I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever done this in my life, but . . . do you, maybe, want to go get something to eat? Or—or a coffee, or something, or . . . I mean, you don’t have to, and—”
She beamed at me, and I was floored.
*
I didn’t even know her name when I asked her on that date, but I’m so goddamn glad I did.
I can’t imagine not meeting her. Or if the Bumble date had ever shown up. Charlotte likes to say it was fate; I love it when she does.
On our fifth date, I told her I loved her.
She suggested moving in together after three months.
It was crazy, and her twin sister Maisie laughed and told us we were, quote, “Fucking idiots, falling for a whirlwind romance like this,” and she, like everyone else we knew, told us not to sign a twelve-month rent agreement on an apartment, not when we’d only been dating for a couple of months.
The twelve months ran out.
We didn’t renew it, just like everybody told us we wouldn’t.
Instead, we bought our own place. (Thanks to some inheritance I had from my grandpa, and a small loan from both our parents that we’d probably still be paying off in ten years to help bring the mortgage down to something we could actually afford, but it was so worth it.)
It wasn’t exactly Charlotte’s dream place, and I would’ve liked an extra room to use as a studio space or office, but it was ours.
Right now, it feels too big without her. The empty space on the dresser where her perfume usually sits, the half-empty pot where some of her makeup brushes are missing. And I really hate the empty space on the other side of the bed and I hate sitting down at the dining table by myself, the place mats still left out in Charlotte’s seat.
I hate her not being here.
And I know that’s stupid; I know she’ll be back in just a couple of days and she’s only been staying with her parents and sister for a week and it’s all because of this stupid lockdown business; it’s not like she chose not to be here anymore or we had a fight or anything, but . . .
I wish she were here right now.
I wish she never has to go away for a week again.
I wish I could spend the rest of my life with Charlotte sneaking cigarettes on the balcony after a bad day at work and pulling that angry face at me because I forgot to water the plants or put away the laundry even though I’d been at home all day. I miss making her tea in the morning while she gets ready and having her snuggle into my arms with a sigh and reading essays on classic literature while I play a video game.
I never want to be without that.
And then I realize—
I want to marry this girl.
apartment #22 – olivia
Chapter Thirteen
It’s fine. This is only day four. Or—hmm, technically, it’s day five, since they arrived on Friday night. This is only day FIVE. Only . . . oh, so many more days to go. Cabin fever? Don’t know her. We are all doing just great, and everything is totally fine.
All things considered, I think, this really could be a lot worse.
Of course, that could just be the alcohol talking.
Kim has a lot of things on her Bridal Bucket List—which is really just a very extensive Pinterest board (separate, of course, from the centerpieces board, and the one for dresses, and the one for hair-styles she likes) but this has got to be my favorite thing on it by far.
We decided, this week, we should do one thing from her Bridal Bucket List each evening.
Tonight, it’s signature wedding cocktails, personalized to reflect the bride and groom and their relationship. I’m sure Kim had grander things in mind when she saved the idea, but this has been so much fun. We gathered every bit of alcohol in my apartment—which was actually quite a considerable collection.
“Spot the alcoholic,” Addison teased, when she counted out six different types of gin. “Rough time at work, Livvy, or do you moonlight as a bartender to pick up hot dates?”
I didn’t like to admit to her I did a mixology course with some people from work and ended up dating the girl who ran the class for a couple of weeks, and that we went out a few times to some gin place she was obsessed with, where I got suckered into buying a new bottle every damn time.
When I ignored her, Addison only laughed and winked at me.
“Who are we kidding, right? Like you need any help picking up hot dates.”
And then, I didn’t reply to that because I was too busy blushing and hoping she didn’t notice.
Anyway, after a lot of taste testing, we decide we’ve perfected the Kim/Jeremy Wedding Special. This is a cocktail that consists of:
2 x shots of pomegranate and rose gin
1 x shot of white rum
Tonic
Twist of lime
“Do you think it’ll taste this good when we’re sober?” Lucy asks, sipping hers. Apparently a complete lightweight, her cheeks are flushed and bright pink after only a couple of drinks, her dark hair turning frizzy. The way I hear it from Kim, Lucy is more of a quiet-night-in kind of person—and I’m guessing those nights in are accompanied by a cup of tea rather than a large glass of wine.
“Absolutely,” Kim declares. “This is the greatest thing I have ever tasted.”
“We’re goddamn geniuses,” Addison agrees. She holds up her glass, knocking it into mine as a “cheers,” and slops cocktail on my lap. She’s too busy laughing to apologize, and leans against me, tucking her head onto my shoulder, her body warm and soft against mine, the smell of her perfume filling my nostrils. I freeze, not sure how to respond. She’s probably just a hugger, that’s all. Just ignore her—it’s nothing.
Addison is oblivious to how rigid I’ve become and adds, “We should make careers out of this. Quit our jobs and just start a business making cocktails.”
“Oh, I wish,” Kim snorts. “The literal dream.”
“Lucy can be front of house. Livvy’s already got the stockroom sorted,” Addison says.
“It’s Liv,” I say, not so tipsy I can’t correct her. “And Lucy’s not front of house, she’s a manager. I mean, it’s her literal job.”
“Even better!” Addison leaps to her feet. “Hey, how about charades?
Let’s play charades!”
We all agree, but a round of charades comes at a cost: we have to tidy up and rearrange the room again.
Personally, I couldn’t be more relieved. It gives me an excuse to stand up and move away from Addison. Who, I tell myself, is probably just a cuddly drunk. That’s all. Even though she wasn’t really like that this weekend. But maybe she’s had more to drink tonight? Sure.
That’s all it is.
Lucy and Kim clear up the bottles of alcohol and the glasses we dis-carded, half-drunk cocktails that didn’t work out, while Addison clears the stack of pillows and blankets off the sofa, and I move the airbed to stand against the balcony doors, giving us back some floor space.
My lovely clean, tidy apartment, a distant memory.
We’ve decided to stick with the sleeping arrangements from the weekend: Addison and Kim are sharing my double bed, Lucy is on the sofa, and I’ve been on an air mattress in the living room. The hostess with the mostest, giving up my own bed for my guests. No big deal for a night or two. Now, I’m not sure my back will ever forgive me, a thought which is making me feel more like eighty-four than twenty-four.