“Geez, Jon,” I say, looking at the screen, “you’ve got, like, fifteen or so pending friend requests. When’s the last time you checked this?”

Now that I think about it, I can’t say that I’ve ever seen him checking any of his social media accounts on his phone. Maybe he’s not into it, which would put him in the minority of most of the people I know. With everyone living their lives online, not having a presence there has made me feel left out and alone sometimes, so I love the idea that Jon isn’t into it, either.

“I don’t know. Last week. But maybe it’s been longer than that. Go ahead and click okay on all of them.”

My stomach clenches. “You don’t even care who they are? Don’t you want to make sure you know them?”

“They’re probably KREX listeners. I usually get new requests from people the day after I do a show, and I’ve been on the air more than normal lately.”

It strikes me how guys can be much more casual about online privacy than girls.

One of the profile pictures jumps out at me. It’s an attractive girl with an edgy punk hairstyle and a beautiful smile. With streaks of purple in her dark hair and multiple piercings in her ear, she’s the kind of girl I can imagine looking really good with Jon.

“Do you know Gretchen Shue?” I ask tentatively, watching his reaction carefully.

He’s doing a stretch for the back of his calves now and his face brightens. “Sweet. She’s the lead singer of that band who played the Hardware. Remember them? They’re called Shoo, Gretchen. They played the night of your birthday party.”

How can I forget that night? It was the first time Jon kissed me. I nod, trying not to show my disappointment. How can I compete with the gorgeous lead singer of an indie band? Hell, I can’t even read music or play an instrument.

He comes up behind me and looks over my shoulder. I’m glad he can’t see the hurt on my face.

“I’ve been trying to set up an interview with those guys, but they’ve been hard to pin down. Gretchen and her husband, the cello player, had to fly back east for a wedding, and her brothers, the other guys in the band, told me she handles all the scheduling. They don’t have a manager. Niice. I’ll send her a message when we get back.”

This Gretchen chick is married? She’s a business contact, not social? A huge sense of relief washes over me. I blink my silly tears away before he sees them.

He touches a finger to the screen. “Go ahead and delete this one, though.” He’s pointing to the profile picture of a white-haired couple named Lloyd and Karen Oliver.

“Who are they?” I ask, deleting the request.

“Just some old people friending everyone.” He grabs a baseball cap from the top of his dresser and puts it on. “If you’re a friend of a friend of a friend, they think they need to add you.”

“So you’ve gotten a request from them before? Do you know them?”

“I think they’re new to social media, so they’re probably confused. Did you know that the fastest growing demographic is senior citizens?”

Yeah, I’ve heard that before.

A few minutes later, as we head out on our run, it occurs to me that he didn’t say he didn’t know the Olivers.

Ivy

Dani, Cassidy, and I arrive outside Explorer Stadium about thirty minutes before the race is scheduled to start. We’re supposed to meet up with James, Kelly, and Reese somewhere. Jon’s already here, since he had to arrive early to meet with the organizers, but we haven’t seen him.

People are dressed in all sorts of crazy costumes. Businessmen, ballerinas, baristas, cowboys, soldiers, dog walkers, construction workers, doctors, and nurses. Basically, every occupation you can think of where people could be working when the zombie apocalypse occurs.

Even though I’m not into wearing costumes, Dani begged me to wear a pink tutu over my running shorts, like she and Cassidy. Since Jon’s planning on wearing some sort of costume too, I eventually relented.

We pick up our packets at the main gate. There must be close to a thousand people waiting around for the apocalypse to begin. I pin my number to my sleeve, making sure that it lies flat.

The zombie check-in is near the north entrance. Jon said that list filled quickly. Everyone wanted to be one of the infected and chase after the humans trying to get through the obstacle course. From what I can see, their costumes consist of a lot of torn clothing and massive quantities of blood. I spot a clown zombie and quickly turn away. I seriously. Hate. Clowns. Stephen King’s It, anyone? That’s all I’m saying.

“Hey, isn’t that Touch Montgomery?” Dani says, pointing across the street.

Cassidy cranks her head around to look. “Touch is here?”

Dani frowns. “He’s not running in the race, is he?”

“He’d better not be. Here, hold my stuff.” Cassidy thrusts her water bottle and race number at me, threads through the people on the sidewalk and marches over there. It’ll be hard for anyone to take her seriously with that pink tutu and large polka-dot bow on the top of her head. She went to a couple of kickbacks at Touch’s apartment, but says it’s nothing serious. I think she still has feelings for Will.

I scan the crowd, looking for Jon. He’s been quiet lately. I can tell something’s been bothering him, but whenever I ask, he acts like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about and that he’s fine. On top of making sure everything was ready for the race, he also had a busy tutoring schedule and a long paper to write. I don’t know, though. I think something else is up. Spotting James, Kelly, and Reese on the other side of the street, I wave them over. James is wearing a football jersey, while Kelly and Reese are dressed like—pirates?

“Have you guys seen Jon yet?” I ask. “I know he’s here.”

“What about over there?” Kelly says, pointing. “I see pink.”

I look in that direction and see the crowd, all right. A bunch of sorority girls in pink Parishioner T-shirts.

Wonderful. My boyfriend and his groupies.

We head in that direction. I spot the local news station van with a satellite dish mounted to the roof, parked near the giant bronze Explorer statue in the middle of the courtyard. Holding a white shirt and tie, Jon is talking to the female reporter, but they’re not on the air. The reporter must be waiting to go live with the station.

As we get closer, Jon spots us. He signs, Hello, beautiful.

Okay, maybe it is the race he’s been worried about. I sign back, Hello, handsome.

The reporter touches her earpiece, unaware that her interview subject is having a conversation in sign language. “We’re on right after the commercial. Are you ready?”

“Ready when you are.”

A couple of girls ask him to come over and sign their shirts, but he tells them he’s going live in a minute and can’t right now. I’m not sure how he always stays so patient. It’s not uncommon for people to approach him and ask him to sign their shirts. I know it must get old, but I’ve never heard him complain. When I’ve asked him about it, he just gives me one of those million-dollar smiles and says he appreciates their support.

He looks over at me and signs, After the race is over, want to go back to my place and have sex?

I nearly choke. Jon! I sign back, finger spelling his name with emphasis. I glance at the others gathered around to watch the broadcast, but no one is reacting. Other people can sign too, you know.

He shrugs. You look hot and you’re my girlfriend. How is the fact that we’re going to have sex later surprising? Shouldn’t that be obvious? Even from fifteen feet away, I can see that gleam in his eye.