Charlotte noticed. Because, of course she did. And I have to hand it to her, she really knew how to help me out without making me feel like she had to take care of me and fix my life. Gentle nudges like, “I really love it when you make me a cup of tea in the morning,” or,
“I think it’s sweet when we go to bed at the same time so I get to fall asleep next to you.”
She never made me feel like I was failing or being a complete loser.
Just one of a million things I love about her.
I wonder how she’s getting on at home, with her parents and her sister, Maisie. Has her routine gone to shit today too? She’s an editor for a company that produces educational resources and textbooks for A-level students, so she normally works from home a day or two a week anyway, but I wonder how it’s going for her there. I wonder if she’s in a meeting or if I could call her.
Despite the fact it’s already late morning, I’m on autopilot, grabbing her favorite mug before I realize what I’m doing and set it back, rolling my eyes at myself. Come on, Ethan, get it together. She’s been gone three days, you can’t be falling apart already.
On the subject of getting it together, though, I really should see what kind of food I’ve got in, maybe place an order online.
I’m writing up a list in the Notes app on my phone when there’s a knock at the door.
For a second I just stand there like a dummy, trying to puzzle out who could possibly be knocking on my door at eight o’clock in the morning.
It’s gotta be Mr. Harris, I reason.
There’s another knock at the door, which jolts me into action.
“Coming, I’m coming,” I call out, already on my way. I throw open the door, only wondering then if I should be in a mask and gloves like our caretaker was yesterday. But it’s not Mr. Harris on the other side of the door.
It’s Nate, from the apartment above mine. And he looks . . . I don’t know if that expression is pissed off or concerned, but it’s not good, whatever it is. His jaw is clenched, his brow furrowed.
“Nate. Uh, hi. Everything all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m—I’m doing good.”
“You wanna come in?”
He starts to say yes, then cuts himself off with an awkward grin, and I realize my faux pas. “Best not.”
“Right. Yeah, sure. Pandemic. Lockdown for the whole week. Bit weird, isn’t it?”
Nate looks me dead in the eyes, and lets out a long, weary sigh.
“Ethan, you have no idea.”
We’re not especially close, I guess, but I’d call him a friend. Nate moved in here a year ago. Charlotte thought we should introduce ourselves when we noticed him tromping up and down the stairs, carrying boxes and suitcases of stuff; I ended up helping him move in. We go to the pub together every so often; Charlotte even set him up on a date with one of her friends, a couple of months ago, although that was a short-lived romance.
I assume he’s here because he needs to, I don’t know, borrow some toilet paper or something, and he can’t leave to go grocery shopping or wait for a delivery.
I do not expect him to open his mouth and rattle off some story about how there’s a random girl in his apartment he hooked up with on Saturday night, and, “I know I shouldn’t have invited her over, but . . . you didn’t see the way she was texting me, you know?”
“What, like, sexts?”
“No! No, nothing like that. Just . . . she had me hook, line, and sinker, that’s all. It was like she really got me, like we had a connection, which I know sounds totally pathetic because we matched on a dating app and we’ve only been talking for a few days. And she didn’t even remember my name! But I said sure, come on over, which is fucking crazy, right?”
“Uh, sure,” I say, because that’s obviously what he wants to hear.
Nate paces a few steps in a circle outside my door, and drags a hand back and forth through his hair.
“So she’s still here?” I ask. “Like, in your apartment, still here?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, kudos on setting the record for the longest one-night stand anybody’s ever had.”
He laughs, but it turns quickly into a groan, and Nate bends double, arms wrapping around his head before he straightens back up again. “Can I ask you a crazy big favor?”
“She’s not staying here,” I tell him, and then add, “You’re not staying here.”
Nate scoffs, shrugging one shoulder. “No, can I—look, she’s literally only got the one outfit. You can say no, I swear, I just figured I’d take my chance asking, but you think I could borrow some of Charlotte’s clothes? Imogen’s taller, but she’s skinnier, so I figure that must even out a little, right? And honestly, man, I don’t know how I’m supposed to sit on a call doing work with her lying on the sofa in one of my shirts and her underwear with her legs out and her ASOS order won’t arrive till Wednesday and—please, dude, you’ve gotta help me.”
“The sex was that good, huh?” I tease.
Nate just shakes his head. “She’s . . . I don’t know. She’s like one of those people that makes you want to pack a bag and go travel the world, forget you have any responsibilities or that real life even exists, you know?”
“Not really.”
“I just need her to at least look normal, so I’m not suddenly inspired to quit my job and decide to go look after baby elephants in Thailand, that’s all.”
“Do you want to go look after elephants in Thailand?”
“I really, really don’t,” he tells me gravely.
I laugh. “Let me ask Charlotte, but I can’t see it’ll be a problem.”
“Thank you. Thank you. Wait, where is she, anyway?”
After explaining that she’s locked out for as long as we’re locked in, I call Charlotte. She makes Nate send her a photo of his week-long one-night stand, and then she gives me strict instructions on which few items of clothes I’m to hand over that she thinks will fit Nate’s houseguest.
“We’ll send you the dry-cleaning bill,” I joke. “Give us a shout if you need anything else, okay?”
He makes a show of peering past me, squinting at the shelf of action figures in the hallway, the cool minimalist Marvel movie posters. “Unless you’ve got a working TARDIS in there to stop me inviting her over on Saturday night . . . ”
“Well, good luck.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I’m gonna need it.”
Yeah, you and me both, buddy.
apartment #14 – imogen
Chapter Eight
Nate is clean.
Objectively, this is a good thing. Especially during a pandemic. When I got here on Saturday night, I breathed a sigh of relief.
It’s never attractive when you’re picking your way through sweaty, dirty socks and old take-out containers, and a layer of grime clings to everything. It really puts a dampener on the sexy mood you’ve been building so carefully. (Not that plain beige walls and a lack of artwork or any real character are very sexy, either, but definitely the better option.)
However, it’s also not particularly attractive to be told to take the hair out of the plug in the shower and have the guy lurking in the doorway to make sure you do it properly. He’s on his lunch break; I got up late and have only just taken a shower.