Chapter 199: A Warm Meal with Carmen and Shannon [3]

“The food’s ready,” she said. “Let’s eat while it’s still hot.”

Shannon reached across the table and squeezed my hand briefly—a gesture of thanks or apology or understanding, I couldn’t tell which. Maybe all three .

I nodded at her, silently communicating that it was fine; Then I tried to gently withdraw my hand, intending to return to a more neutral, less physically intimate position .

But Shannon’s fingers tightened around mine, holding on with surprising strength for someone who’d been using a walking stick moments ago.

“I’m so hungry, Mom,” she said brightly, her eyes fixed on Carmen while completely ignoring the pointed look I was giving her .

I tried pulling my hand back more insistently, but she just gripped harder, her fingers interlacing with mine in a way that made extracting myself without making a scene nearly impossible. What the hell was she doing?

I quickly brought my other hand over and used it to pry her fingers loose one by one, finally managing to extract myself from her grasp.

Shannon grinned at me mischievously, her eyes sparkling with barely suppressed laughter, clearly finding my discomfort entertaining .

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered, Ryan,” she said, the words coming out warm and teasing.

“What?” I said, genuinely taken aback.

“What?” Carmen echoed simultaneously.

“Nothing, Mom,” Shannon said quickly, her grin not fading even slightly. “Can you just serve us already? We’re both starving here.”

Carmen looked between us with obvious suspicion, her eyes narrowing slightly as she clearly tried to parse what had just happened and what it might mean. But after a moment of silent assessment, she apparently decided to let it go—or at least postpone the interrogation for later.

She moved to the grill and began plating food. Two plates first—one for me, one for Shannon—each receiving generous portions of the grilled fish and vegetables. The fish came off the improvised grill golden-brown and still sizzling faintly, skin crisped to perfection. Roasted potatoes followed, their edges caramelized and crispy. Tomatoes that had been grilled until their skins split and their insides turned jammy. Even some kind of improvised patties made from what looked like mashed beans or grain, browned on both sides.

Carmen set the plates in front of us, then prepared a third plate for herself before finally sitting down at the table. The three of us sat there in the dappled sunlight of the small backyard, surrounded by the vegetable garden and the lingering smoke from the wood fire, with plates of real food steaming in front of us.

We started eating slowly, using actual forks and knives—utensils that felt almost luxurious after weeks of eating with our hands or improvised tools.

I cut off a piece of fish and brought it to my mouth.

The flavor hit me quite strongly, and I found myself widening my eyes in genuine surprise. It was delicious. Not just “good for apocalypse food” or “better than ration bars”—genuinely, objectively delicious in a way that transcended circumstances.

The fish was perfectly cooked, flaky and moist inside with a crispy, slightly charred skin that added texture and depth. Whatever seasoning she’d managed to scavenge or preserve—salt definitely, maybe some dried herbs, perhaps a hint of something acidic—elevated the natural flavors without overwhelming them. The vegetables were similarly excellent, each one cooked to the point where their natural sugars had caramelized while maintaining enough structure to provide satisfying bite.

I honestly didn’t know how Carmen had managed to produce something this good with such limited tools—no proper stove, no consistent heat source, no refrigeration for ingredients, no access to most of the spices and ingredients a pre-collapse kitchen would have taken for granted. Yet somehow she’d pulled together a meal that rivaled or exceeded anything I’d eaten since the outbreak began.

“It’s really good,” I said, looking up at Carmen with complete seriousness, feeling genuinely compelled to say it. “Seriously. This is excellent.”

Carmen’s face lit up with a warm, genuine smile that softened all the hard edges grief and survival had carved into her features. “I’m glad you like it,” she said simply, but there was real pleasure in her voice of getting her food getting praised.

“Right?” Shannon jumped in proudly, gesturing with her fork for emphasis. “My mom is the best cook around here. Even Maribel eats with us most of the time because of it. Everyone knows Carmen makes the best meals on the Boardwalk.”

“You’re quite lucky to have someone with this skill in your family,” I said, meaning it. “You should be grateful for it. A lot of people are eating plain boiled grain and canned goods that expired months ago.”

Shannon’s proud smile twisted hearing that me indirectly telling her to stay by her mother’s side.

Carmen giggled softly at the exchange.

“What about you, Ryan?” Shannon asked, clearly eager to shift the subject away from herself. “Are you the one who cooks for your group?”

“No, that’s Rachel,” I said.

“Rachel?” Shannon leaned forward with immediate interest, her fork pausing midway to her mouth. “One of those women you were with last night? Which one was she—the black-haired Gothic-looking one, or the red-headed one?”

“The red-headed one,” I replied .

“Wow,” Shannon said, her eyes widening slightly as she clearly recalled seeing them. “Are they both traveling with you? Because they were both really pretty. Like, seriously attractive.”

I smiled hearing that—a genuine smile that came without conscious effort or forcing. “They are,” I agreed simply .

A brief silence fell after I said that.

I raised my gaze from my plate to find both Carmen and Shannon looking at me with almost identical expressions of mild surprise.

“Something wrong?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“No, quite the opposite actually,” Carmen said. “Your expression has seemed rather dark and troubled since this morning—since I first met you, really. So it was a bit surprising to see you actually smile just now. A real smile.”

Cindy had told me multiple times that my resting expression looked intimidating, even scary sometimes. Apparently she’d been right. I’d stopped trying to force myself to look more approachable or happy when I genuinely wasn’t feeling that way—it took too much energy to maintain a false front, and in this world, authenticity felt more honest even if it wasn’t always pleasant .

“Yeah, you should smile more often,” Shannon added, propping her chin on her hand and regarding me with open appreciation. “You’re actually really handsome when you smile, even more than usual. The serious, brooding thing works too, but the smile is better.”

“Right…” I said, not entirely sure how to respond to that .

“Shannon, dear,” Carmen said, her voice taking on a particular quality—still smiling, but with a sharpness underneath that didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m just complimenting him, Mom, come on,” Shannon grumbled, returning her attention to her food with exaggerated focus .

Carmen let it drop, sighing.

“So, Ryan,” Carmen said, steering the conversation into safer territory, “are you planning to head back to your group after this?”

“Yes,” I said, grateful for the straightforward question. “Molly mentioned she could arrange to lend us a car, so I was planning to leave after Clara’s eaten. If you could pack something for her to take with us, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Of course, don’t worry about it,” Carmen said warmly. “I’ll make sure you have food for her—and extra for the road if you’d like.”

“W…Wait, what does that mean?” Shannon cut in suddenly, her fork clattering against her plate. “You’re leaving? Like, leaving leaving? But you’re coming back, right?”

“Shannon,” Carmen called her.

Shannon ignored her mother completely, her attention locked on me with an intensity that was starting to feel uncomfortable. She waited for my answer with obvious expectation written across her face.

What was I supposed to say to that? She’d clearly developed some kind of attachment to me—probably because I’d saved her life.

“No, we don’t really want to get involved with this situation with Callighan,” I said carefully, choosing my words to be truthful without being hurtful. “We’ve already suffered enough losses. Getting caught up in someone else’s war isn’t something we can afford right now.”

I didn’t mention that it was actually their community—Marlon, Rico, the general consensus—that wanted us to leave. That we weren’t particularly welcome to settle on the Boardwalk or integrate with their group. Better to frame it as our choice, our decision based on our own needs and safety. That way Shannon couldn’t argue against it or take it as personal rejection. Of course she knew already that some didn’t want us nearby but it was better for her to think it was my decision to leave.

It was kinder this way, even if it wasn’t the complete truth.

Shannon’s hands clenched into fists on the table. Her expression shifted from surprised to sad, a visible deflation as the reality sank in.

“B…But I’m sure we could work together somehow,” she said. “Your group and ours. We could help each other. You could stay nearby, we could trade resources, coordinate defenses. There has to be some way to make it work.”

She looked at me with those bright blue eyes now tinged with disappointment and confusion.

For a moment, I wondered if her attachment wasn’t really about me specifically—maybe it was about what I represented. Another group of survivors. Good people, unlike Callighan’s thugs. Potential friends in a world where trust had become the rarest currency. She’d certainly taken an impression of Sydney and Rachel last night, commenting on how pretty they were, how capable they seemed. Maybe she just wanted to know more people.

“It’s not that simple, Shannon, and you know it,” Carmen said gently.

“I know… I know,” Shannon muttered, her voice trailing off into something small and lost. She didn’t finish whatever thought had been forming. Instead, she thoughtfully speared a piece of potato with her fork and brought it to her mouth, chewing slowly as if the simple act of eating could give her time to process the disappointment .

After that, the meal settled into a rhythm that was almost peaceful. Shannon complained about minor things—the heat of the sun, the way her ankle itched under the bandage, how she was tired of eating fish all the time. Carmen answered each complaint with the patient responses of a mother who’d heard it all before.

I found myself appreciating the meal more than I’d expected—not just the food itself, which was genuinely excellent, but the entire experience. The way mother and daughter interacted, the easy banter, the small moments of tenderness hidden beneath the surface complaints.

Even though they’d lost the father and son whose photos still sat on the mantle inside, they’d managed to hold onto each other and keep moving forward. It had been nearly three months since the outbreak, but you never really got used to the death of a loved one. The wound just scarred over, and you learned to live with the ache .

I was still thinking about my own mother, about the last time I’d seen her face before the infection killed her. The memory was fragmented, blurred by trauma and time, but I could still recall the sound of her voice, the way she’d worried about me when I’d stayed out too late and a lot of other things.

I was about to take another bite of the fried potato, the piece looking perfectly golden and crisp, when a sound rang out from somewhere outside.

A single, sharp crack that cut through the afternoon air.

A gunshot.

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