“But what about you?” I ask him, and fix him with my best coy look, batting my eyelashes and leaning forward, my lips pulling into a smirk. “Are you girlfriend material, Nate, or are you a Wine Aunt too? Mr. Just-Looking-For-Something-Casual?”
He mumbles, like he can’t pick a word to start with, and I hear him gulp. He drags his hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face, and I notice him clench his jaw.
Oh shit. Great. Well done, Imogen, you overstepped. See that tiny speck in the distance? That was The Line, and you just unwittingly ran right past it.
I’m about to apologize— again, for a second time already this morning—because I’ve so obviously made him uncomfortable and this is so obviously a topic he doesn’t like talking about, but then—“I’m a serial monogamist. Or so my mates tell me.” He gives an awkward chuckle, and scuffs a foot against the kitchen tiles. “You know those people who have basically no downtime between relationships? Like, they say they need time and space to get over someone, and then just hurtle right on into the next one even though they didn’t mean to? That’s me. Three girlfriends in the last six years, and I’ve probably been single a total of, I don’t know, four months? Including this last month.”
“Ohhhh. Oh, I get it! I was the rebound!”
Nate’s face turns pale, but I laugh and wave a hand to shush him.
“No, seriously, it’s okay. You said you wanted something casual, and casual is like, my MO. I’m cool with being a rebound.”
“That’s not what . . . ” Nate huffs, messing with his hair again before slumping against the counter beside me. His arm presses against mine. “Not to sound like a total dick, but I was sort of . . . I was trying to be one of those guys.”
“What guys?”
“Like you said you date. The ones who just date girls and have fun and because they’re only ever going to go on a few dates, they don’t make, like, serious, exclusive commitments, and . . . Don’t laugh at me,” he says, nudging me gently when I start giggling at the idea of this awkward, sweet, serial monogamist being some kind of womanizer. “I thought it’d be good for me, which, now I’m saying it out loud, I realize sounds really stupid. And dick-ish. I just thought I’d try to change things up a little. Commit to not committing, for a change.”
“And how’s that working out for you, mate?”
“Oh, so awesome. This girl I just hooked up with has already moved in with me.”
I laugh again, and Nate grins at me with a sidelong glance, nudging me with his elbow again. He’s standing so close I can feel the warmth of his body against mine. I can smell the scent of the shower gel lingering on his skin. His lips are soft and parted in that smile and I want to kiss them. I want to taste the coffee on them. I want to kiss him and have him turn me around to sit me on the counter so we’re more of a height with each other. I want to bury my face in the crook of his neck and press my lips to the skin just above his T-shirt collar while his arms wrap around me to hold me flush against him.
And I want to stay in this moment with him grinning at me like that and laughter on my lips forever.
And that, I realize, is most definitely a first.
Nate breaks the spell, though, clearing his throat. He steps away from me and starts fixing himself breakfast, looking at the digital clock on the oven and saying something about having to start work soon.
Right. Work. The real world. Back to reality, where we’re just the universe’s weirdest, most unlikely pair of temporary roommates and where Nate clears his throat to say, “Why don’t you go and get dressed, Imogen? I’ll put some toast in for you,” like the gentleman he is.
I’m almost out of the room when I find myself pausing, turning back, and leaning through the doorway. He’s concentrating on making himself some porridge, oblivious to me. I open my mouth to say something, but think better of it, and sigh a little as I leave.
All things considered, Honeypot, I think I would’ve liked to see you again too.
apartment #17 – serena
Chapter Ten
It’s not so bad, I tell myself for the billionth time. Zach’s worked shifts as long as we’ve been together, so I’m used to being disturbed all hours of the day, or him being home while I have to work.
But usually, I was, you know, in the office when he was at home and I had to work.
Right now, I’d take the early-morning wake-up as he got in from a night shift over . . . well, this.
Because he’s a nurse, there’s no way Zach could go in to work—the hospital he works at is still waiting on a huge shipment of tests for the virus, and his colleagues are able to cover his shifts in the meantime. There’s no way he can do any of his job from home.
Which means he’s spent the last two days playing video games in the bedroom, while I’ve been trying to work from our dining table, squashed into the corner of the room by the balcony doors.
Squashed, because the table is a hand-me-down, and it’s too big for the room, and it’s round, but, you know. It was a hand-me-down. So it was free. And we never got around to replacing it. Something I’m deeply regretting now, sat on an uncomfortable chair that creaks every time I move, wedged into the corner of the room to keep the sun’s glare off my computer screen.
In theory, working from home should be easy enough, since I can dial into meetings and I’ve got my work laptop with me, but . . . I’m really, really struggling without the whole office environment, and not being able to talk to people face to face. And the whole lack-of-a-desk situation. Zach tells me it’s just teething problems, that I’ll get into the swing of things, but so far all I feel is stressed out about it.
I swear I can barely focus long enough to send two emails in a row all day long.
Right now, at least, I have a full hour between any meetings, so decide I’ve earned at least a bit of a break. I go to find Zach pottering around in the kitchen, mashing bananas up.
“I thought we were throwing those out,” I say, looking at the pile of brown-spotted skins on the counter. The bananas were one of our more recent arguments, last week: Zach forgot to buy them, and we both like to take them to work as a snack, so I’d made a big deal out of how I had to go out of my way after work one day to get some—only for Zach to apparently ignore me, and also go out of his way after work to buy a bunch.
And honestly, there are only so many bananas you can eat in a day.
It bugs me just to look at them. Because, seriously, did he not listen to anything I said? Or did he like going out of his way to ignore me?
“I’m making banana bread,” he tells me, nudging his glasses back up his long, straight nose with the back of his hand. “I saw someone post about it on Instagram, thought, why not? Not like I’ve got much else to do.”
I feel an initial flicker of resentment that yeah, he should do something productive like this and I should be so lucky, but it quickly gives way to just thinking how nice it is that he’s baking something. I step over and kiss him, dust some flour off his sleeve.
“What do you want for dinner tonight?” I ask him then, stepping to the fridge. I open it, even though I know exactly what’s in it.