Because I am really running away with myself here.
But can you blame me?
He’s perfect.
Maybe perfect is a bit of a stretch, but he’s as close as any guy could ever get, I figure. I’m starting to see what Ethan meant in his video, where he talked about all of Charlotte’s flaws, and loving her not just in spite of them but including them.
There’s still so much I have to learn about Danny. I know not all of it will be perfect. Rather than scaring me, though, it just makes me excited to spend more time with him.
“Okay,” he says, and lets me go to step away, picking up his phone, wallet, and car keys, then putting on his coat. “I’ll be back in like, an hour? Maybe two, if the queue at the supermarket’s bad. Text me if you think of anything else you want me to pick up.”
I nod, promising to, and follow him downstairs. I’m only wearing a pair of my yoga pants, one of his hoodies, and my slippers—but don’t really care.
Danny has seen me looking a complete mess this week, and he doesn’t even mind.
It’s so refreshing to be able to completely relax around a boy, to not have to feel like I’m still making a good impression so early on in the relationship, or easing out of being the “perfect girlfriend” to, like, actual human being, who has morning breath and gets angry about silly little things and needs to use the bathroom.
He’s going home to pick up some more of his things, to move in for—well, who knows how long? We agreed we’d try it for a month, but on the understanding that if it’s going well, he’ll stay beyond that.
And he’s going to go grocery shopping, because he has a car and I don’t, and because—well, duh. He is the cook, out of the two of us, as proven by my culinary catastrophe of cinnamon chicken.
We kiss good-bye again, and I’m so relieved it’s only for a couple of hours. I think I might actually have cried a little if I’d had to say a proper good-bye.
I decided yesterday I wouldn’t tell him how I feel, just yet. I didn’t want him to think I was just swept up in the rush of the romantic proposal we watched, or that I was only saying it because I knew we might not see each other for a while. I think we were on the same page about that too.
But, who knows? Maybe in a couple of weeks, even in a few days, I won’t be able to keep it to myself any longer, and I’ll want to tell him.
I mean, if this past week of living together hasn’t scared him off, I think, he’s not going to go running for the hills because I say “I love you.”
It’s a beautiful feeling. My whole body feels like it’s full of fizz, like if I jumped I might just float away. Like I could spin around and sing my heart out and smile forever.
I stay outside for a couple of minutes after Danny’s driven off, enjoying the feeling of starting to fall in love, and the sunshine, and the fact that I’m out of the building for the first time in over a week, and it’s blissful. I can’t wait to go for a run later.
God, it’s going to be so good.
apartment #17 – serena
Chapter Forty-four
I know Zach’s strengths don’t lie in big-picture planning—God knows I know that, after this week—but I’m still so confused.
With the quarantine on the building finally lifted, we’re allowed out again. Which is why Zach is . . .
Which is why Zach is packing a bag.
He looks through the wardrobe, picking out another shirt and folding it up carefully, smoothing it out before placing it into his bag.
It’s just a couple of weeks, I remind myself, watching him.
It’s . . . for the best.
It’s for the best, we both decided. It was actually Zach’s decision—for a change. He’ll go stay with Matty and Alex for a couple of weeks, in their guest room. Just to give us both space and give him the chance to really think about what he wants.
We talked some more yesterday, but once he’d told me, in an unusually firm and serious manner, that he’d decided to go and spend some time with his brother, neither of us had been in the mood to hash things out. We’d ended up cuddling under a blanket on the sofa and watching a movie instead.
I don’t think I’d care that much if he told me he was really against getting married. If he thought it wasn’t worth the money and the extravagance, and he didn’t get the whole ceremony when it just boiled down to a contract, and couldn’t we just get one of those instead. I could live with that. If he said he didn’t want to stay in the city—well, that would be okay, I guess. We could find a compromise and work that out. I couldn’t compromise so much on kids, though—that doesn’t seem to have so much gray area.
It’s not like I want to break up with him. really, it’s not.
I love Zach. And maybe it took this huge fight for me to really remember that, but I do. I want to be with him.
I just want him to figure out what he wants.
At least now, though, Zach gets that. And he knows he needs some space to work it all out.
“Have you seen my black jeans?” he asks, rifling through a drawer.
“The ones with—”
“They’re on the radiator in the hall. You spilled pesto on them the other night, remember?”
He snaps his fingers at me, nodding, and goes to get them, folding them carefully and adding them to his bag. I watch him packing, going through a mental checklist in my head.
“Got your laptop charger?”
“Yeah.”
“And your prescription sunglasses?”
“Yes.”
“And your nasal spray? You know your hay fever’s going to be way worse out at Matty’s place.”
“Yeah—uh, no. Shoot, I forgot that. Thanks.”
He rifles through the top drawer of the dresser looking for it.
“You left it on the balcony.”
“Thanks.”
I wander out of the bedroom after him, lingering in the lounge and spotting all the places his stuff is missing. His Kindle’s vanished from the coffee table, along with his laptop and headphones.
The apartment’s going to feel so empty without him around, I realize now, even if it’s not for long—and even if I’m desperate for a little space too.
I scrape my hands back through my hair, my stomach tying itself into knots.
God, I really don’t want us to have to break up.
And if I could, I’d tell him not to go, I’d tell him none of this mattered and that we could forget all about it. But . . . well, it does matter. Maybe not right now, maybe not in a year, but at some point, it’s all going to matter, and it’s not something I can just forget about.
We can’t just move on; for better or worse, we need to figure out how to move through this.
Zach skirts past me, saying offhandedly, “What if we got a small dog, though? Like, a cat-sized one. I could forgo the golden retriever for a little dog.”
“Oh, and you’d walk it all the time and pick up the poops?”
“More than I’d be cleaning out cat litter,” he scoffs, nose wrinkling.
“And one that wouldn’t shed.”
I’m about to argue with him over how much more work dogs must be, but stop myself. He’s trying, I remind myself. And it’s not like I don’t like dogs, or anything.