They hadn’t been firm plans—it wasn’t like we’d had tickets to anything, or reservations, so . . .
Plus, why would we ever need to go out for a fancy meal, when Danny was such a good cook? And why would I ever want to suggest getting out of bed to go somewhere, when I had my very lovely, very sexy, very wonderful boyfriend right there with me?
And, you know, I hadn’t spent all that money on lingerie for nothing. It was our one-month anniversary. I had to make at least some effort. (Although, in hindsight, I guess I made a little too much effort, considering we never got around to leaving the apartment.
And by too much, I mean the perfect amount.) I know Danny has to go home, and he can’t stay any longer because he has to do the food shop before everywhere closes for the day, but . . .
“Just a couple more minutes,” I wheedle. I pout, which I know must look silly, but I can’t help it. “I don’t know when I’ll get to see you again if all this gets worse.”
“All this” meaning the apparently super contagious virus that has become not just the main, but the only topic on the news recently.
Forget snow days taking over everything. Now, you turn on the TV, even the weatherman is saying, “It’s a good day to stay inside!”
I’m really, really, hoping it won’t turn into something more, that everything will stay at least fairly normal, but this past week, it’s been impossible to escape the fact that the tone of the news has gone from fine to borderline sinister. It’s kind of hard to hold out hope for everything staying normal when the tone has changed so quickly.
A sensible person right now might be worrying about their sup-plies of tinned food and hand sanitizer, and if they have enough tea bags to last a quarantine period.
It’s not that I’m not sensible, but I am in the rosy glow of a new relationship, so honestly, my biggest concern when I’ve been seeing the news alerts is: If they are going to make us stay inside, who knows when I’ll get to see Danny next? What if we have to go an entire week—or longer!—without seeing each other? I don’t think I could handle it.
I know I’m falling for him. How could I not? He’s so bloody perfect.
He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a boyfriend. And judging by the way he looks at me sometimes, despite us not having been together for that long, I’m sure he feels the same way.
But, well, what if he doesn’t? What if that’s just the new-relationship, lots-of-sex-and-spontaneous-romantic-moments glow? And what if, if “all this” does get worse and we can’t see each other for a while, he forgets about me? What if easy conversation and cute dates can’t translate into drinks over Zoom and texting? We’d been spending at least a few nights a week together since we started dating. What if all that suddenly goes away?
Everything could change like that.
In an instant we could go from this warm, fuzzy glow and not being able to stop thinking about each other, to being total strangers who just . . . drifted apart.
The idea of what could happen, what very well might happen, makes my entire chest feel tight. And not in the good, “Danny, I like you so much it takes my breath away” kind of way. really, is it so terrible that I want him to stay for just a few more minutes?
He groans, drawing away from one more “one last” kiss.
“Isla, I really do have to go.”
“Okay. Okay!” I say it more to psych myself up, afraid I might come off as too needy if I go in for yet another one last kiss. The relationship is still new enough that I’m worried being too full-on or too clingy will send him running for the hills.
Be aloof, I try to tell myself . Guys like that, right? Not hard to get, just aloof. Do not, for the love of God, Isla, do not kiss him again.
I do peck his cheek, though, unable to help myself, and take a wide step back to smile at him.
Danny picks up his bag, shouldering it, and hesitates with one hand on the door handle. “I’ll call you when I get home?”
Yes, please.
Play it cool, Isla, come on.
I tuck a bit of my blond hair behind my ear, glancing away from him to give a small shrug. “Sure. I mean, if you want. That’d be nice.”
“Great!” He clears his throat hastily, voice distinctly deeper when he repeats, “Great. Yeah. Well, I’ll, um . . . I’ll call you later.”
This time, he dips forward, his arm scooping around my waist for what is actually one last kiss that makes me feel completely and utterly delirious, and then he says a quiet “Good-bye,” and . . . he’s gone.
I stand in the quiet of my empty apartment for a moment, my arms wrapped around my torso like I can hold this feeling in a little longer that way. The scent of Danny’s cologne lingers, and I can still feel the impression of his lips pressed to mine, making me smile.
And then I get back to the reality of it being a Sunday afternoon: I have laundry to do, there’s a whole heap of dishes to do from Danny cooking us a fancy brunch earlier with whatever he scrounged from my (apparently) poorly stocked fridge.
Now he’s gone, at least, I can put things back to normal. I can get the weird (but adorable) avocado cushion my best friend Maisie got me one birthday back out of the wardrobe, I can bring my Little Mermaid music box out of its hiding place inside the dresser. Much as I’ve been telling myself for the last month that I put them away every time Danny comes over to make the place look tidier, I know it’s really only because I’m worried he’ll laugh at them and think they’re stupid and childish and embarrassing and I’ll just . . . gradually bring these things out of hiding the longer we’re together.
Not that I think he’s going to break up with me over an avocado cushion.
But, you know. He might.
I scrape my hair into a ponytail, put some leggings on so I don’t feel silly for parading around my apartment in just a T-shirt and my underwear, and get to work.
I’m elbow deep in bubbles, doing the dishes, when there’s a knock at the door.
Huh. Weird, I think. I wasn’t expecting anybody.
My heart does a quick little flip: maybe it’s Danny. Maybe he’s back! He probably just realized he forgot something, is all. And, shit, I must look such a state now. I’m so glad I didn’t take my makeup off as soon as he left.
(I might have even snuck into the bathroom before he even woke up this morning to put some on. Just a little bit. Primer, foundation, concealer. A little blush and mascara. And I fixed up my eyebrows.
But just a little bit.)
Frantically, I scrub my hands dry on the tea towel, yank the hair tie out of my hair, and try to shake it out into something more presentable, before hurrying to the door.
Should I lean against the frame, trying to look sexy? Try to entice him back inside, convince him to stay a few more hours, because really, is making sure he’s got something for breakfast tomorrow morning that important?