TWENTY-SIX

When Thomas woke to find Skylar standing over his bed, carrying a flickering candle, his first thought was something terrible had happened. Larry had broken into the house or Seth had gone outside again or maybe someone was sick. He panicked and sat up in bed and rubbed sleep out of his eyes. But when he opened them again, he could see Skylar was smiling.

Something about her had changed. Her face looked relaxed and free of tension that had been present since the pulse. But before he could ask what had happened, Skylar glanced at the open expanse of bed beside him.

“Do you have room in there for company?”

He blinked.

“Yes, of course.”

Skylar stood the candle on his nightstand. She vaulted over him in one leaping step and soft-landed in the jumble of comforter and sheets. It was too hot to sleep under the covers, but he couldn’t part with them, either. Most nights he slept in boxers and clutched the comforter like a lover.

Now Skylar was on her side, mere inches away, and Thomas was conflicted like a man who had won the grand prize without knowing how or why. Locks of blonde hair dangled in front of her eyes. Her gauzy pink tank top stretched across feminine curves he was helpless not to notice.

“I’m sorry about before,” she said.

“Sorry about what?”

“For accusing you of trying to be perfect.”

“I’m not perfect, Skylar. Not by a long shot.”

She scooted closer. Brushed her foot against his. Her cleavage was a fault line that stretched into infinity. For the first time since he could remember, the dampness of sheets, the constant sheen of sweat on his skin, ceased to be unpleasant. Instead, the humidity that hovered between them seemed charged with electricity. And still he wondered what had brought her here, why she seemed to have forgotten about the desperate state of the world.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she said. “But in the meantime I guess we don’t have to be miserable every second.”

And when her hands reached for him, as she pulled him on top of her, a voice in his head announced in something like all capital letters, HOLY SHIT I’M GOING TO HAVE SEX WITH SKYLAR STOVER. But once this salacious bit of gossip had been acknowledged, his hands and mouth found their usual rhythms and wandered into the usual places. And if there was a subtle-but-unmistakable human odor associated with sweat and the absence of proper hygiene, if her tank top was damp as he tossed it to the floor, these organic sensations only heightened the immediacy of his arousal. For the first time since the supernova had appeared, Thomas could imagine a future in which he was not constantly miserable.

On the other hand, he might have been misled by the primal relief of entering Skylar, or by watching her eyes roll back while she thrust against his body with the brute force of a woman determined to enjoy the entire length of him.

It was easy to be happy during a moment of sexual bliss.

He would lean heavily on this memory during the difficult days that followed.