Nate sighs.
In the single day into our week of quarantine, I have lost count of the number of times he has sighed. Because I didn’t use a coaster for a cup of tea. Because I put a glass on the floor, and again because I forgot about it and kicked it over, spilling water on the rug. Because I made a sandwich and got crumbs in the butter, and on the counter.
And now, apparently, because a few strands of hair missed the memo that they’re supposed to stay attached to my scalp while I’m here.
It was obvious as soon as I got here that Nate is a minimalist. There was no clutter anywhere, not so much as a candle or coffee table book to jazz the space up a little. An orderly bookcase in the hallway and another in the living-room space, a dark TV stand that I could only assume hid a mess of wires and his stuff. I mean, jeez, he only had one bottle of shampoo in the shower! Where were the half-dozen
“almost finished but there’s still a bit left and I’ll get around to using it at some point so don’t throw it away yet” shampoo bottles? He did, at least, have a blanket on the sofa, a couple of snake plants, and a nice navy-blue feature wall in both the living room/dining room and his bedroom, which made it less boring.
Minimalists are a mystery to me, but I can handle it.
The intense tidiness, not so much.
“You’re a neat freak,” I tell him, wrapping the wad of my wet hair in some toilet paper and tossing it in the bin.
“And you’re sloppy,” he bites back. He turns away, muttering under his breath, “Glad I’m not stuck at your place.”
I know he didn’t mean for me to hear that, but I bristle, glowering at his back. So what if the walls in my place aren’t a nice, boring shade of magnolia, and maybe have a couple of damp spots under the wall - paper in some rooms? Mr. High-and-Mighty who probably dusts the skirting boards and doesn’t have a single expired product in the fridge.
I pull a few faces at him but decide not to say anything. I probably shouldn’t pick a fight with Nate when he’s being generous enough to let me stay here for the week.
Not that he’s got a choice, but he has been very decent about the whole thing.
He also let me order some extra clothes on his credit card because mine is maxed out, and he told me he wouldn’t take any money off me for the food delivery order he managed to get. Which was really sweet of him, actually.
And he went to a neighbor to borrow some clothes for me in the meantime, so I have a pair of leggings and a tank top to go with the button-down shirt I stole out of his wardrobe this morning.
I hear Nate filling the kettle in the little kitchen next to the living room so I stick my head in. The cabinets are an almost blinding white, but it’s not that I can’t see, it’s just that there’s so little to see. No overflowing recycling bin nobody can be bothered to take out, no pile of dirty plates by the sink, no random packets of food abandoned on the counter waiting to be put away at some point. The kitchen is probably the most cluttered place in the whole apartment, if only because he has some of that magnet poetry on the fridge, and there are appliances and a mug tree and a metal dish rack out on the counter, but even that’s all horrifyingly orderly.
He looks over at me, hearing me in the doorway, and I nod my head in the direction of the kettle.
“Go on, then.”
He sighs— again—shaking his head, but gets an extra mug out to make me some tea too. I blow him a kiss and retreat to the living room. I throw myself down on the sofa, opening up Instagram to see if there’s anything new in the six minutes since I last checked it.
“Remind me what you do?” he asks me, once he’s back in the living room. He sets the tea down on coasters on the table in front of the sofa, and gives a pointed look at my feet. I tuck my knees up to make room for him, but immediately put my feet back in his lap.
He looks a little startled by it, almost as though he’s never seen feet before.
I mean, for God’s sake, we’ve had sex. Three times.
Forgive me for making myself comfortable.
“I’m a primary school teacher,” I answer him. “And you work in project management at a bank, right?”
Nate looks genuinely surprised that I remember and runs a hand through his blond hair. It’s not so neat now as in his pictures on the dating app, but it’s fluffy and it’s a cute look on him. So are those gray jogging bottoms, actually, now I think about it.
How dare guys look so good in something so basic.
Maybe I should try that, next time, I think. Just show up for a date in a white T-shirt, gray joggers, no makeup—see how they like it.
Nate clears his throat, but he’s oblivious to how distracted I just got.
He seems to be making every effort not to look at me right now, actually.
“Right. Yes. I do remember you saying, now you mention it.”
He definitely doesn’t remember.
“I guess you can’t really work from home if you’re a teacher.”
“Probably not, but our headmistress has had us prepping for this since the whole very dangerous contagious virus thing first started cropping up in the news. She’s had us all prepping lesson plans and work sheets and sending out letters to parents with instructions on how to download and use Zoom.” I roll my eyes. “We all said she was overreacting and watches too many horror movies and conspiracy documentary things, but, hey. Look at me now.”
I stretch out, waving my hands in a grand flourish and tossing my hair, but it doesn’t seem to amuse him. Yesterday, I obviously text the WhatsApp group with some of the other teachers and the headmistress to explain my predicament to them. They’ve had to class it as sick leave, since stuck in a stranger’s apartment due to a super infectious disease isn’t on our clunky old HR system—yet. They got someone to cover my classes for the week, though, and nobody’s mad about it. Hell, they can’t be. This isn’t like that time I lost my passport and got stuck in Brussels on a weekend away that went on a little longer than planned.
Nate’s obviously not impressed with my blasé attitude and I decide he probably won’t totally appreciate the Brussels story—at least, not right now. So instead I straighten up and add, “But you’re obviously doing okay, working from home.”
I look at his laptop on the coffee table, a black leather notebook and fountain pen resting beside it, and a neatly coiled pair of headphones.
There’s a very detailed, boring-looking spreadsheet open on the laptop screen. The kind with pivot tables. I shudder at the thought.
“Oh. Yeah, it’s . . . I mean, we work from different locations sometimes anyway. Client sites, and stuff. It’s not ideal, but I’ll manage.”
“How’s the rest of your day looking?” I ask, scooting a little closer, using my feet in his lap to hook my legs between his. “Any big, important meetings you just can’t miss?”
Nate’s eyes narrow slightly and he cocks his head to one side, letting out a nervous chuckle. He doesn’t know me that well, but obviously enough to know I’m not asking to be polite. “Why?”
I shrug. “You know, if you’re not busy, maybe we could watch a movie or something?”
“Or something.”
I think, for a second, he’s going to say yes. His eyes are dark and one of his hands drifts distractedly to my legs, grazing from my knee and down my calf.