His hand smooths over my hair and he kisses my cheek. I know he doesn’t mean to be all in my space but it feels weird to have him hanging over my shoulder like this. We’re sharing the table to work at, but I’m not too sure how long this is going to last. It’s a little too close. Maybe we can take it in turns to work from the bedroom?
“Just ordering some groceries,” I tell him. The HelloFresh website is open on my laptop, for me to place my usual order. Well, almost usual. I have to order for two of us, now, instead of just me.
“On HelloFresh?”
“Yeah, it’s great. Hey, if you’ve never used it, we should sign up with your email! Get one of those first-order offers.”
When I twist around to look at him, his cute face is all scrunched up. It’s that look he got when I asked him if Phantom Menace was worth watching, so I could get an idea what was so interesting about Star Wars, if he was such a fan.
He looks judgemental as heck.
“What?” I ask him, frowning and pulling away.
“Are you seriously going to order us a delivery from HelloFresh?”
“You know I’m not much of a cook,” I laugh. Smoothies and breakfast food are kind of my limit. I’d probably live off salad and instant noodles without my HelloFresh boxes. I’m terrified to admit it to Danny because he’s such a natural in the kitchen, but I just don’t get food. I don’t understand which flavors are supposed to go together or what the hell it means to sauté something, and the one time I tried to use the slow cooker I impulse-purchased off Amazon, everything burnt to the inside of it.
At best, I currently have maybe three days’ worth of food left in the cupboards—unless we’re going to live off Ben and Jerry’s and Oreos.
So, yes, I’m getting a HelloFresh delivery.
I add, “Come on, I’ll even let you pick a box, huh? Since you’re probably going to end up cooking all week anyway, that’s probably only fair, ha ha!”
He laughs, like it’s such a cute idea. “We can split the cooking, Isla.”
“In that case, I’m definitely getting HelloFresh.”
“That’s batshit crazy. And it’s so expensive! Come on.” Danny pulls up the chair next to me, pulling my laptop toward him, closing the tab, and already tapping away in the search bar. “Let’s just get, like, a regular food delivery from Tesco, or something.”
I catch myself scowling at him and take a calming breath. I take a sip of my tea, even though it’s a little too hot still. Somehow it’s still easier to swallow than his attitude.
It’s fine, I tell myself. It’s going to be absolutely fine. Danny can do most of the cooking, and if he’s really so bothered, it’s fine. It’s totally not a big deal. At all.
“Well,” I tell him, “then you’re definitely cooking all week.”
apartment #6 – ethan
Chapter Seven
Charlotte’s alarm clock goes off and I groan, but it keeps bleeping.
“Charl,” I mumble. “Charl, turn it off.”
I reach over, but the bed is empty.
I sit bolt upright, blinking the sleep out of my eyes, and it takes me a second to remember.
Right. Of course. Lockdown. She’s stuck back at her parents’ place.
Oh, yeah, and no big deal, there’s just a deadly virus on the loose in this building and I am on my own and—and I’ve been awake for all of thirty seconds, but already my brain has managed to place me in the plot of a dystopian YA novel.
Not that this is wholly unusual for me. Well, I mean. The virus is; the general sense of impending doom about something, not so much.
My body is already doing breathing exercises I learned years ago, my brain talking itself back down.
I lie in bed a few minutes longer before deciding there’s no way I’ll be able to get back to sleep, so instead I reach over to grab my phone.
I scroll through some notifications and reply to some comments on YouTube and Twitter.
After wasting an hour watching videos and combing through social media, I finally drag myself out of bed.
One day without Charlotte and my whole routine’s already gone down the pan, I realize bitterly, annoyed with myself. I rarely ever stay in bed like that; I get up when she does, and I’m at least dressed and sat down with my first cup of coffee before I spend all that time on my phone.
When I started out being self-employed, I spent about two months sleeping in until midday, staying up well into the night, working in my pajamas unless I was actually filming a video. It was great for maybe a week or so. Then it just made me feel lethargic and stressed out.
Charlotte noticed. Because, of course she did. And I have to hand it to her, she really knew how to help me out without making me feel like she had to take care of me and fix my life. Gentle nudges like, “I really love it when you make me a cup of tea in the morning,” or,
“I think it’s sweet when we go to bed at the same time so I get to fall asleep next to you.”
She never made me feel like I was failing or being a complete loser.
Just one of a million things I love about her.
I wonder how she’s getting on at home, with her parents and her sister, Maisie. Has her routine gone to shit today too? She’s an editor for a company that produces educational resources and textbooks for A-level students, so she normally works from home a day or two a week anyway, but I wonder how it’s going for her there. I wonder if she’s in a meeting or if I could call her.
Despite the fact it’s already late morning, I’m on autopilot, grabbing her favorite mug before I realize what I’m doing and set it back, rolling my eyes at myself. Come on, Ethan, get it together. She’s been gone three days, you can’t be falling apart already.
On the subject of getting it together, though, I really should see what kind of food I’ve got in, maybe place an order online.
I’m writing up a list in the Notes app on my phone when there’s a knock at the door.
For a second I just stand there like a dummy, trying to puzzle out who could possibly be knocking on my door at eight o’clock in the morning.
It’s gotta be Mr. Harris, I reason.
There’s another knock at the door, which jolts me into action.
“Coming, I’m coming,” I call out, already on my way. I throw open the door, only wondering then if I should be in a mask and gloves like our caretaker was yesterday. But it’s not Mr. Harris on the other side of the door.
It’s Nate, from the apartment above mine. And he looks . . . I don’t know if that expression is pissed off or concerned, but it’s not good, whatever it is. His jaw is clenched, his brow furrowed.
“Nate. Uh, hi. Everything all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m—I’m doing good.”
“You wanna come in?”
He starts to say yes, then cuts himself off with an awkward grin, and I realize my faux pas. “Best not.”
“Right. Yeah, sure. Pandemic. Lockdown for the whole week. Bit weird, isn’t it?”
Nate looks me dead in the eyes, and lets out a long, weary sigh.
“Ethan, you have no idea.”