The First to Die at the End (Death-Cast #0)(80)

“I can’t hold off on anything anymore.” I kiss him again. “Especially not after my favorite first with you.”

“There’s still time to one-up it.”

“How so?”

“I’m going to take you on your first date, Valentino.”





Joaquin Rosa


1:11 p.m.

Joaquin has returned to the Death-Cast headquarters and stares at the empty call center. The heralds have gone home for the day, but will there still be jobs to return for tonight?

He goes straight to the company suite, expecting to find his family around the table or watching TV, but no one’s in here. He can hear the TV on in the bedroom and gently knocks on the door before letting himself in, where he finds Naya and Alano asleep on the king-size mattress, a luxury Joaquin invested in knowing his family would occasionally find themselves staying overnight. The puppy leaps off the bed and rushes Joaquin. Joaquin sweeps Bucky into his arm and snuggles him, already feeling his blood pressure drop. He really needed this.

Everything he’s been through since he left has been difficult and frustrating and disappointing and heartbreaking.

Joaquin turns off the Scorpius Hawthorne movie on the TV and goes to the restroom to wash up, cleaning his face and drinking water straight out of the faucet too. The time spent in the vault always leaves Joaquin feeling out of touch with himself, but now, Joaquin is starting to feel like, well, Joaquin.

“Hi,” Naya says from behind with tired eyes. “Any luck?”

They never openly talk about what’s inside the vault or what happens in it. For the rest of their lives, Joaquin and Naya—and perhaps one day Alano—must live as if there are tiny cameras everywhere they go, planted by someone wanting to know the secret behind Death-Cast.

“Some luck, but not enough. Have more deaths been reported?”

Naya nods. “There have been eleven reported deaths. All registered. None notified.”

Joaquin feels unanchored again. “I have to release a statement.”

“Is everything over?”

He can hear the slight hope in her voice for a dream he can’t make come true.

“No. But if my understanding of the issue is correct, this glitch isn’t done.”

“What do you mean?” Naya asks. She holds up her hand, understanding he can’t expand into too many details.

He shares what he can.

“I’m under the impression this issue caps at twelve deaths.”

That means there’s still one Decker living their life, unaware it’s their End Day.





Orion


1:24 p.m.

Valentino and I hold hands like a couple as we continue down the bridge.

We’re spitting out different ideas for our first date, trying to find something that won’t risk the heart operation later, something he’s more dead set than ever on protecting. Sitting down at a nice fancy restaurant is a classic move, but smelling the hot food we can’t eat would be torture. And as much as I’d like to watch Valentino ask a bartender to serve him his first ever drink before he dies, we probably shouldn’t be drunk before surgery. There are safer options, thankfully. Like strolling through Central Park and riding the carousel, maybe even together on the same horse or unicorn if we want to be extra gay about it. There’s also Bryant Park, where some New York Fashion Week stuff goes down, but there’s nothing for Valentino to get out of that today.

“A lot of options,” I say.

“We’ll figure it out,” Valentino says.

The bridge is more crowded on this end. I’m more alert, as if someone here will be a threat to Valentino whereas he’s relaxed to the point where he asks a stranger to take our picture. I feel everyone’s eyes on me, so aware that I can’t imagine being comfortable having another guy hold me this close in the Bronx. Then I stop giving a shit about what the world thinks when Valentino pulls me into a kiss, like I’ve seen so many guys and girls do in the past. I love that this moment documented on camera is both a cliché and a fuck-you to everyone who doesn’t want to see two boys kissing. Valentino and I haven’t looked over any of the pictures taken today, and this is one I’m pretty hyped to relive when we do.

We slow down past this fence that has so many colorful locks clipped onto it.

“That’s a lot of locks.”

“Seriously, they need a collective noun.” I think for a sec. “An embrace of locks.”

“Well done. Dare I ask what they are, my favorite historian?”

“It’s barely history, I think this shit started last year. They’re love locks. Everyone bragging about their indestructible bonds and blah blah.”

“You sound like a big fan.”

“I guess I’m still carrying some bitter energy.”

Most of the locks have writing on them: LUIS & JORDIN; HOWIE + LENA; NICKI AND DAVE; and CARLOS AMA PERSIDA, to name a few. Others are dates for anniversaries I’ll never know.

No locks with the names of two guys.

I wish I had one, dyed like a rainbow.

“This is really cool,” Valentino says, trailing his fingers down the fence before continuing down the bridge, taking me with him like a current.

“I should’ve brought a lock for you. Why the hell isn’t anyone up here selling any? They could make a killing.”