Okay, fine, well done. Congrats, Mr. Junk Mail, I officially feel sorry for you.
“But—”
“Listen, all I can suggest is you go back to your friend”—I appreciate that he says friend as though we’re talking about an actual friend here, when it’s so obvious that’s not the case—“and see if you can get a grocery delivery slot, and maybe one from Topshop or whatever, see you through the next week. But unless you need to go to a hospital, you’re stuck here.”
*
I trudge slowly, grudgingly, back up the stairs. My shoes are pinching my toes, so I take them off, slinging the straps over my index finger to carry them. Mr. Junk Mail stays downstairs to scrub down the door I just put my grubby hands all over, almost like he’s warding me off, making sure I don’t try to leave again.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
Ugh.
I know exactly what I’m supposed to do now.
But still, I hope for the teeniest bit of luck as I jiggle the handle for Apartment 14.
Locked.
Obviously.
Weighing up my options, I finally sit down on the plain tan door-mat, my back against the door, and press my hands over my face.
This is what I get for ignoring all the advice.
Not so much the stay home stuff (although that, too) so much as the You’re not in university anymore, Immy, stop acting like it advice—from my parents, my friends, my boss, hell, even my little brothers.
As I always say, who needs to grow up when you can have fun?
This, however, is decidedly not fun.
My only option is to do exactly what I would’ve done back in university: phone my bestie.
Despite the early hour, Lucy answers with a quiet but curt, “What have you done this time?”
“Heyyy, Luce . . . ”
“How much do you need, Immy?”
“What makes you think I need money? What makes you think I’ve done anything?” I ask with mock offense, clutching a hand to my heart for dramatic effect, even though she can’t see me. And even though I can’t see her, I absolutely know she’s rolling her eyes when she gives that long, low sigh. “Although, all right, I am in . . . the littlest spot of trouble.”
“Did you forget to cancel a free trial?”
Lucy’s so used to my shit by now that she knows how melodramatic I can be over something like that—melodramatic enough to warrant an early-morning phone call like this.
But, alas.
I open my mouth to tell her I’m stuck with Honeypot Guy, the guy I’ve been messaging for the last week or so, whom she specifically told me not to go see because there’s maybe a pandemic, and now I’m stuck quarantined in his building and I only have the one pair of underwear and I didn’t even bring a toothbrush with me and . . .
And I hate admitting how right Lucy always is.
Even if, technically, this is all her fault, because she was too busy with some stupid wedding planning party last night to answer her phone and talk me out of going to see the guy in the first place. So I decided to go, and not tell her about it until I was safely back at home, just to prove a point about how she always makes a big deal out of nothing, how she worries too much.
“Oh Jesus Christ, you went to see him, didn’t you? Honeypot?”
I cannot tell her the truth.
At least, not yet.
“No! No, no, of course I didn’t,” I blurt, even though I fully expect her to see right through me. “I, um, I’m just . . . well, look, so, the thing is . . . ”
I don’t like lying to my best friend—to anybody, really, if I can help it. If anything, I’m a total oversharer. But I decide this is for the greater good. I mean, really, I’m just doing her a favor, right? If she knew, she’d only spend the week worrying and stressing about me. I’m just sparing her that.
Lucy cuts me off with a sigh, understanding that whatever it is, it’s a bit more than the usual mischief I get myself into, and she says, “Oh, you’re properly fucked this time, aren’t you?”
“Thanks, Luce.”
Thankfully, she doesn’t push me for answers. “How’s your overdraft?”
“Not great.”
“Did you run up your credit card again this month?”
“A little bit.”
We both know that actually means “almost completely.”
“Will a hundred quid cover it, Immy?”
“I love you.”
“I’ll add it to your tab,” she tells me, and I know she’s smiling. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Oh, you know me!” I say, laughing. I’m weirdly relieved that being quarantined with a one-night stand isn’t the craziest thing that’s happened to me in the last month or so. It’s definitely not as bad as the night out where I climbed onstage to challenge the headlining drag queen to a lip sync battle, is it? “I’ll work it out. Just . . . yeah. Thanks again, Luce. I’ll tell you everything when I see you next.”
“Don’t you always?”
Lucy has a way of ending conversations without having to say good-bye. I know her well enough to recognize that this is one of those moments. I say good-bye and thank her again for the money she’ll send me, the way she always does, which I will repay in love and affection and memes until one day in the distant future, when I have miraculously gotten my life together enough to pay off my overdraft and have enough left to put a dent in my ever-growing tab at the Bank of Lucy.
Feeling at least a little better, I stand back up, dust myself off, and knock on the door.
It takes a few minutes to open.
He’s disconcerted and groggy and wearing only his boxer shorts.
The carefully coiffed blond hair I’d admired in his pictures is now matted, sticking up at all angles. The dried line of drool is still there on the side of his mouth.
I give him my biggest, bestest grin, cocking my head to one side and twirling some hair around a finger.
“Hey there, Niall. Um . . . ”
He yawns loudly and holds up a finger to shush me before covering his mouth. He shakes his head, blinking a few times, then looks at me, confused and none too impressed.
“I hate to be an imposition, but your building is kind of . . . quarantined.”
“It’s what?”
I look for the piece of paper I stepped over earlier and bend down to pick it up. It’s a printed notice that, at a quick glance, instructs residents to stay indoors for a seven-day period. I hold it out to him, staying silent and swaying side to side, hands clasped in front of me, while he reads it, rubbing his eyes. He has to squint, holding it up close to his face.
“Oh shit.”
“There’s a guy downstairs, and he won’t let me leave,” I say. “I’m really sorry, but unless you want to take it up with him . . . ”
I step back inside the apartment, leaving my shoes outside once more. He’s speechless as I put down my bag and coat.
“I’m just going to use your bathroom. You know, wash my hands.” I waggle them at him, as if to prove what a responsible grown-up I am.
When I come out he’s still standing by the door, still clutching the paper.
“So, Nico, listen—”
“It’s Nate.”
“What?”