I am absolutely, completely exhausted.
I study my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look worse for wear for a lack of sleep, like I did on Wednesday morning. The bags under my eyes are even deeper, now, something I didn’t think was possible. My eyes are bloodshot and puffy too—although this time it’s from crying. I prod and poke at my face a few times, like I can turn it back to normal that way, before giving up and climbing into the shower.
I lean into the embrace of the hot water and steam, and let out a sigh I feel like I’ve been holding in for . . . not even just for a few days.
For years, without even realizing it.
Zach and I spent all evening talking things through. We only argued a few times, and only shouted at each other once or twice. We kept talking well into the night. It must have been four in the morning before we fell asleep, both of us so tired we slept on top of the covers on the bed, side by side, and not even having changed into our pajamas.
I woke up this morning with his arm around me and my cheek pressed against his chest, and it made me want to cry, because I didn’t know if we would ever really be back to normal again.
I guess, to be fair to Zach, my explosion on Wednesday morning did come out of nowhere. But he didn’t argue with the fact that he should have his own opinions on what he wanted our future to look like, and that it was fair for me to expect that from him.
As it turns out, though, that’s not the kind of thing you can figure out with a single late-night conversation. And it turns out that even now we’ve cleared the air and started talking, we’re still pretty snappy with each other. Like we’ve been like that with each other for so long, it’s a habit we can’t suddenly break now. I’m not sure we ever truly will.
I did pluck up the courage to ask if he felt like he was settling.
And he did cry then, promising me that he always felt lucky to have me, and he was sorry if he made me feel like he was settling.
I was a big enough person to apologize and say I was sorry if I ever made him feel that way too.
We still have so much to work out—and Zach has a lot of decisions to make, some of which I’m not sure he ever really will have a strong opinion on—but, at least, I suppose, we’re out the other side.
For better or worse. In sickness and in health.
Until lockdown lifts, do we part.
I sigh again and lean forward, pressing my forehead to the cool shower tiles. We still have to talk about what we’ll do once we’re allowed out of the building tomorrow. I feel like that’s another painful conversation just waiting to happen.
Part of me regrets ever bringing any of this up at all. For not thinking, Screw it, let the boy have pineapple on his pizza and forget about it. Part of me wishes I were more like Zach, able to just not consider these things until . . . well, until.
And part of me wishes we’d done this a long, long time ago.
Either way, it’s done now, and we’ve both said things we can never take back, and we both have to find a way to muddle through this somehow, whatever that means.
The thought of losing him, of him moving out, or maybe us selling the apartment and me having to move back home to my parents or, even worse, suddenly find myself living alone, is terrifying. The idea of Zach not being there, making me laugh, never surprising me with some random weekend away or spontaneous plans for a date night.
The idea that he might just vanish from my life completely, and that deep down I might want him to do that, is so overwhelming, that I start crying again.
I’ve composed myself by the time I’m out of the shower. My face is still puffy, and I still look run-down, but I feel better, at least. I wrap my towel around myself and am reaching for my moisturizer when the door flies open.
“Rena,” Zach says, breathless, his blue eyes wide and bright. “Rena, you have got to come and see this.”
apartment #6 – ethan
Chapter Thirty-five
I lurch off the sofa so fast that I fall on my face, smacking my head on the floor and crying out. That’s gonna bruise.
I half scramble, half crawl toward the balcony doors, throwing myself at them and dragging them open, falling against the railing and knocking one of Charlotte’s spider plants off. There’s a high-pitched yelp and the pot smashes on the ground. I don’t even stop to worry about it, though; I’m too busy leaning over and blinking in shock.
I can’t believe my eyes.
I mean, really. I actually take off my glasses and wipe them on my hoodie, jamming them back onto my face so frantically I only succeed in getting new finger smudges on them.
“Is it really you?” I shout down, still not believing it. This whole day has been like some warped fever dream—why shouldn’t this be too?
Charlotte beams up at me and I’ve never been so glad we only live one floor up. She’s far enough down that I can’t see the hazel specks glittering in her eyes, but I can see her freckles. Her hair is wavy, not quite as tame as normal, pushed back from her face by her giant sunglasses. She’s wearing a plain gray dress that must be Maisie’s, because I don’t recognize it, and her denim jacket. She’s wearing her favorite ankle boots, with the small block heels.
“It’s me!” she hollers, bouncing up on her toes. She braces one hand against her sunglasses and uses the other to wave up at me.
“What are you doing here?”
“I saw your video! Did you mean it, Ethan? Did you really mean all those things you said?”
I don’t even hesitate to think about it before I open my mouth to reply.
Someone else interrupts before I finish getting the first syllable out, though, shouting from the main entrance, “Missy, I’m not going to tell you again. You can’t be here if it’s not essential.”
“This is essential, you miserable bum!” Charlotte snaps back at him, and then grimaces. “Sorry, Mr. Harris, I didn’t mean to call you a bum, or miserable. I promise I’ll go in a minute, I know I can’t stay . . . ”
apartment #17 – serena
Chapter Thirty-six
Zach grabs me by the hand; I clutch my towel to me with the other and stumble after him, running to keep up as he drags me out onto the balcony with him. There are people shouting, but it’s not because I’ve just come outside in my towel with my hair dripping wet.
Down below there’s a ginger girl standing outside the building. I think she lives here. I’m sure I’ve seen her around before.
How did she get outside?
“What’s going on?” I ask Zach.
“Remember that video we saw this morning?” he pants. “The one Matty saw and sent in the group chat?”
“That cringe-y proposal video?”
“Yeah,” Zach says. “Ethan. I guess he must live downstairs, because that’s his girlfriend.”
“Wait— that’s Dear Charlotte?”