Love at the End of the World

With everything that’s going on in the world, I felt like my way of dealing with it was to write a short story. Below, find chapter one of “Love at the End of the World.”

Here’s what you should know about me.

I’m thirty-years-old. I live in San Francisco, and up until recently, I’ve worked as a marketing consultant. I’m single, live alone, and have never really had a problem with that. 

I’ve always been independent. My mom died when I was eleven. After that, my dad stopped doing most dad stuff. Actually, he stopped doing almost anything at all. That meant that I had to take care of myself, my seven-year-old sister, and four-year-old brother all on my own. 

I guess I always sort of resented him for that. I resented the fact that he stopped caring about anything just because my mom died. I resented the fact that he never bothered to think about the fact that I missed her too. But mostly, I resented the fact that everyone seemed to give him a pass because he was dealing with a broken heart. 

“He loved her so much,” aunts and uncles would say, shaking their heads.

“Poor guy,” neighbors would whisper.

“That’s kind of romantic, isn’t it?” Friends would comment.

“No,” I would respond, “that’s irresponsible.”

Maybe that’s why I never really bothered with the whole love thing myself.

Not that I didn’t have boyfriends. I tried that out a couple of times but it never seemed to work. I just couldn’t really understand their emotional needs and I certainly never felt a desire to pine after anyone. Plus, the whole sex thing didn’t interest me much. Just a lot of grunting and awkwardly sweating and moving.

Anyway, here’s what you need to know about the world: it’s ending. 

That’s right. About a week ago, the Federal AAEOW (Action Against the End of the World) committee announced that despite our greatest efforts, the end of the world was on its way. Their estimate was about three months until the entire thing imploded in on itself—and that was being generous.

I quit my job after the announcement. Well, I just stopped showing up. I didn’t really see the point in staying, especially because the company I worked for marketed sustainable products that were supposed to delay the end of the world. 

When the government announced that there was no delaying the inevitable, we sort of had nothing to market anymore. Besides, people are really only buying the essentials these days: toilet paper, fresh-air filters, water, and food. 

Of course, people deal with things in different ways. My sister Lindsey, for example, wakes up at 6:30 AM every day, does her hair, puts on makeup and a suit, then heads into the office. She’s a corporate lawyer and takes her job very seriously. Here’s one thing you learn quickly in times like these: the world may be ending, but lawsuits sure aren’t.

When I told her I’d stopped going to work, her jaw almost hit the ground. 

“Oh my god, Beck. Don’t go all Dan on me.”

Dan is our younger brother. He, unlike my sister, has never been much interested in a job. This whole end of the world thing only served to prove his lifestyle choices right. After all, he’s been living like there’s no tomorrow since he was, well, since as long as I can remember.

Wild Dan. Free-spirited Dan. Lovestruck Dan. Goddammit Dan. Why don’t you ever pay attention, Dan? These are all terms that have been used throughout Dan’s entire life. He’s always moved to the beat of his own drum. He’s charismatic, intelligent, questioning, thoughtful, and passionate. Literally the exact opposite of me—and I love him for it. He is the sweetest person I know. 

As a child, he’d stay outside day and night, watching the birds and squirrels as they moved in the trees that extended over our backyard. He learned all the names of the flora and fauna that could be found in our little suburban neighborhood (which wasn’t much, but still). He was gentle as he knelt to look at flowers. Gentle as he played with the neighbor’s cat. Gentle as he helped the little girl next door right her bicycle after she’d fallen.

Right now, Dan is with his latest soul mate. He is always with a soul mate. It’s his chosen way to spend the end of the world—with the [latest] love of his life. I guess he thought dad’s absence was somewhat romantic too…

So, how do I plan to spend my last days? To be honest, I’m not really sure. I’d like to think that I’ll do something cool and bucket list-y. Something exciting and adventurous. But the truth is, I’m not really sure that I care to do any of that. Even if it is my last chance. 

Mostly, I want to make sure that my family is okay. 

Which brings me to what I’m about to do: call my dad. 

I haven’t spoken to my father in about a year. I haven’t really had anything to say to him. Besides, Lindsey is good about checking in. She keeps me updated on everything. Tells me he’s healthy. That he’s taking walks, eating, all of that. 

But at this point, I feel like maybe I should call him myself. He is my dad. And he’s not a bad guy. He did try. Just not as hard as I would have tried if I’d had three kids under the age of thirteen…

See what happens? If I let myself start, I won’t stop. I just need to clear those thoughts from my head. 

I dial his number. The phone rings and I wait. 

“Beck!” The voice on the other end is deep and slightly hoarse. It sounds like how worn leather would sound if it could talk. 

“Hey, dad,” I say. 

“What’s happening with my favorite girl?”

“Don’t let Lindz hear you say that,” I say, jokingly, but it sounds forced so I continue, “nothing much. Just calling to check in. How’s everything going? How are you feeling?”

“Well, you know, I’ve been trying to fix this refrigerator. Damn thing stopped working yesterday and I can’t seem to get it running again.”

“Why are you even bothering?” seriously, this is something you think deserves your attention? What’s the point? In a matter of months, it won’t even exist anymore. “Just order out.”

“Order out?” He asks like I’ve said something crazy, “for every meal? That’d cost a fortune!”

“You have money saved up,” I say rolling my eyes. 

“But that’s for you kids,” he grumbles as if I’m some sort of idiot.

“Dad,” I say slowly, “we don’t need it. The world is end…”

“Right. Right,” he interrupts, “doesn’t matter. I paid an arm and a leg for this refrigerator and it’s going to work. Nobody makes anything to last anymore. That’s why this whole world ending thing is happening. Because everything breaks. We throw it out. The trash takes over. And now here we are. Damn corporations. So, no, Becks. I will not be eating out. I’ll be fixing this goddamn refrigerator.”

“Okay,” I say, then hesitate, “I’ll stop by tomorrow and take a look. Maybe you just accidentally unplugged it or something.”

“I take offense to that,” he says, and I can tell he’s scowling into the phone. Even with our estranged relationship, I can still sense my dad’s mannerisms. 

“Right. Well… I’ll stop by around lunch time, then?” It’ll be the first time I’ve seen my dad in more than a year.

“Okay,” he says and we hang up. 

I’m standing out in the street as I tuck my phone into my back pocket. I live downtown and watch as a cable car slides down the metal rails. It’s still jam-packed with people who are thrilled at the experience. They stick their bodies out of the car and wave at people like me in the street. Some even take pictures. I wonder what they’re taking pictures for. I guess it only takes twenty-four hours to get enough likes. 

I smell pizza from my favorite little corner shop. My stomach growls. I walk inside and am greeted by a gregarious man in a stained white apron, the owner, Georgio. He has dark hair, bright eyes, and more than one chin. He grins widely as I step inside. 

“A pizza for the end of the world?” He asks. 

“Yes, please,” I respond. 

“What would you like?”

“Meat lovers,” I say, then stop myself, “no. A veggie deluxe. Medium.”

The animals deserve their last days as much as we do. 

I wait for about twenty minutes as my pizza goes into the oven. I check my phone. Lindsey has texted multiple times about a fight that she’s in with her husband, Jim. Apparently, he went to go have drinks with his colleagues when he told her he’d be home right after work. 

Honestly, I’m not sure how she can still care about things like that when the entire planet is going to cave-in on itself, but I love her for it. She will always be Lindsey. 

The next thing I know, my phone is ringing. She’s calling me. I pick up right as I’m grabbing my pizza from Georgio. I nod as a thank you and walk back out onto the street.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Can you believe him?”

“Hey, Lindz,” I say.

“I mean. If you say you’re going to be somewhere, why can’t you just be there? What makes having drinks with coworkers more important than our dinner?”

What I want to say is that he’s crazy for still going to work at all. What I want to say is that he’s probably sad that he won’t see these people anymore. What I want to say is that they both should just skip town and go somewhere they’ve always wanted to go—and just be in love again. They got married so young. I wasn’t happy about it at the time. I didn’t want her missing out on life by setting down so soon. But settling down was life for Lindsey, and I’d realized that.

So why not enjoy each other instead of picking fights over things like missing one dinner (when they have dinner together every night). 

Instead I say, “why don’t you come over to mine? I just got a pizza and have some wine somewhere.”

“Hmm,” I can hear her wheels turning, “right. If he’s going to have a night out with his friends. I can certainly turn it up with my sister.”

“I was thinking of this more like just hanging out and watching a movie. Also, why are you the one talking like a middle-aged woman? Turn it up? Come on, Lindz.”

“Whatever. I’ll be there in twenty.”

She hangs up. 

Back in my apartment, I place the pizza down on the small round dining table in the middle of my living room/dining area. I live in a one-bedroom and have kept things pretty simple. I have the essentials, but haven’t really decorated all that much. Never really felt the need. There are a couple of candles on my nightstand and a few pictures of me and friends and siblings. 

Other than that, it’s the basic furnishings: a couch, a bed, a table. You get the idea. 

I walk into my kitchen and turn on the light. It’s a pendant light that swings sometimes during our earth shakes. They occur every fifteen minutes or so now, which makes finding things at night a little tricky. However, I’m able to unearth a bottle of merlot from my top cabinet and two wine glasses from a cupboard. I walk them over to my table. 

I also grab some sheets from a paper towel roll that I keep out on my counter. Then I sit down and play on my phone a bit. I actually enjoy looking at people’s social media posts now more than ever. First of all, many of them are expressions of love and gratitude towards those around them. Second of all, there are still influencers out there who are posing in the latest fashion trends. It always makes me giggle at the irony of it all. Who still cares about haute couture when we have hot climate to be worrying about? 

There’s a knock on my door and I walk over to let my sister inside. She charges in and throws her bag down on my sofa. 

“Where’s the wine?” She demands.

She’s wearing slacks, flats, and a button down shirt. Honestly, who still wears business casual when the world is ending? My sister. That’s who. 

“Right here,” I say, pouring her a glass. 

She takes it and slumps herself down into one of my wooden wishbone dining chairs. She takes a big sip and sighs, shaking her head. 

“Jim, right? Can you believe him?”

“Nope,” I say, pouring myself a glass as well. 

I sit across from her and take a big sip of my wine. Then I set it down on the table and open the pizza box. I grab the biggest slice, wrestle it from the others, and take a giant bite. That’s one thing that I’ve changed since finding out that we only had ninety days left to live. I eat like I’m starving. I take giant bites and I close my eyes and I really taste the food. 

I eat big breakfasts with pancakes and syrup and eggs and toast and potatoes and fruits. We’re bound to run out of fresh produce soon (regular farmers had to stop their work years ago and even our lab farmers have recently stopped their produce production due to a lack of water and nutrient-deficient soils—even with our manufactured soil supplements). So I eat as much of it now as possible. My lunches are rich pastas, thick sandwiches, samosas, curries, noodle dishes. Dinners are like tonight. Pizzas covered in veggies and cheese. Trays of sushi. Bread and butter and lasagna and dumplings. Then dessert. Don’t get me started on dessert. 

Anyway, as I devour the pizza now, my sister looks at me. 

“Aren’t we going to use plates?” She asks. 

I blink at her. 

“Lindz,” I say, “the world is ending. Just grab a slice and eat it.”

“The world isn’t ending tomorrow, is it?”

“No.”

“Then we don’t need to act like it is.”

She gets up and walks into my kitchen. She opens a cupboard and brings out two plates. She places one in front of me and then takes the other and sets it down in front of herself. Then she grabs a slender slice from the box and puts it down on the plate. The wine glass is up to her lips again. 

“Anyway,” she says, “I just don’t get why he can’t just stick with his word, you know? It’s not that hard. Just, like, do what you say you’re going to do.”

“Mhmm,” I say, taking another giant bite. 

“Beck,” my sister looks at me with concerned eyes, “ugh. You know, if you keep eating like that, you’re not going to fit through the door.”

I shrug.

“Seriously, though. You’ve got to stop.”

“Why?” I ask, honestly not understanding her concern, and still chewing. 

“Because it’s not good for you!”

“Lindsey,” I scoff at how preposterous she is, “what does that matter? We’re dying in less than ninety days.”

I go back to eating. I’m focused on my pizza. However, after about twenty silent seconds—which is a lot longer than you might think (something we found out after the AAEOW announced that this was the appropriate amount of time to scrub your hands and we spent bored seconds staring at ourselves in mirrors while we massaged soap across our fingers)—I notice that she’s spookily quiet. Lindsey is never quiet.

I look up, and to my horror, she’s crying. Her eyes have filled with tears and some have started rolling down her cheeks. I am once again looking at my seven-year-old sister. She is looking up at me during mom’s funeral or after having a bad dream. Her freckles have faded but they’re still there. Her cheeks and nose have turned red. 

“Oh, shit,” I say, “Lindz, I’m sorry.”

“You [sob] all think I’m so crazy! You think [deep breath] that I have no idea what’s happening. You [sob] think you’re so mature because you’ve accepted the fact that we’re all going to die in a matter of months. Well guess what! I don’t think that’s mature at all. I think it’s mature to understand what’s happening. Understand that there’s nothing we can do about it, but to still try to be the best person that we can be. And you know what? YOU KNOW WHAT?”

I am not sure what to say, so I just shake my head. 

“I am fucking terrified. And I am sad. I am so fucking sad that we don’t get to live together longer. I am so fucking furious that Jim and I don’t get to have kids. I am fucking livid. So if I want to pretend that everything is just as it should be and eat off of a fucking plate, please. PLEASE. Do not look at me like I am fucking crazy.”

I’ve struggle to swallow the bite of pizza that’s been in my mouth this whole time. My stomach feels like it’s at my feet. I’d known that her way of dealing with things was to find normalcy in this crazy world. But I hadn’t really understood what the world ending meant for her.

And it meant, it means, so much more to her than it does to me. Lindsey has always dreamed of starting a family. She has worked hard for her career, but her true goal has always been to be a mother. That dream has been taken away from her and I have failed to be compassionate about that.

I walk over and wrap my arms around her. My baby sister. My sweet, loving, generous baby sister. I am crying now too. Nothing is fair. I, too, am fucking furious that she will never get to have a child. That I will never get to meet my niece or nephew. My throat hurts as I take a breath.

“You,” I say, “are, and always have been, so much better than I am. You were always more responsible. More stable. Logical. I’m sorry that I often joke about that. It’s an incredible quality that I wish I had more of. You know, when mom died, I promised you that everything would be okay. I know it seems like that isn’t possible now. But it will be. Everything will be okay,” I hug her tighter.

For a moment, we stay like that. My knees on the hardwood floors, arms around her, rocking back and forth.

“This isn’t what you wanted and it’s certainly not what you deserve. But it’s going to be okay. I promise. The world will ending but that means you’ll have always been successful. You’ll have always been a badass lawyer. You’ll have always been beautiful and young and a woman who wasn’t afraid to fight for her profession or her family. You and Jim will never have to see each other grow old. Neither one of you will have to watch the other die. It’ll be okay.”

“You’re wrong,” she says wiping away tears.

Her voice is serious and I pull back. I’m afraid of what she’ll say. I’m afraid that she’ll call me a liar or a coward or the worst sister in the world. I brace myself.

“I will have to watch Jim die because if he ever decides to flake on plans with me again, I am going to kill him myself.” Then she cracks a smile and laughs. I laugh too.

We laughing even though we’re still crying and I love my crazy sister so much it hurts.