go to wash breakfast dishes with Paula. Genuinely excited about the day.

But then Laura tells Greta that she has a bad headache this morning and asks if it's okay if she trades her chore for breadmaking.

Her chore is laundry, which is the absolute worst.

Greta tells Laura that the trade is up to me, so Laura comes over with wide blue eyes and trembling lips to ask if I would please trade breadmaking for laundry because she feels so bad.

I don't entirely believe her story of the headache. Even after only four weeks, it's not difficult to recognize that Laura is someone who is in the habit of maneuvering events for her benefit. Plus, since I first arrived, I've sensed bad vibes from her in my direction. As if her sweetness is just an act and she secretly doesn't like me.

In fact, I distinctly remember a cold look from her on the very first evening when Jimmy and I came in to dinner from outside.

I've never given her any reason not to like me. Maybe she's just one of those girls who loves drama and is always in search of a rival. I remember them well from back when I was in school.

So I'm not convinced of her headache and suspect she just wants to get out of doing the worst chore.

But I'm new here. I'm living on charity. And she's established—almost part of the family.

I can hear Grandpa's advice sounding in my head. Always stay on people's good side if you need them. A pretty girl like me can't fight for what I need, so instead, I need to convince people to give it to me willingly.

I have no power here. None at all. And the last thing I need is an enemy.

So I make myself smile. "Sure. I'm happy to trade. I'm sorry you have a headache."

Laura thanks me profusely with that cloak of false sweetness that grates on me so painfully I force myself not to cringe.

Then she leans over and whispers in a confidential tone that's completely inappropriate to the nature of our relationship. "I really appreciate it. Jimmy and I will probably take a walk this afternoon, so I want to be feeling better for that."

She waits for a reaction from me, but I have no idea how she thinks I should respond.

I don't care if she's going to take a walk with Jimmy. I didn't realize they were a thing—and I can't help but think he could probably do better—but he's barely been on the periphery of my life since the first night I arrived here, so it's of no concern to me.

Laura is very pretty—tall and slim with red-brown hair and striking blue eyes. I always feel kind of short, dumpy, and washed-out next to her. So Jimmy probably likes how she looks.

I blink and say, "Okay. I hope your head feels better before then."

"I'm sure it will. I'd hate to disappoint him."

I really don't like her, but I shake it off. Petty grievances can't matter to me anymore. I have much more important things to focus on.

Like figuring out life in this new world without Grandpa.

And now I'm stuck with laundry today, and that's the absolute worst.

* * *

It's late in the afternoon and everyone else has finished their chores, but I'm still hunched over a large tub, scrubbing shirts and underwear against the washboard.

I'll be the first to admit I've been spoiled. As a child with pale blond hair and round, rosy cheeks, I looked and was often treated like a doll. Grandpa always called me "Chloe, doll," and that's how I was viewed. Even after Impact, his ingenuity and traditional gender views saved me from any manual labor. I'm not strong. I'm not tough. I'm not skilled at anything except smiling and acting nice. But still…

I'm trying to do the job I was given without complaining even if it means they're starting to eat dinner while I'm not even close to done.

It's better than starving, and I've finally figured out how to rub the fabric against the washboard without scraping my knuckles and getting blood everywhere.

Because I'm focused so intently on my work, I gasp when someone suddenly sits down on the bench beside me. I blink a few times before I process that it's Jimmy.

I haven't talked to him since he saved my life that first day. He's been around on and off these past weeks, but he never speaks to me.

"Hi," I say since he's sitting there on the edge of the bench, staring at me mutely.

"Hi." His hair and beard need trimming even more than they did before. His eyes are a very dark brown. He's got a prominent scar that slashes down his forehead and into his left eyebrow. He shifts slightly in his seat.

I drop my eyes back to the laundry, awkward and confused. I'm working on a man's white T-shirt, which was covered with dirt and sweat. "Did you need something?" I ask him, praying he's not here to give me any more work.

Naturally, I'm grateful for these people housing and feeding me, but at this rate I'll be up at midnight trying to finish my chores.

He leans forward, taking the washboard and wet shirt from my hands, then starts cleaning it himself.

"Was I doing it wrong?" My voice wobbles slightly since I actually thought I was doing good for once. It took me a long time to get used to this new way of washing clothes, but today I finally got the hang of it.

"No." He sounds surprised and glances up to search my face. "Thought you could use a break."

"Oh. Thank you."

I take a few deep breaths and smooth back several loose strands of hair that have escaped my ponytail. I'm sure my cheeks are red. I'm definitely sweating.

He works the shirt with quick efficiency while I sit and watch him. I feel like one of us should say something, but I have no idea what to talk about with this man.

He's big and strong and capable and quiet. He's got to be in his thirties. He has a big family and a lot of friends. I thought he went on a walk with Laura this afternoon. What the hell is he doing sitting here with me?

Maybe he feels sorry for me because I have nothing and no one. The thought makes my spine stiffen.

When he's finished with the shirt, I take it to rinse and stop him before he pulls out a pair of boxers. "I don't mind doing them," I tell him. "It's my job."

He looks for a moment like he'll object but then changes his mind. He sits back. Adjusts his position. Clears his throat.

I give him a curious look as I start scrubbing the boxers on the washboard.

It's kind of gross to launder a man's underwear like this. I don't even know who these belong to.

Jimmy clears his throat again.

"Are you getting a cold?" I ask him, hoping it's not too contagious. If I get sick, I'll have a hard time getting my work done.

"No."

"Oh. Okay." My back is killing me from leaning over for so long. Surely there's a more comfortable position to do this work. I scoot closer to the edge of the bench and try not to hunch my shoulders.

"I got a place of my own," Jimmy blurts out.

I'm surprised by the out-of-context announcement, but at least he's making conversation. It's better than the awkward silence. "Do you? I figured you must since I don't see you here at the farm very much."

"Yeah. It was my fishing cabin back before Impact. So the property has a good pond."

"Are there still fish?"

"Yep." He's looking between my face and the washtub. "Not as many as before but still got some. It's in the woods, and the wildlife is finally startin' to come back. So I can do some hunting. Really helps in the winter."

"I bet." It must be nice to have both fish and wild game available for food. Grandpa and I spent years eating nothing but stored or scavenged canned and dried food from the old world with only the occasional fish or rabbit when he got lucky. "Sounds like a good situation."

"It's pretty good. Also got chickens and pigs. And I cleared out space for a big garden."

"That was smart. So I guess you're in pretty good shape for food." I make sure to sound polite and interested although I'm honestly a little annoyed by his bragging.

Surely he knows I have nothing. Why the hell would he go on and on about how good he has it when I'm relying purely on charity?

Maybe he's one of those guys who gets an ego boost from other people hearing about how great he is. He didn't seem like that before, but I don't genuinely know the man at all.

"Yeah. Also get milk from the Hurleys. My folks provide everyone round here with oats and flour. Get some extra produce when I need it from the Santiagos and the Clearys. So got plenty. More than I need." He's staring at me, breathing in long, slow inhales and exhales.

I frown, wondering what he's expecting me to say. "That's great for you."

After a minute, he clears his throat again and looks away. "The cabin's in good shape. Got a decent bedroom plus a smaller extra room. Had to build an outhouse after Impact, but I made a covered walkway so it's not too bad going out in bad weather."

Goodness, why on earth is he going on and on about this? "Oh, that must work nicely."

"It does."

He seems to be waiting for me to say something, but I'm as clueless as ever. Instead of replying, I give him my best smile, and he looks almost surprised, then kind of smiles back before he stares down at the pile of laundry.

We're both silent for a minute before he mutters, "I do all the outdoor chores. The garden and the animals and fishin' and huntin' and work on the yard and the house."

"That must be a lot to do by yourself."

"I can manage. But don't have much time left for the inside stuff. Cookin' and cleanin' and laundry and stuff."

"Well, that's understandable. It would be nearly impossible for you to do everything." Just doing the laundry is taking me all day. How could he possibly do all the chores for an entire household all on his own? "I'm sure no one blames you for that."

"No. No, they don't." He clears his throat yet again.

I want to ask him again about having a cold. It sure sounds like he's got something wrong with his throat. I bite back the inquiry, however, since he shrugged it off before.

He's doing that staring and waiting again. I'm so confused by his behavior I focus back on the washboard. I've got the boxers done now, so I rinse and wring them out.

I'm on the last basket. All the other clothes are already hanging on the lines strung up and down the big sun porch where I've been working. They never hang the laundry up outside at this time of year.

"Be good to have someone to help," Jimmy finally mutters.

"Well, yeah. You could definitely use some help. Easier to split the chores." I'm still smiling at him kindly, but I'm ready for this awkward conversation to be over.

He takes a weird, raspy breath. "Kinda lonely sometimes too."

"Yes. It must be. But it's good you have so much family and friends around." I glance back to the large living room where everyone else is mingling.

Imagine complaining about being lonely when you have so many people in your community.

I only had Grandpa, and now he's gone.

He shifts restlessly. "Been lookin' for someone."

I glance over because he sounds different. More mumbly than ever. He's not even looking at me.

"A woman," he adds, darting me a quick look.

"Oh. Yeah. That makes sense." I take out my impatience on another dirty shirt and my washboard. Why won't the man just shut up? If he wants to ask Laura to couple up with him, he can do it. He doesn't have to hash it all out with me first.

He seems kind of impatient too. Like he's expecting something from me and I'm not providing it. "So thought… thought I'd ask… you."

I stop scrubbing and stare at him. This is getting ridiculous. I finally say bluntly, "Ask me what?"

He frowns, almost grumpy. "Ask if you wanna be my woman."

Shock. That's my initial reaction. My eyes widen, and my mouth falls open.

His frown deepens. "You surprised?"

"Yes, I'm surprised," I choke out. "You're asking if I want to be your woman?"

"Course. Why the hell else would I be ramblin' on about all this?"

"I didn't know. You're… you're asking me?"

"Sure. Not a lot of single women around. Been watchin' you."

My surprise is finally breaking, and my chest instead swells with excitement.

He's asking me. Offering me a home and a place in the world and food and shelter and safety that I have absolutely no other way of obtaining.

"So you and Laura aren't… aren't…" I'm not sure what the right word is here. It used to be dating, but no one seems to date anymore. They couple up. Fuck. Live together. But they don't date.

"No." He briefly makes a face before he settles his features into a frown. "No, why would you think we were together?"

"I… I don't know. Because…" I start to say it's because Laura implied it, but I don't bother. It doesn't matter anymore.

"We're not. Never have been."

"Okay. But I don't know how to do most of those chores."

He shrugs. "You can learn. You're already doin' good." He nods down toward the laundry. "You're a hard worker. You'll be fine."

I moisten my dry lips and turn toward him more fully. "You're serious?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course I am." He's meeting my eyes for real now. Seems sincere. "I need help. It's too much to do on my own. And be nice to have some company."

I want to hug myself. Barely manage to keep my voice calm and mild. "I would… I would like to try. But I honestly don't have much experience with this kind of work. I'd hate if you were disappointed."

He shrugs, his expression relaxing. "Don't have unrealistic expectations. We can figure it out."

My mind is whirling so much it takes a minute for me to think through the next logical question. "So… just so I understand. You're looking for… for a partner?"

He nods and glances away. "Yeah. That's right. A partner."

"So you and I would…" The words get trapped in my throat.

He appears equally embarrassed. His cheeks are slightly flushed. "We don't have to do anythin'… anythin' in the bedroom right away. I mean, we can get to know each other and see how it goes. But I wanna partner. Not a maid."

My cheeks burn, and I twist my hands together to keep them from shaking. This is like a dream. Like a miracle.

I'd be willing to be a maid if that was what he needed—if it meant I was sheltered and provided for—but I'd rather be someone's partner. Closer to an equal.

Jimmy might be kind of gruff and grumpy, but he's not mean. I know it for sure. He's not even bad-looking. He just needs some better grooming.

And being his partner is a better option than I believed was possible for me.

It might actually be the best thing that's ever happened in the twenty-three years I've been alive.

"Okay," I manage to say as I swallow over my growing excitement. "Okay. That would work fine with me. I'll do it. Thanks for asking."

So that's apparently settled. In one weird conversation over the laundry tub.

I'm going to be Jimmy's woman.

I suppose that means he'll be my man.

* * *

Laura is pissed.

I mean, she's pissed.

Not that she says so. That evening she acts all sweet and excited about my change in circumstance, but I know she doesn't mean it.

She wanted it to be her.

I can hardly blame her for being disappointed. If I'm reading this small community correctly, Jimmy is the only single man with stability and his own home. There are several other strays like me—men of various ages who live and work on the farms. One of them even made a move on me the third day I arrived, but I told him, no, thank you and avoided him after that.

Laura is not going to want to pair up with someone without his own home and means of providing for her, so she had her sights set on Jimmy.

I can almost—almost—sympathize. It doesn't take too much mental stretching to imagine how she must feel. She's been here for years and known these people since childhood. She clearly had hopes where Jimmy was concerned and probably poured a lot of herself into those dreams. Then I show up and less than a month later get what she was wanting.

Or at least something of what she wanted.

She was probably daydreaming about romance and marriage with him. Obviously that's not what he's offering me. Ours will be a practical arrangement that benefits both of us.

I have absolutely no fantasies about romance. It hasn't factored into any of my future plans for years.

Years.

So I feel just a little bit bad for Laura even as I'm annoyed by her backhanded comments, and I don't let myself get angry.

I can't get angry—at least I can't show it. My position is far too tenuous here.

From this point on, my primary goals are as follows. Make Jimmy happy to the best of my ability. Secure a safe and mostly comfortable space for myself in the world. And not get on anyone's bad side who might be in the position to affect my first two goals.

That includes Laura. So I'm nice to her that evening and pretend I believe her congratulations are genuine.

Jimmy insists I come in and eat dinner with everyone else, but afterward I have to finish the laundry. He tries to help, but I don't let him. It's my job. Not his. And accepting assistance on one of my chores is not a good start to our relationship. So while the rest of the group hangs out after dinner—the Carlsons, those who live and work on the farm, and a bunch of their neighbors—I leave to finish doing the laundry on the sun porch.

The clothes I hung up earlier this afternoon are almost dry from the heat of the big central fireplace in the house, but the shirts and underwear from before dinner are still wet, and half a basket hasn't even been washed yet.

I'm so tired when I'm finally done that I can barely keep my eyes open. I should join the others now and smile and laugh and make small talk, but all my mental energy has drained away with the fatigue of my body. And for some reason, the cozy, cheerful scene makes me feel lonely.

Like I'm not a part of it and never really will be.

Despite my good news today—better news than I could ever have imagined for myself—the loneliness makes me want to cry.

I lost my parents. My school friends. Grandpa. And my best hope for myself now is living with a strange, grumpy man and trying to please him.

Since I'm on the verge of tears, I can't risk hanging out with the others. I stop by the living room to let Greta know I've finished the laundry, to thank her for dinner, and to say good night to the rest of the people gathered there.

Jimmy jumps up as soon as I make an appearance, and he walks down the hall with me when I head toward my bedroom.

I have no idea why he's here. He was comfortable in there. He was playing an old guitar, and they'd started to sing some old country songs. He was probably enjoying it.

But he walks with me silently until I reach the bedroom door.

"Okay," I say, peeking up at him and trying to figure out what the sober frown on his face might mean. Surely he's not having second thoughts just because I'm not social enough today. "I'm sorry I'm not hanging out with everyone tonight. Normally I will."

"You feelin' okay?" He's peering at me with those dark brown eyes like he's looking for clues on my face.

"Yeah. I'm really just tired. I'm glad about your offer. Thank you for… for thinking of me."

"Course." His frown deepens. "You feel weird about it? 'Cause we don't have to do anythin' right aw?—"

"No, no! I'm not weird about it at all. I'm excited. I'll try to do a good job."

"Okay then." He's still frowning, and I finally give up trying to figure out what he's thinking.

"Okay." I gulp and drop my head, wishing my hair was loose so it would cover my face. But it's pulled back in the high ponytail I always wear. "Good night."

"Good night, Chloe."

I stand there for another minute since it feels like something else should happen. Nothing does, so I quietly open the door, step inside, and smile at him once more before I close the door in his face.

I let out a breath and try to shake off the confusing, tense interaction. Then I realize I'm not alone in the room.

Paula retired even earlier than me. She's propped up on the pillows on her bed and reading a book. From the worn leather cover, I assume it's a Bible.

"I'm sorry," I say automatically although I have nothing to be sorry for. "I didn't realize you were here. I won't disturb you."

"Don't worry about it," she says with a smile. She's got steel-gray hair cut short and a plain, pleasant face. "You're not disturbing me, and it's your room as much as mine."

"Yeah. I guess so. I still don't want to bother you if you're reading."

"I can read through any distraction. Someone as sweet and quiet as you won't bother me at all."

It strikes me as funny that she calls me sweet and quiet. I don't think of myself like that in any way. My mind is always working, and only occasionally would my thoughts be considered agreeable.

But I learned from my parents that life is easier when you behave, and I learned from Grandpa to always be smart when you're dependent on others. To butter them up and play nice.

These people don't have to know who I really am. They only need to like me and not view me as an annoyance or a burden.

As I pour water into the basin to wash up and brush my teeth before bed, Paula says, "So I heard the big news."

"Oh. Yeah." I blush but hide it by rubbing a wet washcloth over my face.

"Are you excited?"

"Yeah. I am. It's a good thing. It's just… unexpected."

"Eh, I've caught him staring at you a bunch of times. Think he was interested from the beginning."

If anything, my cheeks burn even hotter. "Really?"

"Yes. That's my take anyway. Plus things happen faster now than they used to. People don't have time to play around and hem and haw and romanticize and waste months and years before they commit. And Jimmy's been on his own a few years now. Ever since his wife died."

"He had a wife?" I lower my washcloth and turn around to face her.

"Yeah, he did. She died like three or four years ago. They got married right out of high school, and I think they did pretty well together. They didn't think she could get pregnant, but she finally did. But the baby came way too early, and then she and the baby both died."

"Oh." My chest clenches. That must have been so hard for him. "That's terrible."

"I'm sure it was. I wasn't around here then, but that's what I've heard about him. He seems like a decent guy. You could do a lot worse."

"I know. I'm glad about it. Kind of nervous since I've never done anything like it before, but still glad."

"That's understandable. Anyone would feel the same way." She pauses as if second-guessing herself, then decides to go ahead. "Have you had a boyfriend before?"

I shake my head. "I was fourteen at Impact, and then my grandfather and I lived all by ourselves in the middle of the woods. I mean, I guess there was a guy in my class I liked when I was fourteen. We went to the movies once and we'd text each other. But we never even kissed."

Paula's face is sympathetic. "You'll do fine. Jimmy's not a bad man. He's not going to hurt you."

"I didn't ever think he would. I just want to make sure… make sure he's happy with me."

With a laugh, Paula says, "I wouldn't get too uptight about it if I were you. Most men really aren't all that complicated."

I frown. "What do you mean?" As far as I'm concerned, men as a whole are unknowable, mysterious creatures. I have almost no experience of my own to draw on here.

"I don't think it will be too hard to make him happy. Don't waste your time on trivial, superficial things that aren't going to matter to him. You don't need to polish the silver or scrub the floor every day. You don't need to set the table real fancy or put on a big show. Just make sure he eats good and the house feels pleasant and peaceful. Listen to him when he has something to say. You're exceptionally pretty, so it shouldn't be hard for you to give him something nice to look at. And blow jobs. A lot of them."

I've been paying close attention because her advice feels both helpful and practical. But at the last item, my eyes grow very wide.

She chuckles at my expression. "I don't think Jimmy is the kind of man to get pushy in bed or out of it. I could be wrong, of course, so do remember you don't have to let yourself get shoved around or bullied into doing what you don't want to do. But I'm telling you—blow jobs are a really easy way to make your man happy."

I giggle. I can't help it. I'm embarrassed but also grateful for her encouragement.

I've never given a blow job before. I've never even kissed a man. But if Paula is right and it's an easy way to make Jimmy happy, there's no reason in the world I shouldn't try.