I guess I can’t blame him for jumping to that conclusion.
Feigning offense, I gasp, “Me? Now, really, Honeypot, would I do a thing like that?”
Nate pulls me toward him, kissing me softly, and takes the drinks and breakfast from me so I can get rid of my shoes and coat and dump my bag. We eat on the balcony, talking quietly as the rest of the world starts to wake up, coming to life around us. A plane goes by overhead. People leave the building below us, walking along the paths; some have their car keys in hand, others walk off the little complex and in the direction of the shops. An elderly man goes and sits on a bench in the common area, his face tilted toward the sky, eyes closed. Another guy comes to join him after a while, coming from the next block of apartments over.
After we’re finished eating and our coffee cups are empty, a sense of finality settles on my shoulders.
It’s Sunday. And it’s time I went home.
I say as much, and Nate nods, following me into the apartment while I collect up my things again.
He stops me after I put my coat on to kiss me again, and why, why does he have to be so good at kissing? Why does he have to make my insides melt like that, and make my heart race this way? Why does he have to do that thing where he kisses me right at the corner of my mouth like he’s teasing me before really kissing me, in a way that makes my brain stop working? It’s not fair.
It was good for one night, but for a week? It’s just uncalled for.
Because now I’m hooked, and he’s making it harder to remember why I should leave.
He’s wearing the Ramones top, as if to make a point. I run my hands over it, over his chest, and narrow my eyes at him. “You know, that looks much better on me.”
“Next time, maybe. We can draw up a rota.”
“Oh-ho, next time? You sound awfully sure of yourself there, mister.”
He blushes.
Fuck, even that’s cute.
How dare he.
“Just, you know,” he says. “I thought, maybe, when this all blows over, maybe we could . . . ”
“Do this again?”
“Maybe I’ll even take you out to dinner first,” he says, lifting his chin, his eyes sparkling, even though he’s still blushing.
“Gosh, I’m swooning.”
“It was just—we don’t have to.”
I pat his arm, stepping back. “It was good knowing you, Norman, and I liked our little chat in the middle of the night on Friday night, but now I’m free, this whole Beauty and the Beast fantasy is over, and I’m going to head back to my quaint little village and forget all about you.”
Nate laughs, understanding my humor well enough after being stuck with me for a whole week to know I don’t mean a word of it.
“I’ll call you when I get home,” I suggest. “I know you’ll be missing me already by then. You won’t remember how you ever lived without me in your life.”
“Oh, I believe that,” he says softly.
I let him walk me to the door. I put my shoes on. There’s another note under the door, this time reminding residents of the building that the lockdown has been lifted and while they continue to urge caution, we are now able to go outside again.
Hallelujah.
My stomach twists again. Even Nate looks sad to see me go, even though I barged into his life, pretty uninvited, messing up his apartment and getting in the way of his life all week.
I lean forward to kiss his cheek. “See ya round, Honeypot.”
*
I’m halfway down the path to leave, when I hear a familiar voice.
Oh boy, I think, here we go. The jig is officially up.
I glance around to spot Lucy saying good-bye to some girl. She starts off around the side of the building, not having noticed me at all.
I could have got away with this, scot-free, without her being any the wiser.
But, I think, squaring my shoulders and sticking out my chin, I am trying to turn over a bit of a new leaf, here. And I obviously want to tell her all about my week, so it’s not like she won’t ever find out.
Plus, I could really do with a ride home.
You know, since I’m trying to actually actively budget my Ubers now.
I run after her (well, as best as I can in my heels). A pair of underwear flies out of my handbag and I have to turn back to snatch them up.
“Oi! Lucy Kingsley!” I holler, and she jumps, turning around, head twisting side to side before she notices me.
“Oh my God,” she says, eyes bugging.
“You absolute bitch,” I declare, none too quietly, as I stride toward her. “How dare you not tell me where you’ve been all week. How dare you be in the same goddamn building as me, and not even mention it.”
She laughs, hugging me back when I engulf her in my arms.
“I don’t believe it,” she says. “What the hell are you doing here?
Did you come to welcome me back to the real world?” And then something dawns on her, and her face turns serious; her mouth falls open, and her eyes narrow at me. “Hang on. Hang on, why are you all dressed up? Oh my God, Immy. Don’t tell me. Don’t even tel me.”
“Honeypot kind of lives here,” I admit. “And I kind of thought I shouldn’t tell you because you’d only—”
“I’d only worry,” she finishes with a terse sigh, but she quickly laughs. Lucy rolls her eyes. “Tell me what kind of best friend I’d be if I didn’t worry that you had to shack up with a random one-night stand for a whole week. He could be anybody! He could have been a serial killer!”
“Speaking of, that caretaker . . . ”
“So weird, right? Did you see his hazmat suit?”
“Yes! He looked like—”
“Like Walter White!” she finishes, and we both burst into giggles.
Lucy’s grin fades slightly and she sighs at me again. “Honestly, Immy.
What are you like? I can’t believe you hid this from me all week. I have to know everything. Especially why you’re sporting a big old hickey, right here.”
She jabs at a spot on my throat where Nate left a love bite on Saturday, and I’m a bit mortified to find I’m blushing, and it’s not like I get embarrassed easily. Lucy’s eyes light up immediately, and she gasps, clapping both hands to her face.
“You like him!” she accuses.
I don’t deny it, and she squeals.
“I need to know absolutely everything. I don’t remember the last time I saw you going all goo-goo eyed over a boy. I cannot believe you’ve been here all week! Bloody hell. Where have you been all this time?”
“Number Fourteen,” I say.
Lucy shakes her head. “Of all the gin joints . . . ” She takes a look at my bag, overflowing with scrunched-up clothes, and my shoes.
“You’re not walking home, are you?”
I shrug with a faux-forlorn look at the main road, already knowing she’s going to offer to drive me home now I’ve run into her. “I was going to see if the buses are still running.”
Lucy huffs at me, turning away and striding toward her car. “Get in, Immy. I’ll drive you home.”
“Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?”
“You can keep saying it, but you still owe me money.”
“But I do. I love you so much.”