Our boss pops back up.
“All right, sorry about that! Where were we? Right, Joe, you were just talking us through the revamped branding message . . . ”
And Joe, our usually very introverted and shy design guy, blurts incredulously, looking deeply judgemental, “I’m sorry, but Zee the Cat is short for Salazar Slytherhiss? And you never told us this? ”—and just like that, I’m oblivious to all the distractions in my apartment and in fits of giggles.
My phone buzzes a few seconds later.
A text from Danny.
Do you mind keeping it down a little bit, please?
I shoot back a middle finger emoji, but after my meeting I make myself a cup of tea and some coffee for him, and I kiss him on the cheek, and ask him to use his AirPods next time he has a meeting.
I can totally be a grown-up about this, and make this all work.
Hell, with five more days of this to go, I don’t have much of a choice.
apartment #6 – ethan
Chapter Twelve
It’s automatic, when I start my day by filling the kettle with too much water for just me, and get the cream mug with the swirly gold Hello Sunshine motif on it she likes to use in the mornings off the mug tree and put a tea bag in it, before I remember she’s not putting her makeup on in the bedroom and I don’t need to make her a cup of tea.
Yesterday, it was automatic when I picked up the TV remote and opened my mouth to ask if she wanted to watch some more of The Mandalorian. When I wondered what we’d have for dinner or when I ordered a large pepperoni pizza and made it gluten free before remembering I didn’t have to, because she wasn’t even here to eat it.
Today, when I put away the laundry and wondered if that T-shirt was one that she hangs in the wardrobe or folds in the drawers.
And it is so, so, blindly obvious to me, all the places that Charlotte is missing this week.
At least I’ve not let my usual routine slip today, though. That’s something. It’s nice to have some sense of normality, even if there’s a lot about this whole situation that’s decidedly not normal.
Despite the whole, you know, pandemic thing, I tell myself it’s just a normal Tuesday. I reply to emails, review that contract for that brand deal, send an invoice for the VPN advertising I did on my last video. I schedule some tweets, script my next video, send out invites for my Patreon livestream.
A totally normal Tuesday. I wouldn’t even have needed to leave the house today anyway. It absolutely does not matter that I’m on lockdown and totally alone. If anything, it should be helpful. I should have the most productive day—week, even—that I’ve ever had.
Minimal distractions.
It’s all going to be great.
(Maybe if I tell myself this enough I’ll start to believe it.) It’s weird to be sitting at my desk and leaning back, stretching out, looking out at the balcony, and not see her out there, carefully watering the collection of plants we bought together at the garden center last year.
After a while, I realize I’ve been hunched over my computer a little too long: she’s not here to come and stand behind me, fingers lightly massaging my neck before she leans down to hug me and murmur, “Come on, Ethan, sweetie, you need a break.”
I miss the smell of her perfume.
Shit, I even miss the smell of cigarette smoke from when she’s really stressed about something and thinks she can sneak one out on the balcony without me noticing. I wonder if she’s sneaking cigarettes back home at her parents’ place.
When I forget to rinse my mug after coffee, I even miss the angry little look on her face when she’s annoyed at me about something—in this case, the way the coffee will stain the inside of the mug. I miss the way her nose scrunches up and her lips pout and she folds her arms tight across her chest and if anything, it just looks kind of adorable and sometimes I have to try not to laugh at her for it.
Fuck, I miss her.
I don’t need anybody to tell me how pathetic I sound.
Mostly because I’m acutely aware of how pathetic I sound.
I’m on the verge of going full-on Bella Swan in New Moon without her, and I’m not even mad that I even get that reference. (Charlotte and I had a great weekend watching the whole five-movie saga when they were all on Netflix last year, so she could enjoy some nostalgia from her teenage years.)
Honestly, I’d give anything to be snuggled on the sofa with her right now, binge watching the Twilight movies.
Breaking news: I’m a total sap.
*
I met Charlotte at the cinema, two and a half years ago.
She loves the story. She calls it a “classic rom-com meet-cute.” Her green eyes light up and she blushes when she tells it, a big, goofy grin on her face.
I was on my phone, texting the girl from Bumble I was supposed to be meeting there. I didn’t even see Charlotte, and I walked right into her when she turned away from the counter. She dropped the large bag of popcorn she’d just bought, letting out the most adorable squeak.
I was mortified, and fully expected some big, beefy guy to suddenly pop up behind her to ask me what the fuck I thought I was doing, almost knocking his girlfriend to the floor and spilling popcorn all over her, and all over the floor. Said beefy boyfriend never appeared, though. I stammered apologies and insisted on buying her some replacement popcorn. Charlotte let me, blushing, and asked if I was there alone.
“I’m actually waiting for someone. What about you?”
“Here alone,” she told me.
I sounded way too judgemental when I asked this total stranger incredulously, “You come to the movies on your own?”
“Don’t you? I love it,” she’d told me, breaking into a smile, and that was when I noticed the hazel flecks in her eyes. “I mean, it’s not like you can talk much during the film anyway. And I can’t resist a period drama. I—I guess your girlfriend can’t either.”
“Oh, she’s not my girlfriend. Well. I, uh. I met her on Bumble. I’ve, um, I’ve never actually met her before. First date.”
“Oh! Ooh, well, good luck.”
She had her popcorn by then, and we stood there at the counter holding up the line while she smiled at me, and I tapped my phone awkwardly against my fingers, my mouth dry.
“I hope your date goes well,” she told me.
“Yeah. Thanks. En—enjoy the movie.”
My date never showed. I stood there holding two tickets in one hand and my phone in the other, until the usher told me, “I think you’ve missed the trailers, mate. If she’s not here by now . . . ”
At that point, I figured, I may as well see this movie, since I’d already paid for it.
Charlotte and I somehow found ourselves leaving at the same time once the movie was over. I say “somehow,” like she hadn’t waved at me when I walked in by myself, and like I hadn’t sat three rows behind her and kind of maybe sort of waited for her to leave once the credits began to roll.
By then, my phone had a text that said So sorry! Can’t make it :(
maybe some other time?
Charlotte told me she was sorry my date had stood me up.
And I couldn’t help myself. This cute girl with her chin-length wavy ginger hair and freckles, the big white cable-knit sweater she was wearing with a short plaid skirt and ankle boots, who went to the movies on her own and was still holding a mostly full large bag of popcorn, blushing when I stared at her.