The First to Die at the End (Death-Cast #0)(68)

I wish I knew the exact minute.

“Really?” Valentino asks. “It feels . . .”

“Feels like what?”

“I was going to say it feels like yesterday.”

“Probably because it was.”

“Which is why I stopped talking.”

“No, don’t ever stop talking. You have a nice voice, and I like the stuff you say.”

I tried burying that compliment about his voice that I want to listen to all day and that I’ll miss, but I did a pretty shitty job covering it up. I’m feeling all these feelings, and I know I shouldn’t because this doesn’t make sense, but they’re fighting their way up anyway. I should write a story about a lovesick zombie crawling out of a grave, wanting a heart to hold, not eat. Oh, wait, zombies are gunning more for brains, not hearts, though I guess they’ll eat anything from the body that’s fresh. Fuck do I know, I’m no more a zombie dietician than I am a historian.

“You like the stuff I say?” Valentino asks. “What else would you like to hear me say in my nice voice?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Don’t be a dick,” he parrots with a smile.

“If the bus ever arrives, I’m going to push you in front of it.”

Valentino surrenders. “I’m kidding. What do you want to know?”

“I mean, so much. I remember thinking that I liked your name.”

“My name? My name is nothing compared to Orion.”

“No, I love your name. You’ve got tons of nickname opportunities. I got O, that’s it. Oh, actually, I also had people calling me ‘Oreo’ in high school. Hated that.”

“That’s bad, but at least you didn’t have to deal with ‘Valentino’s Day’ every Valentine’s Day. I had to ask out my friends’ crushes for them like I was Cupid.”

“I’m so sorry, Cupid.”

“It’s okay, Oreo.”

The bus finally pulls up, and I don’t shove Valentino in front of it. Instead, I take his picture as he pays the fare—the driver is confused as shit as to why this is worth documenting—and another as he chooses one of the few available seats in the middle. There’s no destination in mind, but we thought it’d be fun for him to get some sightseeing in. Maybe call something out if it interests him. Plus we can take a break from the sun and enjoy some air-conditioning.

“Tell me about Valentino, Valentino. How’d the name come about?”

He’s staring out the window. “I never told this to the other kids at school, but my mom was born on Valentine’s Day. She grew up loving the holiday because she was always shown love on that day, whether she had a valentine or not. Then my father went and proposed on Valentine’s Day like the original thinker he is. My mother wanted us to have names with ties to the day. Mine is obvious, and Scarlett because that’s the color of hearts.”

“I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. That’s a horrible origin story.”

“It was going to be worse. Scarlett was almost named Valentina.”

“Valentino and Valentina . . . that’s some psycho shit. It’s almost as bad as them being homophobic. I bet your house was a shitshow on Valentine’s Day.”

“Absolutely. You know how intense some people are about Christmas? Every threshold had streamers, and there were too many bowls of candy hearts all over the house.”

“The ones that taste like chalk?”

“The very same.”

I can’t believe a beautiful name like his has such a dark, dark, dark history.

“Wait . . . When’s your birthday?”

Valentino is shaking his head. “I don’t want to say.”

“Don’t fucking say Valentine’s Day.”

“No. It’s November eleventh.”

“What’s so bad about . . .” I shudder as I do the math. November is nine months after February. “Oh, they—”

Valentino slaps his hand over my mouth. “Don’t.”

Not the point, but I’m zero percent mad about my lips being pressed against his palm. It’s just like when we were hiding from those masked men with bats, except the stakes aren’t super high this time. When he does move his hand, I’m too stunned about the revelation of his parents conceiving him and Scarlett on Valentine’s Day to even say anything. I let my face do the talking for me.

“Horrifying,” Valentino says. “Thanks for reviving that trauma on my End Day.”

A couple passengers on the bus turn to him, staring at Valentino like he’s an alien.

“Sorry to hear that,” a woman says, holding her child a little closer.

“Thanks,” Valentino says, like someone just blessed him after he sneezed.

I’m not sure what the etiquette is for when someone says sorry when they find out you’re dying. It might be a minute before society lands on something that feels right.

Valentino shifts back to me. “How did you get your name? Please feel free to be bad at history again if it also involves your conception.”

I elbow him in the side for ragging on me again about the history business.

“So my mom’s name is Magdalena, and her mother thought it would be cute if I was named Jesus. As if I would’ve been the first Hispanic Catholic with that name. Like, for real, I’ll take Oreo all day, every day, if it means people aren’t asking me to turn water to wine or having every dinner known as the Last Supper just because I’m there. Bless my parents, they weren’t trying to set me up for failure. Then I was almost Ernesto Jr., but my father didn’t think that was fair either.”