He scoops me up so suddenly that I squeal. He pulls me against him, hands on my butt, and hoists me up, wrapping my legs around his waist. He grins at me, one eyebrow quirking upward when he says, “You know, I can think of an alternative way you could burn some calories.”
I laugh, trying to wriggle down. “Get off. If I’m not going to finish my HIIT class, I need to take a shower.”
“Oh yeah?”
I know exactly what he’s thinking and my arms tighten around his neck, even though he’s already let me go and set me back on my feet.
I stick my chin out. “Yeah.”
Danny’s nose nuzzles against mine, his breath ghosting over my mouth. “How about I join you?”
“You’d better,” I tell him, already kissing him again as I walk backward, dragging him into the bathroom with me.
Maybe having my boyfriend around during lockdown isn’t so bad after all.
apartment #17 – serena
Chapter Twenty-one
Let’s just set the record straight right now: I’m not a bitch.
I’m not, typically, an impulsive person. I like to think things through, understand where they’re going and how I’ll get there. Plan is maybe a little strong, but I like to at least have an idea of a plan. I like to consider consequences.
It’s safer that way.
It doesn’t mean you don’t make mistakes; it just means you were prepared for them and aren’t caught totally off guard if (or when) shit does hit the fan.
I also don’t consider myself hotheaded. It’s not like I don’t get angry, I’m just pretty good at keeping a lid on my temper and managing the situation. I can be snappy, sure, but I don’t just lose it.
I am also not prone to flights of spontaneity.
End of.
I didn’t use to understand how people couldn’t think things through, or just lived in the moment like that.
It used to drive me slightly nuts when I was first dating Zach, but it gradually became one of the things I loved most about him. The way he’d show up on my doorstep after work and announce he’d made us a picnic and come on, we were going to the park for the evening; when he booked us a weekend in Edinburgh for my birthday without telling me until we got to the airport, having packed a bag for me and picked me up from work. (He forgot to pack me any bras or mascara, but I forgave him pretty quickly for that.) He’s easygoing, happy-go-lucky, and always seems to believe things will just work themselves out.
It’s not like I’m a pessimist or anything, but I always feel like I have to work to make something happen. Zach’s the kind of guy who shows up at the shopping center at peak time instead of leaving early to beat the rush, yet just happens across a prime parking spot right near the doors. He actually won a grand on a scratch card last year.
It took me a little while, sure, but I came to see this as a good thing.
They always say opposites attract, and we did.
For the last four years, we did.
And then . . .
Oh, then.
I grit my teeth just thinking about it all, and feel my blood start to boil. It’s been so hard not to be angry at Zach, at our relationship, at lockdown, at everything this week. And fuck, I cannot believe we’re stuck here and I can’t just put some distance between us and not have to see his face all day long.
We’ve done our best to tiptoe around each other since our fight yesterday morning. For the most part, he’s stayed in the bedroom playing video games, and I’ve stayed in the living room working.
Aside from that one brief moment of normality when we sorted out some clothes to lend Isla’s boyfriend and he was goofing around, our interactions have been civil at best.
We tried to talk about it again last night, but it just turned into another screaming row. He slept on the sofa. I didn’t try to be quiet when I got up for work this morning. He slammed the bedroom door when he shut himself in there.
Right now, however, we’re both in the kitchen, and I hate that he can’t actually leave, the way he said he should yesterday.
“Will you move, please?” I grind out.
Zach’s standing in front of the fridge, with that forlorn look on his face again.
God, I hate that face. I wish he’d quit it already.
Zach isn’t a very tall guy, but he’s lean and lanky, so it gives the impression that he’s taller than he is. I bought him that shirt: the red and charcoal flannel that’s half-tucked into his skinny jeans. His blue eyes crinkle behind his thick-rimmed glasses, but he steps back from the fridge so I can open it up and get the milk out.
I might be mad at him, but I am determined not to be petty.
He can call me bitch all he likes, but he can’t call me petty.
Not when I’m making him a cup of tea as I make myself one.
I am the least petty of ex-girlfriends. (Ex? Ish?) Close enough, at this point, to be honest. I haven’t dared ask to find out if we are broken up, and Zach seems to be avoiding bringing up our argument again, too, especially after our attempt to clear the air last night.
I want to ignore him. I really, really do. I want to act like he’s not here and like this whole melancholy thing isn’t bothering me and like that long, heavy sigh means nothing to me, but . . .
Well, you can’t just erase the last four years that easily.
“What’s the matter now?” I ask him.
“What about my dad and stepmum’s party?” he asks me, turning to look at me with a pout. A single, deep line creases his forehead.
My eyes slide from him to the embellished gold-on-cream invitation, with its cornflower blue floral border, that’s been pinned to our fridge for months.
I feel a pang of sadness in my gut.
Their anniversary. A big party, with all their friends and family, at some cute rural hotel, to celebrate their ten years of wonderful marriage. I must’ve looked at that invitation a hundred times in the last few days, in the past few months, even, but I’m so used to seeing it there I barely notice it anymore.