Dating After the End of the World

by Jeneva Rose

I know you’re supposed to believe your parents, trust what they’re saying, and I have. I’ve believed every word my dad has uttered since I learned what words meant, but now I’m not so sure anymore. I stopped believing in Santa when I was nine years old, and I feel like I’m gonna stop believing in my dad one day too. Maybe I already have.

“That’s right. He’ll be crying down at the road begging me to save him, and I’ll be like, ‘You should have been nice to me, Blake, because now you’re going to die.’” I put on a huge smile. A look of concern flashes across Dad’s face. “What?” I shrug. “He’s a rotten, terrible, stupid boy.” “I know, but just because he’s terrible doesn’t mean you need to be.”

I’ve learned the virus affects each person differently. I’m not sure why, but I know it does. Some, like the woman roaming the street or Ms. Klein, my patient at the hospital that night, lose all their memories, 20a total brain wipe. About twelve hours after infection, they become a shell of a person, a body with no sense of purpose or belonging. I call them Nomes—stands for no memories.

“Never let someone bigger than you pin you to the ground. The longer you’re pinned, the more strength you give up. Act quickly and violently. Strike their most vulnerable places. Eyes. Nose. Throat. Groin. Give ’em hell, girl.” I will, Dad.

I’m sure Nate’s coming up with a plan in his head, one that will end in him rising to the occasion as my knight in shining armor. It looks like he’s about to charge at the burner staggering toward him, but he doesn’t. Instead, Nate runs . . . right out the front door. The man I’ve been with for more than two years, who asked me to marry him two and a half months ago, who told me he loved me just a few minutes ago . . . gone in an instant. Fucking great. I knew he wasn’t cut out for an apocalypse.

home is exactly where I’m headed. Turns out it only took an apocalypse to bring me back.

“No need to thank me, Casey. I’m your father. My job is to take care of you.” “I’m twenty-nine, Dad.” “I don’t care if you’re fifty. You’ll always be my daughter, so I’ll always take care of you.”

Animosity hurts you, not the person it’s directed at. It’s like poison, but you’re the only one consuming it.”

“Boat boy?” “You know, because of the navy and, like, boats and stuff . . . shut up,” I say.

“You’re right, Nate. I am a cunt.” I’ve never understood why that word was ever considered an insult. To me, it’s a compliment. It’s one of the strongest organs there is. It creates life, it makes men stupid, and it bleeds every month—yet it doesn’t die.

“I just wanted you to realize that even when it feels like the world has ended, yours doesn’t have to.”