The idea of what could happen, what very well might happen, makes my entire chest feel tight. And not in the good, “Danny, I like you so much it takes my breath away” kind of way. really, is it so terrible that I want him to stay for just a few more minutes?
He groans, drawing away from one more “one last” kiss.
“Isla, I really do have to go.”
“Okay. Okay!” I say it more to psych myself up, afraid I might come off as too needy if I go in for yet another one last kiss. The relationship is still new enough that I’m worried being too full-on or too clingy will send him running for the hills.
Be aloof, I try to tell myself . Guys like that, right? Not hard to get, just aloof. Do not, for the love of God, Isla, do not kiss him again.
I do peck his cheek, though, unable to help myself, and take a wide step back to smile at him.
Danny picks up his bag, shouldering it, and hesitates with one hand on the door handle. “I’ll call you when I get home?”
Yes, please.
Play it cool, Isla, come on.
I tuck a bit of my blond hair behind my ear, glancing away from him to give a small shrug. “Sure. I mean, if you want. That’d be nice.”
“Great!” He clears his throat hastily, voice distinctly deeper when he repeats, “Great. Yeah. Well, I’ll, um . . . I’ll call you later.”
This time, he dips forward, his arm scooping around my waist for what is actually one last kiss that makes me feel completely and utterly delirious, and then he says a quiet “Good-bye,” and . . . he’s gone.
I stand in the quiet of my empty apartment for a moment, my arms wrapped around my torso like I can hold this feeling in a little longer that way. The scent of Danny’s cologne lingers, and I can still feel the impression of his lips pressed to mine, making me smile.
And then I get back to the reality of it being a Sunday afternoon: I have laundry to do, there’s a whole heap of dishes to do from Danny cooking us a fancy brunch earlier with whatever he scrounged from my (apparently) poorly stocked fridge.
Now he’s gone, at least, I can put things back to normal. I can get the weird (but adorable) avocado cushion my best friend Maisie got me one birthday back out of the wardrobe, I can bring my Little Mermaid music box out of its hiding place inside the dresser. Much as I’ve been telling myself for the last month that I put them away every time Danny comes over to make the place look tidier, I know it’s really only because I’m worried he’ll laugh at them and think they’re stupid and childish and embarrassing and I’ll just . . . gradually bring these things out of hiding the longer we’re together.
Not that I think he’s going to break up with me over an avocado cushion.
But, you know. He might.
I scrape my hair into a ponytail, put some leggings on so I don’t feel silly for parading around my apartment in just a T-shirt and my underwear, and get to work.
I’m elbow deep in bubbles, doing the dishes, when there’s a knock at the door.
Huh. Weird, I think. I wasn’t expecting anybody.
My heart does a quick little flip: maybe it’s Danny. Maybe he’s back! He probably just realized he forgot something, is all. And, shit, I must look such a state now. I’m so glad I didn’t take my makeup off as soon as he left.
(I might have even snuck into the bathroom before he even woke up this morning to put some on. Just a little bit. Primer, foundation, concealer. A little blush and mascara. And I fixed up my eyebrows.
But just a little bit.)
Frantically, I scrub my hands dry on the tea towel, yank the hair tie out of my hair, and try to shake it out into something more presentable, before hurrying to the door.
Should I lean against the frame, trying to look sexy? Try to entice him back inside, convince him to stay a few more hours, because really, is making sure he’s got something for breakfast tomorrow morning that important?
No, no, that’s so silly. And I would probably look silly, trying to pull that off.
Instead, I open the door like a regular human being, startled when Danny’s on the other side with an awkward smile that’s really more of a grimace. For such a confident guy, he appears disturbingly nervous right now.
“Forget something?” I say. It sounds a little more sultry and flirtatious than I expect it to, but Danny doesn’t even appear to notice, doesn’t even decide to flirt back.
“Um . . . ” He sighs, and runs a hand through his thick, dark curls.
“So, apparently, I’m not allowed to leave.”
“You’re not allowed to leave,” I repeat, squinting slightly as I scrutinize his face. Is this a joke? Is it some weird, flirty . . . I don’t know, some game I’m not really getting? Is he going to break into a grin any minute, come inside, scoop me up, carry me back to bed?
But he continues to look strangely serious as he tells me, “Yes. At least, according to the guy downstairs, who . . . honestly, Isla, I’m assuming he works here, but I’m basing that off the fact he had a big bunch of keys hanging off his belt, and—”
“Bald guy? Maybe forty?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh yeah. That’s Mr. Harris. He’s the building manager, caretaker, sends us notes when . . . ”
Notes like Danny is holding out to me right now.
“It got stuck on my shoe, which he was kind enough to point out to me, during the very, very, extensive lecture he gave me about ‘no unnecessary travel’ and ‘following the guidance of health experts on the news.’”
“What is that?”
Danny finally does break out into the big grin I was expecting, and he laughs, but there’s still something totally off about his entire demeanor. It’s no longer nervous, but it puts me on the back foot. I’m still not getting the joke.
“You know that virus you were so worried about? The one that might’ve meant we’d spend weeks, maybe even months, apart, having to watch movies over Netflix Party instead of going on actual dates to the cinema, like we were some long-distance couple instead of living like, thirty minutes on the bus away from each other?”
I am really, really not liking the sound of this. My stomach begins to coil into tight knots.
“Yeah . . . ?”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that. No, you do, but . . . ” He laughs again, stepping inside, and putting down his bag. The hand holding a crumpled, slightly muddy note, falls to his side. “What I’m trying to say is, some lady here has it, so the whole building is on lockdown—and I’m not allowed to leave. Which means . . . ”
“What?” I dive forward, snatching the note from him, smoothing it out to read. The words float around the page and it takes me a few tries to actually understand any of it. My heart is thundering. “A whole week?”
I know I said I didn’t want him to leave, but . . . not like this.
The idea that someone in the building is so sick that nobody is allowed to leave, not even Danny, who doesn’t even live here, is suddenly so real and terrifying that I forget how to breathe for a minute.
I want to bleach the entire apartment.
And Danny went outside the flat. He went into a public space.
How weird would it be if I grabbed the antibac stuff from under the sink and sprayed him with it? Probably the kind of weird I should leave for the six-month mark, at least.