STEVIE AWOKE WITH A JOLT THE NEXT MORNING, IN THE UNFAMILIAR bed. Her work of the night before was there on the floor. The faces of the Ellinghams stared up at her as she sorted her bath supplies into the blue plastic caddy she had so carefully chosen, shuffling the shampoo to one side, pushing over the shower gel, looking for the right place to stand the razor. She pulled on her pajama bottoms and a robe, put on her flip-flops, picked up the caddy, and stood in front of the closed door for a full two minutes working up the courage to go out into the hallway.
This was weird. Why was it so weird? She knew this was a dorm. She’d stayed over at friends’ houses before. But this was different—these were the people she would be living with, and some of them were guys. Half of them were guys.
So what. She was wearing a robe and . . . so what?
She opened the door. No one was in the hall. Feeling victorious, she took measured, leisurely steps down to the bathroom. There was another bathroom upstairs; it was unlikely that everyone in the house would be crowded into this one. It wasn’t very big, though, and it was already very steamy and the one shower stall was in use.
Stevie set her caddy on the windowsill and examined the frosted coating on the window to make sure it made it impossible to see inside. The shower curtain snapped back, and a dripping Ellie emerged. Technically, Ellie had a towel, but she was using it to dry her hair. The rest of Ellie was on show.
“Oh, hey,” she said. “The water is kind of cold now. Sorry.”
She continued walking past, leaving sopping-wet footprints along the way. As she reached the door, she looped the towel around herself, barely covering the major regions of her body, and headed out.
That, Stevie thought, is confidence.
Also, Ellie had bare feet. Stevie had the stupid flip-flops on. Her mother had convinced her that if she took them off for even a second, her feet would be attacked by terrible germs. The shower looked clean—but still.
Also, the water wasn’t kind of cold. It was completely cold.
Still, a cold shower isn’t the worst thing on a summer morning when you’re already tired. This was pure mountain spring water. (It was likely some kind of municipal water or something, but it was important to tell yourself a good story when you were standing under ice-cold water.)
Janelle was already at the farm table, intently reading something on her tablet as she ate a bowl of cereal. Pix was settled in the hammock chair, knitting. No one else seemed to be up.
“Morning!” Pix said. “Breakfast things are in the kitchen.”
Stevie shuffled into the kitchen and lunged for the coffee. She had a poke around the small kitchen, examining the contents of the cereal dispensers and the refrigerator.
Suddenly, a bowl materialized next to her, causing her to jump.
“It’s free,” David said. “Pix doesn’t count the cereal and send you a bill.”
Stevie wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be some kind of jab about money and lack thereof. Who said things like that? People like David, who also snuck up behind you in the morning when you were still half asleep. Did he know her family had little money?
Did he want to play? Because she would play. No need to be nice, Stevie. Green light.
She assessed him. He was wearing the same clothes he had been in the night before, and there were still one or two wayward feathers stuck in his hair. Either he hadn’t slept or slept in his clothes. She inhaled gently. Wine on his breath. Likely guess, he was up drinking with Ellie.
Interesting, but not enough. Look harder. In the daylight, she could get a better impression than she’d been able to in the dark of the yurt. His nose was long and fine. As he handed her the bowl, she took note of a band of wiry muscle that ran down his arm, and a beaten up but expensive-looking watch on his wrist. The crystal face was scarred, but refused to break fully, and the leather strap, while worn, was still holding strong. She got a look at the face. Rolex.
Now she was onto something. He had an unusual pattern of tan and burn on his arms. His one arm was bright red, the other just tan. Likewise, the one side of his face was much more red than the other. It was the kind of lopsided burn you got if you were half covered or turned the wrong way for too long.
“So,” she said, gripping the bowl tightly. She stuck it firmly under the Froot Loops dispenser and poured herself a big bowl. “You’re from California?”
“So I hear,” he said, getting himself a mug.
She looked at the uneven tan again, the strips of healed sunburn, the pale patches. And his voice. It didn’t have that slow, relaxed California tone.
“Recent?” she said.
“Recent what?” There was just a little edge in his voice. Good.
“You moved there recently?” she said, popping a few dry Froot Loops in her mouth.
“What makes you say that?”
He was smiling, but it was strained. His voice a bit crisp. The move was recent, and the circumstances weren’t pleasant. Rich boy, recent move, the topic made him a little frosty, and clearly he was acting out and needed attention.
“Just something I picked up,” she said.
“Do you pick things up a lot?” he asked. The smile was full now, but thin. He leaned back against the refrigerator as the coffee machine hissed. He twisted the watch a bit on his wrist.
Stevie watched this motion for a moment. David stopped, seemed to realize what she was looking at, and put that hand in his pocket.
Something bad about that watch.
“Could you move?” she said. “I need the milk. I might as well get my money’s worth.”
He smiled even more broadly and stepped away from the fridge door.
“Of course,” he said. “The girl detective needs her breakfast.”
Stevie smiled right back as she poured the milk and replaced it.
“Daddy issues needs his therapist,” she said.
He laughed out loud—a little cough of a laugh. She had found a mark. It was a wide and easy mark, but it had landed.
That little exchange should have been enough. It would have been perfect had it simply ended there. But, of course, there was no escape. He lived here too. He took a seat at the end of the table and stared down the length of it.
Nate joined them, creeping into the room with tousled hair. He seemed a bit more robust this morning and actually said hello to everyone.
“So,” David said, a little too loudly. “What’s everybody got today?”
“Adviser meetings,” Janelle said. “What are they like? I have Dr. Hinkle.”
“Do you like hearing people tell stories about getting lost inside the Large Hadron Collider?” David asked.
“Always,” Janelle said.
“Then you’ll be fine. Who do you have, Nate?”
“Dr. Quinn,” Nate said.
“Oh.” David shook his head. “Bind your wounds. She can smell blood.”
“What?”
“And how about you, Stevie?” That thin smile was on her again.
“Dr. Scott,” Stevie said.
“Captain Enthusiasm!” David replied. Stevie caught Pix give a little grin as she knit. “He’s bouncy. Are you going to solve mysteries together?”
“David,” Pix said.
“Only asking,” David replied.
“What did you mean about the blood?” Nate pressed on. “Is she hard?”
“Just remember there’s no shame in crying,” David replied. “After, I mean. Like me after I lost my virginity.”
“David,” Pix said again. “Don’t freak people out. Dr. Quinn is fine. You’ll be fine, Nate.”
Stevie was hanging back on the virginity thing. Was that a joke? Had to be a joke. What did it mean? Was that one of those things where you said something really vulnerable to make yourself seem above it all? Had he said virginity louder than any of the other words in that sentence? Was he talking about her virginity?
Oh, he was watching her now. He’d put it out there as a trip wire.
She shoveled Froot Loops in her mouth, but didn’t savor them. The sugar scraped against her teeth.
“Is she going to ask me a lot about my book?” Nate asked.
“Like what?” David said. “Like, the plot? Best dragon?”
“Like, am I done, am I working?”
“Oh,” David said. “Yeah. Probably that. What’s your blood type, anyway? Just for reference.”
“David.”
David held up his hands. “Kidding, kidding. He knows I’m kidding. You know I’m kidding, right, Nate?”
Nate did not look like he knew this. And Janelle, who had watched this silently, was now ready to step in.
“Come with me later on today, Stevie,” Janelle said. “I’m going over to check out the workshop. I need to see where they keep the welding supplies. Can’t wait to get my hands on my new blowtorch.”
On the word blowtorch, Hayes appeared, wet from a shower. His golden hair was stuck to his head. Unlike David, he was pristinely dressed in white shorts and a blue shirt. Even in this early morning state he still looked unnaturally good. Except for his eyes. Those were completely bloodshot.
“What time did you get up?” David said, looking him over. “Four twenty?”
“Didn’t sleep much last night,” Hayes said with a roguish smile.
“No,” David said. “Will we all be invited to the wedding? Beth too?”
Hayes shrugged and dropped into a chair.
“So,” David said. “You’re famous or something now?”
“Or something,” Hayes said with a smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Zombie business is big business,” David said. “People love the undead.”
“That’s my life,” Stevie said. “I work at the Monroeville Mall.”
No reply from Hayes.
“In Pittsburgh,” Stevie said. “The Monroeville Mall.”
Hayes cocked his head and smiled at Stevie, but it was a smile of I have no idea what you are saying. There was a definite echo of how her parents sometimes looked at her, and it made her cheeks burn.
Nate looked up from the milky depths of his cereal bowl, first to Hayes, then to Stevie.
“What made you want to write about zombies?” Janelle asked in what seemed to be an attempt to keep some normal conversation going.
Ellie stumbled into the room wearing a pair of ratty harem pants and a shirt that said ART HARDER. As a greeting, she sat down and casually put her bare foot on the table and examined it for a moment.
“I don’t know,” Hayes replied. “I went home to Florida last year, surfed for a few days, and it just came to me. Sometimes, when you get away, get a chance to think, that’s when you have an idea.”
“You never know where you’re going to get ideas,” Ellie said. “In Paris, we’d all sit around, have some wine, let it come naturally.”
“I’m kind of talking to P. G. Edderton about a movie,” Hayes said.
“P. G. Edderton?” Nate said. “Silver Moonlite Motel P. G. Edderton?”
“We’re just talking,” Hayes said with a gentle smile. “But, yeah.”
Even Ellie took notice of this. P. G. Edderton was the kind of director she would know. He made quirky, art house kind of movies about manic pixie everyones, movies that were turned into thousands of gifs, full of phrases everyone knew.
“Well,” David said, “good luck with that.”
Again, his meaning was unclear. It didn’t sound like a good wish.
“You guys better get ready,” Pix called from the steps up to her rooms. “You have meetings to get to.”
Real life at Ellingham was calling.