“Watch it, or I’m going to start expecting this sort of treatment all the time.”
“Well, you know, I’m only doing it for the YouTube views,” I joke back, and then she’s folding herself into my arms to kiss me again, and I have never been so happy to screw something up so badly in my life.
apartment #15 – isla
Chapter Forty-three
“So this is . . . ”
“Weird, right? And . . . ”
“Totally crazy?”
Danny laughs, looking a little relieved that I’m on the same page—but, mostly, excited. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
My heart is beating fast, but I can’t stop smiling. This is crazy. I must be crazy for even suggesting it; and Danny must be crazy for agreeing to go along with it. A week of total isolation from the rest of the world has driven us both utterly and completely bonkers.
It’s the only explanation for it.
Why else would we be agreeing to move in together for the foreseeable future, after only dating for a month—well, five weeks now?
Definitely, definitely crazy.
Danny was slow to get his things together this morning, and I could sense his hesitation. Finally, he asked me when I thought we’d see each other next. The general guidance to the public has gotten a lot stricter in the last week, leaving us faced with the idea of spending the next several weeks apart.
I feel like Danny and I have got to know so much more about each other this last week, so much faster than we might have done otherwise; and he’d told me that he thought the same thing. How else would I have known he brushes his teeth after breakfast (while I brush mine before) or that he folds his boxers so precisely after they’ve gone through the laundry, or that he likes rewatching old Trevor Noah videos for a quick distraction from work when he’s getting stressed over something? I didn’t even bother putting on makeup yesterday. And I managed to poop this morning without freaking out about the fact that Danny was in the apartment.
I’ve liked having Danny around. Well. All things considered, over-all, I’ve liked it.
So when he asked when we’d see each other next, I’d said quietly, “I don’t know,” and he’d said, “Yeah. It’s weird, isn’t it? I’m—I’m going to miss you, Isla, a lot.”
And then I’d been staring at him and thinking how bloody handsome he was and how I was most definitely in love with him, and how much more difficult it would be for us to keep our new relationship going if we couldn’t see each other or really spend any time together, and he’d been looking at me like he was thinking the same thing, and . . .
Well, here we are.
Being utterly crazy.
And moving in together. At least, sort of, for now.
I can only imagine what all my friends and my family are going to say when I tell them. Although Maisie said it wasn’t the most ridiculous thing she’d heard this week; I guess I do have some serious competition there.
I know it’s wild, and a huge step we might not be ready for . . .
But, I guess, on the other hand, if it doesn’t work out, then we’ll know sooner rather than later.
And I just like him so darn much.
I love him.
I love him!
“Just a month,” Danny says, trying to be serious, his lips pressed into a firm line even though his eyes are glittering at me.
“Thirty-day trial period,” I confirm. “Like Amazon Prime.”
He laughs. “I’ll be sure to mention that in my epic proposal speech viral video.”
“The one you’ll have the skywriters for, in front of the Eiffel Tower, right?”
Danny cups my face in his hands before peppering it with kisses, leaving me giggling and blushing, and swooning when his lips close over mine. His beard tickles my cheek, but I kind of don’t hate it. It’s actually a really cute look on him. It makes him look older; it’s quite distinguished, actually. I rest my hands against his chest, broad and firm, loving the way the rest of the world stops existing when he kisses me. I feel almost light-headed, delirious, but in the best way possible.
I could spend a lifetime kissing this guy.
When we break apart, his arms are still wrapped around me, and he nuzzles his nose against mine. “And you’re definitely sure about this?”
“Only if you are.”
“As long as you still promise to cook dinner a couple nights a week.”
I laugh. “What, like my special cinnamon chicken last night didn’t put you off for life?”
Like it was my fault he’d decided to tidy up my kitchen to make it a little more cooking friendly (talking about the “flow” of it, like I had any clue what he meant) and rearranged the handful of spices I owned, meaning I’d accidentally added a generous dash of cinnamon to our fajitas last night, instead of chili powder.
Danny makes an exaggerated gagging noise at the mere memory of my dinner disaster, but hugs me closer anyway, kissing the side of my head. “Don’t worry. By the end of this month, I’ll have you cooking like a pro.”
I don’t actually hate the idea of spending time in the kitchen with Danny, and him teaching me how to cook. I get a sudden image of us being middle-aged, in some big, cozy kitchen, cooking some big family meal side by side, and bury my face in his chest before he can see me blushing.
Because I am really running away with myself here.
But can you blame me?
He’s perfect.
Maybe perfect is a bit of a stretch, but he’s as close as any guy could ever get, I figure. I’m starting to see what Ethan meant in his video, where he talked about all of Charlotte’s flaws, and loving her not just in spite of them but including them.
There’s still so much I have to learn about Danny. I know not all of it will be perfect. Rather than scaring me, though, it just makes me excited to spend more time with him.
“Okay,” he says, and lets me go to step away, picking up his phone, wallet, and car keys, then putting on his coat. “I’ll be back in like, an hour? Maybe two, if the queue at the supermarket’s bad. Text me if you think of anything else you want me to pick up.”
I nod, promising to, and follow him downstairs. I’m only wearing a pair of my yoga pants, one of his hoodies, and my slippers—but don’t really care.
Danny has seen me looking a complete mess this week, and he doesn’t even mind.
It’s so refreshing to be able to completely relax around a boy, to not have to feel like I’m still making a good impression so early on in the relationship, or easing out of being the “perfect girlfriend” to, like, actual human being, who has morning breath and gets angry about silly little things and needs to use the bathroom.
He’s going home to pick up some more of his things, to move in for—well, who knows how long? We agreed we’d try it for a month, but on the understanding that if it’s going well, he’ll stay beyond that.
And he’s going to go grocery shopping, because he has a car and I don’t, and because—well, duh. He is the cook, out of the two of us, as proven by my culinary catastrophe of cinnamon chicken.