Jamison

THE TRUCK RUNS OUT OF GAS AROUND Sarasota. We find a large, empty house to camp in for the night, then set out first thing in the morning.

There’s an extremely slim chance that Hickey and the others might run into us if we travel semi-parallel to them. Cara says if we can get to Tampa—about sixty more miles—without them finding us or another group catching up, there are plenty of other roads we can take.

Rocky Horror spends half a day trying to find another truck or van with enough gas, but to no avail, so we’re stuck walking. Every empty stretch of road where we can’t immediately run for cover is agony. Especially when they’re straight and flat so the search party could see us from a mile away.

But after two days and no further sign of them, we start to relax a bit. Maybe they really did give up. When we stop for the night on day three—twenty miles till Tampa—Andrew holds up two of the large plastic jugs tied to his pack.

“We should probably get some water to boil for the kids,” he says quietly. I nod, and once Cara points us in the direction of the closest body of water—a river about a half mile up the road into a residential area—we set off.

“Be honest,” Andrew tells me as the road dead-ends and we walk alone toward a dock leading out onto the giant river. “How bad do I stink?”

Honestly, I can smell him from where he stands two feet away from me, but I make a big show and take a whiff. “Like a four on the postapocalyptic scale.”

“Liar.”

“You don’t have to worry about your BO. I’m used to it by now.”

He gasps. “Used to it? Jamie, that’s the rudest thing you could ever say to me.”

“I’m pretty sure I could say ruder. Like you’re not very funny—”

“Well, that would be a lie, I’m delightfully irreverent.”

“You have no style or sense of fashion.” I’m setting him up for a joke I know he’s going to hit without a pause, and it’s nice to have this silly banter again. To be able to joke around and quote movies—movies I’ve never seen, of course, only heard him tell. But it feels normal, being on the road. And right now it’s just the two of us.

Andrew takes the cue. “I think that depends on—”

“No, no. That wasn’t a question.”

Andrew laughs loudly and drops the plastic water jugs, then he pulls me close and kisses me. I can’t remember the last time we kissed like this. Not just a peck on the cheek or a good-night kiss. An open-mouthed, I-missed-this-did-you-miss-this-too? kiss. My heart races, and though I can’t feel his, I know it’s matching pace with mine.

“You haven’t even seen that movie.” His voice is lower, as if he’s also overwhelmed by the way we’re holding each other.

“No, but I’ve heard you tell it so many times it’s seared into my brain now.”

“Yes, Meryl has that effect.” He kisses me again, his face lingering near mine. “Still used to my BO?”

“Yes.”

“But not into it?”

“That’s not what I said.” I drop my own water jugs on the dock and reach down to his legs, lifting him up against me. Our mouths open, our lips magnetic, breathing each other in. He wraps his legs around my waist, and I slide my hand up the back of his shirt.

How long has it been? Weeks. Weeks without a moment of privacy. Without worry and fear and death. But somehow all that’s gone because right now it’s just us, the soft lapping of water against the dock piling, and the cool breeze through trees thick with Spanish moss.

I lower us slowly onto the dock, but Andrew’s legs stay tight around me. I peel off his shirt, his skin glowing in the setting sun, and put my face against his solar plexus, breathing him in. Not an odor, just the natural way he smells. I want to pull him into my skin and carry him with me and feel him on me all the time. Now this we haven’t done in well over a month. Not since he was kicked off the boat and I was ready to leave the Keys then and there. With him.

ThisI absolutely missed.

He pulls me out of the thought, holding my face in his hands. He looks into my eyes, deadly serious.

“I want you to” is all he says. “I don’t care what we don’t have, I just . . . I want you.” He kisses me. “Need.”

My mouth goes dry and my heart races because . . . I want to, too. But I shake my head. “We can’t.”

“Yes.” He kisses me, talking between kisses as his hands dip below the waist of my jeans. Holding me tight. “We can. We’ll just. Go slow. It’s not ideal. But I’m sure historically people have made it work.”

“Andrew—”

“If it worked for Jake Gyllenhaal in Brokeback Mountain, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

I laugh against his lips. “It’s not that.” I pull away and look into his eyes. I want him to see that I want to. I mean, obviously he at least feels that because of where his hand is.

But I want him to understand.

“I . . . I don’t want it to be . . . quick.” I laugh. “I mean, let’s be real, it’s probably going to be.”

Andrew laughs, too. “Oh, totally. I’d say you’ve got about twenty seconds with me.”

“No, I mean . . . I don’t want it to be rushed. And this is rushed. We’ll be rushed if we do it now.”

“Who cares?” He laughs again.

“I do.” I give him a look of sincerity, trying to really make him understand how special he is to me. And how I want this moment between us to be special, too. Quick, fine, but not rushed. Not forced because we’re both horny and alone together for the first time in weeks and working through a rough patch. I need him to know I want to, but not now, like this.

He looks more hurt than understanding, and unlatches his legs from my hips. “You’re right. Sorry.” He grabs his shirt and starts to pull it back on.

“Well, I didn’t say you had to get dressed,” I say, trying to sound playful and putting my hands back to his sides where I know he likes. He squirms and grabs my wrists. He gives me a light kiss, but this time there’s no passion in it.

“They’re going to worry where we are. And, honestly, if they’re going to think we’re having sex, I’d feel even worse that we didn’t.”

“I don’t want you to feel bad.” I hold his hands, squeezing them gently. “I want you. I really do. I—”

“No, I know, I get it. I’m sorry, I don’t mean that I feel bad. I feel slightly wounded because it does feel like rejection even though you’re right. Does that make sense?”

“Not really?”

“I know. But I can’t help it.”

“I’m not rejecting you.” I hold his gaze. “You’re beautiful. And you’re my favorite person and I always want you. But I want our first time we have sex to be . . . you know.”

He sighs. “It’s not going to be. How can anything be perfect anymore? The world is dead and we’re on the fucking road again! There will never be a perfect moment. The two of us together—that’s what’s supposed to make it perfect. Nothing else.”

“I—I know that, and it will be, you’re right, I know. But there can be a better place and time when we don’t have to rush through it.”

“Like when we were in the Keys?”

I flinch. “I never said I didn’t want to.”

“I know you didn’t! I . . . ugh!” He puts his face in his hands and groans in frustration. “We can talk about this later, okay? Let’s get the water for the kids and go back before people start to worry.”

He grabs the water jugs and stands, walking to the edge of the dock and lying on his stomach to fill the jugs one by one. When I reach him with mine, he hands a full jug back to me and takes an empty one.

We fill them in silence, then walk back to the camp.

The next day Daphne is telling a couple of the kids the story of one of the romance novels she wrote called Late Bottle Vintage—a love story between a Portuguese port shipper and a sommelier in their fifties who try to create a successful port production company. It was her first book and, according to her, much tamer than the others. I’m walking next to Rocky Horror while the Kid uses my arm like a swing set.

Ahead of us, Andrew and Taylor are distracting a few of the orphans who are getting cranky about all the walking again. He and I haven’t talked about the moment of horniness I ruined by the river last night. Of course.

“I can’t believe I went from the pinnacle of postapocalyptic bachelorhood,” Rocky Horror says, “to being fucking Mary Poppins.” One of the younger orphans is asleep in his arms.

“Come on, RH. You love us.” I laugh as the Kid swings on my arm one last time and then runs to Daphne.

Rocky Horror grunts, like he doesn’t—but he does.

I lower my voice. “Can I ask you something?”

He takes the cue and slows his steps, letting the others get a few more feet ahead of us. I watch the Kid, waiting for him to notice I’m not next to him, but he keeps his eyes on the road, swinging his stuffed hippo by the arm.

“Sorry if you don’t want to hear this, but I feel like the others are too young, and I know Cara doesn’t want to talk about it. And Daphne’s wonderful, but I think she’s a little too optimistic and also I don’t know her that well. Honestly, it’s not like I know you all that well either, but you’re the only other openly queer person here. And, I mean, usually I could look it up myself, but it’s not like I can do that anymo—”

“Jamie, at the start of this, it felt like you had a question. I was getting big into the process of port making, so if you could focus back on that so I can finish listening to Daphne talk about this book of hers, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Sorry, right.” But just then the Kid sees that we’ve fallen behind and runs back to take my hand. Great, now I have to figure out how to say this so it’s child friendly. “I . . . before . . .” I look up at Daphne talking about port. “Okay, I never had port before. And I’m assuming you have.”

He scrunches up his face. “I mean, yeah. It’s fine.”

“No, RH, I mean, like, you’ve had port.” I open my eyes wide and look down at the Kid.

Rocky Horror’s confused face follows my gaze down to the Kid, and I’m about to give up when he scoffs and shakes his head. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“Jesus Christ,” the Kid repeats.

Rocky Horror snorts and glances down at the Kid. “Point taken. Okay, yes, I’ve enjoyed port in my many years of queer . . . sommelier-ing.”

“Well, Andrew and I were talking about trying it sometime, when we were back in the Keys.”

“Yeah.”

“But I just . . . I don’t know, I kept getting nervous and I wanted it to be the perfect time for us to try port.”

“Totally,” Rocky Horror says. “You have to have the right atmosphere and food pairings. I mean, port and Mexican food do not go well together.”

Now I’m confused, because I don’t know what Mexican food is supposed to be a euphemism for. I’ll try to figure it out through context clues. “Right, so I guess my main question is, is port . . . tasting, the first time you tried it, were you—”

He snorts again and it turns into a laugh. “You two fucking dummies are perfect for each other, you know that?”

“Fucking dummies,” the Kid says.

“Hey,” I say, giving his hand a gentle shake. “Don’t repeat what Rocky Horror says.”

“Was I nervous?” Rocky Horror continues. “Yes. I mean, a lot of that stemmed from some major fu—” His eyes drop down to the Kid again. “Effing gender dysphoria. But even after I started to get those things figured out, yeah, it’s anxiety inducing and sometimes scary. And sometimes that makes port even better, but that’s a lesson for another day. Look, you want to try port, right? Like you’ve thought it through on your own, you’re into it, you want to try it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Specifically with Andrew.”

I nod.

“Then the next time you two are alone, tell him. I mean, not right away—you can ask how his day went, and please get some privacy. And you can be nervous about it, but be nervous together. The point is, if you’re with someone you love or connect with, port tasting is almost always great. Like pizza. God, I’m hungry. And I would love a drink. Even port, the real stuff, which, like, port is not like pizza. Let’s kill the metaphors because I think I’m starting to confuse myself.”

“Yes, please. Thanks, RH.”

“You’re welcome. Now, excuse me, I need to regroup with the real port shippers and reclaim the last remaining shreds of my dignity.”

He walks a little closer to the group to continue to listen to Daphne while the Kid and I keep our own pace back here.

Rocky Horror is right, and so is Andrew. There is no real perfect time for us. I still don’t want to rush it, but I also don’t need to wait until we’re off the road and safe. Neither of us knows when we’ll ever be truly safe again.

“Hey,” I say to Andrew when we stop for the night. “We should do a supply run in town.” We’re just outside a small town called Laureldale, and while we have enough food right now, things could get light if we don’t look for more soon. Also, I want to talk to Andrew without anyone else nearby.

He nods and we let the others know.

“Look for some port while you’re there,” Rocky Horror says to me. It isn’t until he widens his eyes at me and grins that I get the joke and my cheeks flush.

No, we won’t be doing that in a store. But we can at least talk about it.

Andrew leads me to a small mom-and-pop market next to a shopping center, but not before I notice the “Bob’s Beds Mattress Emporium” next door.

Again I flush a bit, because that would be silly, even in the apocalypse. Maybe especially in the apocalypse.

Andrew heads for the canned food, but most of the chest-height shelf is empty. He takes what’s left without really reading the labels, putting them in his bag. There are Florida-themed knickknacks scattered across the floor and on a couple of shelves at the front of the store. A wooden turtle painted neon green and pink with the word Florida on its shell catches my eye, and I snatch it while Andrew is distracted. I’ll give it to him later. Just something for him to remember the good times we had in the Keys.

“I wanted to talk to you about last night,” I say, taking the next aisle over to check the dry goods packaging for pantry moths or holes chewed by rodents.

Andrew shakes his head. “You mean my horniness-induced temporary insanity? Don’t worry about it. I felt like a very unsexy dumbass last night, so I’m sorry.”

“Okay, but I just wanted to make sure you know . . .” I have no idea why I’m having this conversation over the top of a shelf. I walk around to him and take his hands. “I want to make sure you know how much I love you and that I very, very much want to do that. Very much with you.”

“Well, there’s a mattress emporium next door, did you see?”

My cheeks burn again but I can’t help but laugh. Andrew stands on his toes and kisses me.

“I love making you blush.”

And he’s very good at it.

We head back to the camp as fast as we can. As we turn the last corner a chill runs up my spine.

There are four vehicles by the camp.

From where we are, we can see everyone is okay. They’re all sitting together on the ground with the kids. The people from the cars are standing by the road; there’s about a dozen or more of them. And one of them is Admiral Hickey.

They found us.

Hickey turns and gives me a nod as the others point their guns at us.