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.
He’ll be here for an entire week. A weekend is blissful, but a week?
Oh my God.
He’s going to be here when I poop.
That’s not the sort of thing that happens in the first month of a relationship, right? Is it? It’s not, right?
Oh my God, am I going to have to try not to poop for an entire week?
Is he going to dump me over a—a literal dump?
Don’t be silly, Isla, he is fully aware you’re a human being. He’s not going to freak out because you need to use the bathroom.
He’s definitely going to see me without makeup at some point this week. Or with my hair a mess. There’s no way I can keep up my appearance constantly for the next seven days. Two or three over a weekend, sure, but a whole week? Not a chance. And what if he finds the music box or the avocado cushion, or the other little trinkets I’ve been stashing away? (Oh, I’m so happy Mr. Harris didn’t lecture him long enough for me to actually get around to taking them out of their hiding places.) Not to mention I don’t think I have enough lingerie to last me an entire week. What’s he going to think when he sees me in plain old granny pants that don’t match my faithfully comfy used-to-be-white-once-upon-a-time bra, without a bow or frill or bit of lace in sight?
Suddenly, I regret every moment of our relationship so far: I’ve put in all this effort, and now I’ve set his expectations way too high.
“A whole week,” Danny confirms, grinning all over again, like this is the best news ever. He seems so upbeat, so enthusiastic, so damn happy to be stuck with me, that it makes me forget about the germs and how horrifyingly weird this entire situation is. And really, it’s . . .
It’s actually pretty great news, isn’t it? A whole week, just me and Danny. Isn’t this the sort of thing I wanted, for him not to have to leave?
If this weekend was anything to go by, the next few days will be nothing short of idyllic.
And he can cook for me! All week! How great will that be!
Plus, come on, he probably won’t even notice if I wear an old, ordinary bra. Right?
This will be really good for us, come to think of it. This might really help cement what we have as something real, and serious, and if we do have to spend some time apart, we’ll be all the stronger for this one week together. I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
This isn’t a problem, it’s a blessing.
Right?
Danny seems to be on the same page, because he spreads his arms wide, and then lifts me up, spinning me around once before setting me back on my feet and planting a noisy, smacking kiss on my lips.
“I’m all yours, baby.”
apartment #22 – olivia
Chapter Five
Host a DIY wedding weekend for all the bridesmaids, Liv! It’ll be so fun, we’ll have a great time. You could host it at your place, Liv! Save us money, rather than renting some cottage somewhere. We can spend that cash on some bubbly and Indian takeout instead, haha!
I like to think I’m the perfect candidate for maid of honor. I’m organized, I’m prepared, I’m good at putting other people first and making sure they’re having fun, and most importantly, I know how to have a good time.
And, quite frankly, I have been an incredible maid of honor. Kim is lucky to have me.
But damn if I’m not relieved this weekend is over.
We’d had this weekend planned for ages. It’s only six months until the wedding, and four until the bachelorette party; although, right now, it’s looking like that weekend up in York going from club to club in neon-pink feather boas and draping Kim in a cheap veil and Bride to Be! sash isn’t going to happen if all this virus nonsense carries on. Or if the wedding will even go ahead, for that matter.