And I’d said to her, “You know there are other shirts in the drawer.
You could just find one that fits.”
Now, I cringe, pulling a face at Kim. “I thought she was just being American.”
She tries not to laugh, pressing a hand over her mouth. “No, Livvy, she wasn’t.”
I’m preoccupied thinking about all the other moments this week when I just thought Addison was being obnoxious, or friendly, but might actually have been trying to flirt and grab my attention—and there are enough of them that I feel like such an idiot for not noticing.
(To Kim’s credit, it’s no wonder I can’t date anyone for longer than a couple of weeks, if I’m so bloody oblivious.) I’m distracted by the solemn look returning to her face, though, and the puppy-dog eyes she gives me, looking so genuinely sad.
“I’m honestly so sorry, Liv. Even if you’re not upset about me telling them, I—I never should’ve lost it like that at you. I was totally out of order. Especially this morning. That’s why I was so upset today, you know. It wasn’t anything about the wedding, not really. It was—you said you wished you’d never gotten involved, and . . . and I thought maybe I’d really ruined everything then, with us, and that you hated me. I’m so sorry.”
I’m about to tell her, It’s okay, and while it is, I still think she’s got something to apologize for. So instead, I tell her, “Apology accepted.
What’re friends for, huh?”
“Will you still be my maid of honor? If there’s ever a wedding, that is.”
I squeeze her hand, smiling at her. “Of course I will—but on one condition.”
Kim sits up straighter, blinking the tears out of her eyes. “Yes.
Absolutely. Anything. Anything.”
“No more wedding planning parties?”
She laughs, and it’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh like that in months. Like she really doesn’t have a care in the world. “You got it, Liv. Promise—no more wedding planning parties. One was definitely enough.”
I lift my mug of tea, holding it out. “Cheers to that.”
Kim lifts her mug high. “To friendship.”
“To bridezillas,” I declare, and she laughs again, clinking her mug to mine.
apartment #15 – isla
Chapter Twenty-eight
Danny’s sucked into work for the evening after dinner— again.
I can’t hold it against him; judging by the deep frown etched on his face and the tired look in his eyes, he’d rather be doing anything but working right now. I watch a couple of old episodes of Brooklyn Nine-Nine but can tell it’s distracting him by the way he keeps covering his ears and hunching over his computer, or when he laughs quietly and then shakes his head like he’s chastising himself for getting sidetracked by Jake Peralta’s antics, or a one-liner from Holt.
I turn the TV off, grab my headphones and a book, and head outside to the balcony. I settle into my large rattan chair, padded with cream and gold cushions. I probably spent way too much on this chair at the garden center last summer, and I definitely spent too much on the cushions at Anthropologie, but every time I sit out here in it, I’m reminded that it was worth every penny, just like the apartment itself. I put my phone and headphones on the gold-and-glass table, and light the candle I left out here a couple of days ago.
It’s still light out, so I get to enjoy the purple dusk streaked with gold, silhouetting the other apartment blocks on the estate; it’s pretty, so I grab a picture for my Instagram. I can see the tennis courts down the road from here, and wonder if they’ll be closed by the time I’m allowed out of my apartment.
I wonder if there will even be anywhere to go, really, once the building is out of lockdown in a couple of days. Everything seems to be changing so fast right now. My dad told me I was lucky to get a food order when I did; the slots are filling up so quickly as the public panic is starting to rise, and you can’t even get one two weeks in advance now. I keep getting emails from brands I’m signed up to reassuring me that it’s business as usual except that their physical stores are now shut! But it’s fine! You can still order from the website! Maybe only with a small delay and no more next-day delivery because they can’t guarantee that anymore!
I know none of that should feel like a shock to me, since I’m working for a company where those sort of adjustments are our main focus right now but even so.
The reassurances are having the exact opposite effect. It’s just making me feel absolutely terrified if I think about it too much. For the most part, I delete the emails and do my best to ignore the news.
Ignore it all you want, Isla, it’s not going to change the fact it’s happening.
I end up not really reading much of my book, and never even get around to putting my headphones in to listen to some music. I simply stay sat in my chair, unease at the uncertainty of the world gnawing at me. I hug my knees and book to my chest, staring out at the view and having a nice little existential crisis to ring in the weekend.
Maybe I should do some journaling. That would probably help.
Except, I can’t even bring myself to unfold my limbs and get out of this chair. I feel like if I stop hugging myself, I might splinter into pieces.
I have no idea how long I’m out there, my mind running through a million and one potential disasters from losing my job to my relationship disintegrating to my family getting sick to not being able to take my book back to the library and what if they fine me for it . . . But eventually the door slides open behind me and I jump to find Danny standing there, smiling down at me.
It’s dark by now. The lantern-style streetlights on the paths below us have turned on, and the motion-sensor light on my balcony has switched on, too, now he’s come outside and activated it. It gives a yellow-orange glow to Danny’s dark hair, and casts shadows across his face.
He’s so beautiful. I love the way his hair curls at the ends, how long his eyelashes are. I love the way his eyes glitter in the soft lights, creasing around the corners as he smiles. I feel calmer just looking at him; the ache in my chest I’d been nursing vanishes, and I barely notice.
He hands me my favorite gray knitted cardigan, and sets two glasses of white wine on the table, before taking a seat on the bench.
“Thought you might be cold,” he says, as I put down my book and unfurl myself to pull on the cardigan.
“Thanks. And what about this?” I ask, picking up one of the wines to take a sip.
He smiles again, shrugging. “Just thought I’d be cute.”
I can’t help but laugh. He is cute, with that dimple in his cheek and the way he raises his eyebrows, trying and failing to look cool, with his ski-slope nose and broad shoulders that his baggy sweatshirt does nothing for, really.
“Well, mission accomplished,” I inform him, and join him on the bench. He wraps an arm around me as I snuggle into his side and press a kiss to his jaw, where his stubble has started to turn into a beard.