Simon's tight-lipped harrumph matches our feelings exactly.
I nod my head and lean into the hot coffee between my hands. "Yeah. Wasn't pregnant."
Dean occupies his regular spot on the bench in the kitchen. His thigh rests less than an inch away from mine. His elbows and mine form a perfect row on the metal table top.
There's a familiarity in this position. It's old and comforting, which is critical right now. Tonight we learned something new and horrible. This torture with the HHP is not over until at least one embryo clings.
"So what now?" Simon slices another piece of the meatloaf and arranges the fried potato wedges on a tin plate. He taps the bell, and the kid from the bar appears in the window to take the food away but lingers when he notices me and Dean sulking in our frustration.
Simon slams his knife on the prep table, startling the bar kid. He evacuates quickly.
No one says anything for the rest of the evening. We sip coffee, exchange side glances, and, at one point, Dean's leg leans against mine. The Sink's customers fill the silence.
I don't move away. Instead, I lift my cup and grin into the floating grinds. He does the same. Simon pretends not to notice.
Around midnight, Dean rises to bid us goodnight. He bends and lifts my chin until I'm gazing right into his hazel eyes. He drops a light kiss on my lips while cupping my cheek.
When the metal saloon doors swing behind him, Simon raises his eyebrows before returning to scrub the griddle. "Nika and Dean . . ." he whispers in a sing-song voice to the sizzling surface, "sittin' in a tree . . . "
I hum something in reply as I attempt to absorb the remaining warmth from Dean's empty seat.
YOU ARE READING
ARC10
Science Fiction[Book 1 of the ARC10 Trilogy] **Winner of the 2017 Watty Storysmith award** The President created an underground safe-haven for the survivors of the alien invasion. He built it to save them all from total annihilation. He protects them, feeds them...
