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Cutting him out was my way of punishing my father, because I felt like that was what he had done to me. It was always about preparing for the end of the world, and there was never time to just live in it.
“You sure you wanna do that?” He tilts his head, giving me an amused look. “Oh yeah. Let’s go, boat boy.” He furrows his brow. “Boat boy?” “You know, because of the navy and, like, boats and stuff . . . shut up,” I say. I’m flustered and already sore. I’m beyond tired too, because he woke me up before the crack of dawn. “You got this, Casey,” Tessa yells. “Not the trash talk, though, but we’ll work on that later.”
Trauma makes you either a hero or a villain.
“Rock, paper, scissors for it?” Greg holds out his hand in a fist over his other palm. “Seriously?” Blake huffs. “Deal,” I say, holding my fist out. “On shoot?” Greg raises a brow. “Of course. Best of three?” “I’m not a heathen. Obviously, best of three,” I say, pounding my fist down into my cupped palm.
“How are you in a love triangle during an apocalypse? I can’t even find a boyfriend, and you have two men.” “I don’t have two men. And you had a boyfriend. But you killed him, remember?” “Oh yeah,” she says.
“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.
Just because this day isn’t what you pictured doesn’t mean it can’t be wonderful.
Because a day like this offers all of us hope that we can love and be loved even in the darkest times. The world may have ended, but our humanity is endless.
