The phone gets tossed behind him and he runs his hands through his hair with a sigh. His back straightens when he sees me. “Sorry for the language.”
“No worries. I curse worse than that on my good days. I thought you might want some water.”
“Thank you.”
He takes the bottle, and I sit across from him. “So, the people who own this place rented it to both of us?”
His hands rub together absently, and he leans with his elbows on his knees. His body language screams that he’s stressed but it also calls attention to just how tall and long limbed he is. “They did. I’m sorry about all this. My manager arranged the rental. I had no idea he offered them more money to cancel your rental agreement.”
“What?”
He shakes his head. “I already told him to let them know that wasn’t happening.”
“Those assholes. Let them try it again. I have a contract.”
The grin that appears is small and cute. “Exactly, stand your ground. Fuck that noise.”
My tired mind has spent the last few minutes trying to latch onto how I recognize him, grasping around in the haze until suddenly, it hits me.
Patrick. He said his name is Patrick. He just left out the last name, or maybe it’s just a stage name. Patrick Thorn.
Either way, the only thing more surreal than what’s happening in the world right now is the fact that I’m sitting a few feet away from a rock star. One I saw on TV recently.
Despite my best efforts, I can’t help the snort that escapes, and I cover my face with my hands, my body shaking with laughter. When I get control of myself, I look up to see him staring at me with one eyebrow cocked, and I fight back another chuckle.
“Did I miss something?”
“No, I’m just trying to figure out if I’m hallucinating or having a damned stroke because a worldwide pandemic is trapping everyone in their homes, and now I’m sitting across from a rock star who is promising he won’t take my rental house. Is this real life?”
His smile is wide and full of straight white teeth. “Musician. Not a rock star. I’m surprised you know who I am.”
“You were on Saturday Night Live last week. Pretty sure I’m not the first person to recognize you. Didn’t you just finish a tour?”
“It’s postponed for now. We were halfway through.”
Right. The pandemic. “I’m sorry.”
Leaning back, he crosses his legs, his hands still fidgeting. “Thank you, but it’s fine. Insignificant, you know, in the scope of things.”
For the last few months, everyone has been following the news about a new virus outbreak in China, and the reports were that it would be contained. It wouldn’t be any more of an issue for us than SARS, or maybe the flu. They were wrong.
When it happened, it happened fast. Cases exploded in the United States, along with numerous other countries, and the death rate turned out to be far higher than the flu, especially for the elderly or those with other medical conditions. The speed with which it spread has been terrifying and so much rumor and panic has traveled with it.
Faced with months to possibly over a year before a vaccine can be developed, the government took the only choice left and shut everything down. The only businesses that remain open are those that sell essentials. In a span of a week, we went from everything will be fine, to social distancing guidelines, to stay at home orders and curfews.
A country in quarantine. No, not just a country, the world.
It was pure luck I had this place reserved. The perfect place to ride it out, away from people but close enough to seek help if I’ve already managed to catch it and don’t know it yet. Symptoms can take two weeks to show up and some people never get symptoms at all.
“Is that why you rented this place? Your tour was cancelled, and you wanted to isolate.”
His phone beeps, and he takes a moment to send a text. “The tour was postponed, then my flight was cancelled, and before I could manage the drive, they closed the Canadian border. I live in Canada, so home isn’t an option. My plan was to find a place to hole up and write for my next album. I asked my manager to find me something.” He stares at his phone as it beeps again. “Anything,” he mumbles.
My heart goes out to him. I’m not sure he even realizes the predicament he’s in right now. There aren’t going to be any rentals. Plenty of people had the same idea and snatched up the places outside of towns and cities to hunker down. The ones that aren’t filled have been reserved to house healthcare workers on their off time, because they can’t go home to their families and risk infecting them. Most hotels have closed, and the ones that haven’t would be an excellent place to catch the virus, considering all the travelers who stay there.
“Do you have friends in the US?” I ask.
“A few. We’ve spent a lot of time in each other’s pockets this year and I hate to impose on them, since most of them have families too. Plus, the closest one is three states away.” He runs a hand over his forehead as he reads another message. “But it looks like I don’t have much choice.”
My mind races with the idea in my head. Would it be crazy to invite him to stay? A guy I met thirty minutes ago? I’m not too worried about him being some psycho, mainly because I know a bit more about him than I let on. I know he supports women’s rights charities, and his songs have brought attention to a lot of issues like domestic violence. Of course, that could be a persona, a marketing gimmick.
My track record with recognizing monsters hasn’t been good.
Still, he’s in a terrible situation, and if it were me, trapped in another country with nowhere to go, I’d hope someone would reach out and help.
He gets to his feet and tucks his phone in his pocket. “I’m sorry about barging in on you. Thanks for letting me hang out. Do you mind if I use your bathroom before I go?”
The words rush out before I can second guess myself. “Would you want to stay here? Until the quarantine is over or something better comes along? It’s a big house.”
It’s clear he didn’t expect that invitation. His brows leap up, and I find myself oddly fascinated by how expressive his face is. It must suck to have all your feelings displayed like that. Maybe I just think that way because I do a resting bitch face really well.
“I—thank you, but I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You aren’t asking. I’m offering. There’s another bedroom, and plenty of space for both of us to work without driving one another crazy.”
He sits down again, rubbing his index and middle fingers back and forth across his chin. While he’s thinking, I add, “I’m not the type to get starstruck or want autographs or anything. If you’re worried that I might be some crazy fan setting you up for a Stephen King Misery situation. I’d offer the same to anyone who was in your predicament.”
His head tilts back a little as he laughs. “I wasn’t thinking that. I’m not famous.”
Denial. It’s a powerful thing.
“Just throwing it out there. I know it’s weird to quarantine with someone you don’t know.”
His phone rings, and he excuses himself to answer it. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out from his side of the conversation that his manager is having no luck. When he hangs up, tired eyes look into mine. “Are you sure you’re okay with me staying here? Maybe just until I find something?”