Turns out that discountdidn’tapply to soda cans.
That was the day Blake learned that smacking a can of soda into the corner of a metal case of baked goods would not simply dent the can but destroy it. And that baked goods will retain the taste of Coca-Cola even through the plastic.
Blake’s eyes had burned as he blinked the carbonation from his lashes, soda dripping down his hair and pooling around him like a big, guilty spotlight. The manager had been so pissed, but his dad had just shaken his head and silently paid for everything. Blake had expected a lecture when he got back to the car, but all his dad did was rip open a wrapper and hand Blake a cinnamon roll.
“You better eat the evidence, kid,” he’d said, the corner of his lips curling.
They never told his mom. It was like their little secret.
Blake ran his finger along the warped rim of the fruit cocktail can and tried to ignore the way his chest squeezed at the thought of his dad. Thoughts of his parents were never far from his mind,but it was moments like these when he wished he could talk to them. Even if it was just a quick phone call. He wanted to tell them he was sorry for misunderstanding the way they raised him. For not trying harder to be a good kid. That he loved them.
He couldn’t remember the last time he told them.
Tommy grunted behind him, and Blake looked over to see him struggling with a jar of pickles. The lid wasn’t budging, and Tommy bared down, face twisted as he tried to get the top to twist.
“Do you need help?”
“No!” Tommy snapped, face turning red.
“I could go get Phin.”
“And this jar could ‘accidentally’ slip out of my hand and crack your head open. Is that how you want to die, Blake? You want to survive an alien invasion only to get killed by pissed-off pickles?”
Blake stared at Tommy, mouth agape. The thin man lifted up his sweatshirt so he could wrap the hem of his t-shirt around the lid for grip. It didn’t work, but at least the thought ofpicklecideknocked Blake from his reverie.
Tommy puffed up his cheeks, a vein in his neck throbbing as he bent over the jar.
“You’re going to pop an aneurysm,” Blake chided, reaching for the jar only to have his hand swatted away. Tommy slammed the jar back on the counter, chest heaving with exertion. He braced himself, head bowed as he caught his breath.
It was then that Blake took a good look at him. It was warmer in their little cafeteria, the big windows concentrating the light from the afternoon sun like a magnifying glass. They’d shed most of their outer layers, and for the first time since winter came, Blake got a look at Tommy without all his outer clothes. He looked thin.
They were all a little gamey—too much work, not enough sleep, food combinations no human should ever contemplate—but Tommy was worse. His collar bones were pronounced under the sagging neckline of his red hoodie, and his hair hung lank over sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones.
Tommy had always had a youthful energy about him. Cute, chubby-cheeked, with bright dark eyes. But now he was dull and looked much older than his years.
All traces of teasing were gone from Blake’s voice when he asked, “Tofu, have you been eating?”
He scowled. It was a bit like a fluffy kitten hissing at him, but it was uncharacteristic for Tommy. “I’m trying to eat some pickles.”
“I’m serious.” Blake tried to remember the last time he’d seen Tommy eat something substantial. “What protein have you been eating?”
Tommy gave up on the jar, tossing it onto the counter. It hit with an unsettlingthunk, rolling next to a useless toaster they hadn’t bothered to toss.
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Blake said, voice sharp.
Tommy glared at him sullenly. “I’m not lying to you. I’m doing the best I can. It’s not like I have a lot of choices.”
Blake teased Tommy about being a vegan, but he respected it. For someone who ate most of his food out of plastic wrap and brightly colored cans, Blake couldn’t imagine the dedication it took for Tommy to not only be cognizant of what he was eating, but where it came from. To be so dedicated to his principles, he refused to give them up, even when the whole world was crashing down around him, was impressive.
It was also going to fucking kill him.
“I know we’ve talked about it, but Tommy, you have to eat something. You can’t just?—”
“Don’t.” Tommy’s words were icy. “Don’t do it, don’t—you can’t ask me to eat meat.”
“Even if you starve to death? I know you don’t want to, but with hunting, we might have more reliable sustenance than Twinkies and fruit that’s more sugar than nutrition.”