Lockdown on London Lane



It’s automatic, the way I check my phone before I’m even properly awake.

Wow, I think. That’s a lot of notifications.

And then I think, Shit, I overslept.

Not that it matters, exactly, but I still groan and roll over, one arm flung out and falling through empty space, landing on Charlotte’s side of the bed. Just one more night, I remind myself, one more night and then tomorrow she’ll be home and life will go back to normal.

I yawn, stretching out and kicking the covers halfway down the bed, wriggling up against the pillows, and grabbing my phone again. I clear the notifications from my lock screen—I’ll look through them properly on my computer later. It’s not that unusual, I reason. My latest video will have gone up this morning, and all these comments and (I hope) new patrons on Patreon are a sign it’s gone down well.

I’ve got a bunch of messages on WhatsApp, which does surprise me. One of the group chats must’ve kicked off this morning. I wonder who could have fucked up last night to cause so many messages.

I also, more worryingly, have a ton of missed calls from my best friend, Jack.

Grimacing, my stomach churning as I wonder what the hell is so wrong that he’s calling me, I take my phone with me to the kitchen, putting the kettle on. I call him back as I reach for Charlotte’s mug, barely taking hold of it this time before I remember and let it go, just getting my own mug instead.

“Ethan, finally. I’ve been calling you for like an hour. Where the hell have you been?”

“Sleeping,” I say, my voice thick and irritable, although I don’t mean it to be. I knock my glasses out of the way to rub my eyes. “It’s like, eleven o’clock. It’s not that late.”

It’s pretty late, even by my freelancing schedule.

“Dude,” Jack says, his voice so deadly serious it makes me feel cold.

“What’s going on? Is it your dad?”

Jack’s dad had been in and out of hospital for the past six months with heart problems, and I’m not really sure a literal global pandemic is the low-stress environment they’ve been trying to maintain for him.

“Nah, it’s not my dad,” he says, “but we’ve got bigger problems. Or at least, you have. Have you checked your phone yet today?”

“Not really. Oh shit, please don’t tell me I’ve, like, been canceled for my opinions on Minecraft.”

“I think it’s worse than that, mate. Just . . . go check your computer.”

I forget about making myself a cup of tea and hurry to the living room, clicking the computer back to life. It pings with emails and more notifications, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen that number on the YouTube bell so high.

I rack my brain, trying to think what in the hell is going on. I don’t think I said anything that controversial in today’s video or on the stream last night. I don’t use Twitter enough for someone to have unearthed a tweet from me from, like, 2012, saying something rude.

Maybe I retweeted someone I didn’t know was problematic?

Maybe I liked a video from someone who’s been canceled?

I put Jack on speakerphone and put him next to the keyboard. My hands shake as I load my channel and I think I might throw up.

Immediately, I know something’s wrong.

My subscriber count is up by seven thousand since last night.

So I’m not being canceled, but . . .

And then I see it.

Right there, in pride of place at the top of my channel, my most recent upload, posted right on schedule at nine o’clock this morning.

Dear Charlotte.

“Oh fuck,” I whisper, loud enough that Jack hears it through the phone.

“Ethan?”

It’s a miracle I can even click the video open, my hands are shaking that much. It’s the thumbnail I made last night, the description for the video I’d planned. And then the video starts to play: me in yesterday’s rumpled gray T-shirt and green flannel shirt, my hair a mess.

I hold out hope. Please, please, please, say I just named the file wrong because I had it on my mind, please, please . . .

But the me in the video says, “Dear Charlotte,” and I see it’s almost an hour long, and I die inside.

I hit pause and col apse over the desk. “Fuuuuuuuuck.”

“You saw it, huh?” Jack says. He’s sympathetic, sorry, and he sighs.

“Judging by the thumbnail and stuff, and the fact that you edited none of this, I’m guessing you really didn’t mean to upload this.

Which is what everyone else thinks, too, in the comments section.

It’s viral on Twitter, too, you know. There’s a BuzzFeed article about it already and everything. You’re going to be the new face of quarantine romance.”

“This isn’t happening,” I groan. I keep my eyes squeezed shut and fist my hands tightly in my hair. “This is a fever dream, or I’m just still drunk. That’s it, I’m drunk. I’m going to go back to bed, and when I wake up again, this won’t be happening.”

“I’m sorry, mate.”

I moan. It turns into a weird noise that’s part laugh, part sobbing.

“Is it too late to take it down?” I ask.

“You tell me. You’re the expert. Take a look at that view count, Ethan.”

Grudgingly, I peel my head up, cracking open one eye to take a look.

It’s at half a million views. I cringe and refresh the page. Another forty-odd thousand gets added to the view count.

I want the world to swallow me whole.

My chest is tight and I’m on the verge of vomiting, and I’m sweating through my pajamas. I don’t normally share a lot of my personal life on my channel, not to mention, this will totally mess with the rest of my feed, and, shit, and that’s not even the worst part.

“You think she’s seen it?” I croak.

Jack’s hesitation is answer enough.

“Fuck,” I say again. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I was so stupid.

I was uploading it after the Twitch stream last night and . . . Oh my God. I hate myself so much. She’s going to hate me. This is the worst.”

“Since when were you planning on proposing, anyway? I thought you’d have told me something like that, mate. This isn’t the cabin fever talking, is it? Like, you don’t think this is just you going a little stir-crazy or anything?”

“Did you watch the video, Jack?”

“I watched the highlights reel on LadBible. It was you talking about how head over heels in love with your girlfriend you are, for an hour—so, no, I didn’t watch it all.”

“I love her. I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

“Good luck telling her that after you told the rest of the world first.”

I cringe. “I’ve gotta call her, haven’t I?”

“Yes, you do, mate. Let me know how it goes, okay?”

I groan in pure, utter despair, and Jack laughs before hanging up on me. Staring into space a few seconds longer, I know there is no pulling this back now, and how humiliating it all is, before snatching up my phone again and calling Charlotte.

It goes straight to voicemail.

I call her again.

And again.

After the eleventh time, I call Maisie.

Beth Reekles's books