I could have got away with this, scot-free, without her being any the wiser.
But, I think, squaring my shoulders and sticking out my chin, I am trying to turn over a bit of a new leaf, here. And I obviously want to tell her all about my week, so it’s not like she won’t ever find out.
Plus, I could really do with a ride home.
You know, since I’m trying to actually actively budget my Ubers now.
I run after her (well, as best as I can in my heels). A pair of underwear flies out of my handbag and I have to turn back to snatch them up.
“Oi! Lucy Kingsley!” I holler, and she jumps, turning around, head twisting side to side before she notices me.
“Oh my God,” she says, eyes bugging.
“You absolute bitch,” I declare, none too quietly, as I stride toward her. “How dare you not tell me where you’ve been all week. How dare you be in the same goddamn building as me, and not even mention it.”
She laughs, hugging me back when I engulf her in my arms.
“I don’t believe it,” she says. “What the hell are you doing here?
Did you come to welcome me back to the real world?” And then something dawns on her, and her face turns serious; her mouth falls open, and her eyes narrow at me. “Hang on. Hang on, why are you all dressed up? Oh my God, Immy. Don’t tell me. Don’t even tel me.”
“Honeypot kind of lives here,” I admit. “And I kind of thought I shouldn’t tell you because you’d only—”
“I’d only worry,” she finishes with a terse sigh, but she quickly laughs. Lucy rolls her eyes. “Tell me what kind of best friend I’d be if I didn’t worry that you had to shack up with a random one-night stand for a whole week. He could be anybody! He could have been a serial killer!”
“Speaking of, that caretaker . . . ”
“So weird, right? Did you see his hazmat suit?”
“Yes! He looked like—”
“Like Walter White!” she finishes, and we both burst into giggles.
Lucy’s grin fades slightly and she sighs at me again. “Honestly, Immy.
What are you like? I can’t believe you hid this from me all week. I have to know everything. Especially why you’re sporting a big old hickey, right here.”
She jabs at a spot on my throat where Nate left a love bite on Saturday, and I’m a bit mortified to find I’m blushing, and it’s not like I get embarrassed easily. Lucy’s eyes light up immediately, and she gasps, clapping both hands to her face.
“You like him!” she accuses.
I don’t deny it, and she squeals.
“I need to know absolutely everything. I don’t remember the last time I saw you going all goo-goo eyed over a boy. I cannot believe you’ve been here all week! Bloody hell. Where have you been all this time?”
“Number Fourteen,” I say.
Lucy shakes her head. “Of all the gin joints . . . ” She takes a look at my bag, overflowing with scrunched-up clothes, and my shoes.
“You’re not walking home, are you?”
I shrug with a faux-forlorn look at the main road, already knowing she’s going to offer to drive me home now I’ve run into her. “I was going to see if the buses are still running.”
Lucy huffs at me, turning away and striding toward her car. “Get in, Immy. I’ll drive you home.”
“Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?”
“You can keep saying it, but you still owe me money.”
“But I do. I love you so much.”
Lucy just laughs, and once we’re in her car we barely stop to catch our breath as we spill every detail of the last week at each other.
My phone buzzes on my lap when we’re halfway back to my place.
Lucy glances at it. “Who’s that?”
And right there on the screen, in the text notification that’s just appeared, is the honeypot emoji, followed by the words:
You were right—I’m missing you already x
apartment #6 – ethan
Chapter Forty-two
It’s automatic, the way I roll over, my arm reaching out for Charlotte.
I jolt awake, remembering, and snatch up my phone. I just got a text message—that’s what woke me up.
It’s her.
Charlotte’s text is just letting me know she’s on her way back home now, and she’ll see me soon. She adds some kissy-face emojis and a string of X s and O s. I rub the sleep out of my eyes with one hand, already texting back with the other to say I can’t wait to see her.
I can’t.
She’s coming home.
I don’t even care how needy and clingy I seem, if it makes me a loser or anything like that. None of that matters, because Charlotte is on her way home, and she said yes.
Fuck, I can’t believe I’m engaged.
I can’t believe she drove all the way here to tell me she’d seen the video, and to tell me yes. I can’t believe practically everyone in the damn building came out to witness it.
Well, I guess I wanted some iconic, unforgettable proposal.
After I reply to Charlotte, I scroll quickly through the barrage of notifications that have pinged through overnight. New Patreon patrons, new subscribers, a few creators I like who’ve tagged me on Twitter saying how much they love Dear Charlotte. I risk opening up YouTube, and see hundreds of new comments waiting for me to scroll through. A quick glance reassures me they’re overwhelmingly positive, which is a relief.
I open my email, thinking I’ll clear a few things out of my inbox, delete the most recent junk mail, and a couple of emails catch my eye. One from a company selling photography and video I initially assume is junk, another from a nerdy subscription box company with the subject Collab.
And I was worried accidentally uploading the wrong video would ruin my career. At least some brands don’t think so.
I know I should already be bolstered enough by the simple, brilliant fact that I’m engaged now, but the response online, those emails, the tweets from people I admire, definitely gives me a considerable boost.
I set my phone back down and get up, kicking the sheets to the bottom of the bed and stretching, then grabbing up my glasses. I make my way to the kitchen before correcting my routine, taking a shower first instead.
Charlotte’s not going to be here for a couple of hours, and it’s not like any of this should be a big deal, but it is. Once I’m dressed, I head out—out for the first time in days, beyond the balcony, a shopping list ready on my phone.
There’s nobody around when I go downstairs, which is in itself a little unnerving; after the last week, I think I was half expecting to see Mr. Harris here signing people in and out, giving out face masks and hand sanitizer. I grab the door handle hesitantly, almost surprised when it’s not locked.
I’m pretty sure I’ll have forgotten what a luxury this feels like in a week. But for now, nothing can bring me down. I’m outside. I’m engaged! I’m a goddamn viral sensation. I’m unstoppable. I could swear everything looks brighter, smells sharper, but I’m not sure if that’s because I haven’t left my apartment in so long or because I’m in such a good mood.
Maybe the way I’d planned to propose didn’t go exactly the way I wanted it to, but I still want to make this weekend special for her, as much as I can. I end up filling the cart with a few extras: some chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the bakery I know she likes; smoked salmon; eggs; and an avocado so I can make her a fancy breakfast tomorrow. I stop by the booze aisle, reaching for a bottle of prosecco before catching myself, and grabbing a Moët & Chandon with wild abandon.