You and Me In Quarantine: Day 13

From Marty Vee:

This is a RomCom novella I’m sharing in segments, about two people who don’t like each other getting quarantined together. I suggest starting at the beginning:

But I’ll recap anyway:

Billie is a junior reporter for a local network and Edgar, her least favorite person, works in the same position at a competing network. They are quarantined together at his house. She recently found out that most of her previously conceived notions about him are based on someone else’s lies. As these things go, feelings got all involved and they did the deed. On Day 10 she asked the National Guard if she could grab provisions from her house and come back to Edgar’s. Then a video was circulated on Day 12 that confirms she is at Edgar’s house and his ex-wife turns the narrative very negatively against them on social-media.

I hope you enjoy it!

You and Me In Quarantine

Day 13

When I finally forced myself out of the shower last night, the sofa was made into a bed. Edgar even laid a folded comforter under the sheet for extra cushion; that got me crying all over again.

We are avoiding each other with more efficiency than we ever have before. We’re magnets of opposite polarization. It confuses me when Edgar walks into the living room. For the barest of moments, I think maybe he’s coming to talk to me, but then he extends his phone towards me. I battle to hide my disappointment. Without making eye contact, I take the phone from him.

Panic pumps through my nervous system, thinking it might be Val. I press it to my ear. Instead of her cold voice, a man informs me of his name and rank, but my brain hasn’t caught up to comprehend him.

“Ma’am, I understand you’d like to go to your home and retrieve some items.”

I close the door to the spare room, the workout equipment smelling metallic and musty. “Actually, can I just go home?”

There’s a pause. “Yes ma’am, I was calling to confirm that you can go home if you please, but you cannot leave your home once you get there.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Thank you.” He also can’t see the tears brimming my eyes or the way I clench my jaw to keep it from doing something stupid like wobbling.

“When can I leave?”

“I’ll ensure the soldiers at the correct checkpoints know to let you through.”

He tells me I have until “1800” to be at my home. I have to do the math to figure out that means six this evening.

“So, I can leave now?”

“Give me an hour to clear the checkpoints for you, but yes, you can leave shortly.”

“Just as long as I’m home by six.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, again.”

“Have a good day, ma’am.” He hangs up the phone.

I take a minute to wipe my cheeks dry and check that my eyes don’t look weepy, before I open the door and step into the hallway. The living room and kitchen are empty.

The thunk of my knuckles on Edgar’s bedroom door disrupts the silence that settled in the house like dust. I don’t wait for a response before I say, “Your phone is on the island.”

Retreating to my bathroom, I hear his door open. His bare feet make a quiet smacking sound on the hardwood floors. My eyes close as I picture him. There’s only a couple of feet and a wall and turmoil between us. He doesn’t go directly back into his room, I don’t hear him moving at all. I imagine him with a hand at the base of his neck, staring at the closed door of the bathroom. His eyebrows are drawn together and Crow’s feet by his eyes.

Or maybe he’s just checking his email.

I tug the scrunchy out of my hair. I open my eyes and notice my clothes washed and folded on the counter next to the sink. The sight rips my already aching chest open. I take off the clothes he let me borrow.

Once the water spraying from the showerhead is hot to the touch I step under it.

Day two of crying in the shower.


It’s not like I have a lot to pack, but it’s been over three hours since my phone call with Commanding Officer What’s-His-Name and I still haven’t left yet. When I leave, I can’t come back. I haven’t told Edgar; I haven’t spoken to him since giving him his phone; which can hardly be considered a conversation.

My purse is slung over my shoulder, as I lean my left elbow on the counter. The pen Edgar used a few days ago to write the note for the soldiers is clutched in my right fist. There’s a blank post-it note that has grown to the size of a barn. It’s a looming, foreboding thing. I could just write, “Went home, thank you for your hospitality.”

But I can’t.

I’m not a coward. I may be feeling cowardly but I am not a coward.

My purse thunks on the kitchen floor. I turn and stride into the living room and snatch his laptop and power cord from the coffee table. In the spare room, I sit on the floor with my back to the wall. After opening Messenger, I call Libby.

Controlling my expression, I force my face blank. It’s a practice I’ve perfected for work but I struggle to keep the facade when her face fills the screen halfway through the second ring. I can tell by the look in her blue eyes that she sees right through me.

“Hey, Bill.” Her tone is gentle and loving.

It makes my throat constrict. “Hey,” I reply in a strained voice.

“Have you talked to him yet?” She has this way of launching right into a conversation. She doesn’t approach from the side of any issue, she strides directly into the fire.

I shake my head. “What would I say?”

“I thought we talked this out yesterday?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, ‘I don’t know.’” She quirks her pursed lips to the side and lifts an eyebrow at me.

I swallow and glare back at her.

“So, where ya at?”

I know she means emotionally, but I can’t answer that yet. “I can go home.”

She nods, she seems to understand something I don’t. “Billie, what do you want to happen here?”

“I don’t know,” I repeat.

“Yeah, you do.”

I shake my head.

“Yes, you do. You always know what you want.”

She’s right. I do know what I want. But I don’t know how to get it.

“Okay,” she sighs, “start at the beginning. What happened today?”

“Nothing. He’s been in his room and I’ve been in the living room. He handed me his phone so I could talk to the National Guard Officer. I have until six to get home. If I leave, I can’t come back.”

“Does Edgar know any of that?”

“He knows I talked to the guy.”

“But not what the conversation consisted of?”


“Oh my god, lady, talk to him.” I can hear the patients wearing thin in Libby’s voice.

“I want to go home.”

“Your deflection is next level.”

I’m not going to address that. “I almost left him a post-it note.”

Her mouth hangs open with the corners drawn down in horror. It would be comical if I wasn’t so broken.

“Like Berger in Sex and the City?” She whispers as if she’s afraid someone might overhear.

“No! Edgar and I weren’t in a relationship, so it’s not a breakup.”

“Oh, it’s a breakup if it’s on a post-it note. And not one you can come back from; that horse is in the ground, there’s no riding it anymore, kind of breakup.”

“That’s a little extreme.”

She shakes her head. “Okay, so why didn’t you do it?”

My teeth make a grinding screech and I have to purposefully unclench my jaw. “It felt like the wrong thing to do.”

“Because it is. So, I guess, congratulations on not doing it.”

It doesn’t take much, but my temper flares. “So what do I do?” I demand.

Her intake of breath is slow before she breathes it out through rounded lips. “Billie, what do you want?”

I don’t answer her.

She must take my silence to mean something. “Take what you want and work back from there. How do you get it?”

“This isn’t some mindful manifestation nonsense.”

“You’re right, this is putting on your big girl panties and doing what’s right.”

Her expression has shifted from gentle to firm. But it is still loving.

“Go talk to him,” she says in a tone that leaves no room for discussion, “tell him everything, about how you can leave but you can’t come back. And tell him what you want.”

“What if—”

She cuts me off. “If this goes any more tits up, do you want it to be because you were a chicken-shit, or do you want to know that you were truly courageous.”

I scoff. “Courageous is a bit much.”

“But chicken-shit, isn’t?”

“Shut up.” Rocks fill my stomach and it sinks. I hate being so wrong. It’s worse that I can’t figure out how to make it right. “Fine, I’ll talk to him.” I give a little wave. “Bye.”

“Hey!” She exclaims, offended.


“You didn’t even ask me how my day’s going?”

“I’m sorry.” Ugh, I can’t stop being the worse! “How are—”

“I’m just messing with you.” A wide grin spreads on her face.

I tisk. “Bye.”

As I’m closing the laptop she says, “Loveyoubye!”

I freaking love her too.


Outside of Edgar’s door, I hug his laptop to my chest. It’s still warm from my brief talk with Libby. It’s comforting. I feel pathetic taking comfort from a goddamn inanimate object, but when the shoe fits.

My fist keeps lifting a couple of inches away from the door but it never connects with the wood.

I’m about to make a fourth attempt, when he calls, “Just open it.”

So much for courageous.

My eyes squeeze shut, as I allow myself to cringe before fixing my face. The metal of the knob is cold in my palm. I twist it and swing the door open. With confidence, I don’t feel I lean against the door frame. I’m just holding the laptop, not cradling it like it’s the only thing that loves me.

He’s sitting on his unmade bed, his back propped against the headrest, a book pinched between his fingers and his glasses in his other hand. His Junior-Reporter-Face is on. It matches mine. I wonder if my lack of expression makes his heart feel like it’s being compressed into a too-tight box.

I don’t know how to start, but he saves me from figuring it out by asking, “What did the National Guard say?”

“I can leave but I can’t come back.”

If he has any physical response to this, I don’t see it.

“I have to be home by six.”

“You’re just on the other side of town, right?”

I nod.

“Plenty of time still.”

The space around my heart shrinks. Was that him politely telling me to leave?

“Thank you,” my voice is mostly normal, “for your hospitality.”

“You’re welcome.”

My instinct is to leave it at that; retrieve my purse off of the kitchen floor and go home to cry in solitude. But I also don’t want to tell Libby that I’m a chicken-shit, so… fuck it.

“I’m sorry.”

That shocks a blink out of him.

I might as well start at the beginning. “I’ve judged you incorrectly the entire time I’ve known you. I’ve said shit about you that I shouldn’t have said, shit that wasn’t true.” Inside, I’m a mess but I deliver this speech like I’m reading from a TelePrompter. “I’m sorry that I was so concerned about other peoples’ opinions of me that I’d push you to do something you’re uncomfortable with.”

His head tilts and a crease forms between his eyebrows.


I’m staring at him and he’s looking back at me, void of emotion.

This was not the goal. This empty interaction. What do I have to do? I’m doing something totally wrong.

“Thank you for your apology.” His scripted response shines a cold light on my massive misstep. It’s clear what I have to do, but it goes against every one of my instincts.

I swallow.

Then little by little, I let him see me. The me that I keep hidden from everyone. The me that I don’t even show to Libby.

My shields fall away. It starts with the nonchalant way I’m holding the laptop; I let myself hug it against my chest. Then I stop controlling my breathing; it comes out shaky and uneven. My shoulders are hunched and my chin is wobbling. I look down at the floor as tears collect in my eyelashes.

Words break free from the vice grip of my throat in a strained whisper, I say, “I know I haven’t given you any reason to trust me, so I understand that you don’t. But I actually…” I need to take a deep breath. Oxygen fills my lungs and spreads through my body, searching for every hidden place that courage could be stored. I’ve never said this to anyone before they’ve said it to me. Fear wants to silence me. But I am not chicken-shit. “I actually love you.” I still can’t look at him. I’m watching my tears fall in heavy drops on the hardwood. “I know, it’s like, creepy to say that this quickly but I’ve fucked everything up by being afraid, so if I’m going to keep fucking up I want it to be because I was… brave.” The last word is strangled by a sob.

I am physically shaking. My body has released adrenalin; I want to run away so badly. “I want to go home,” I say, and the rest of my words are unintelligible. I try again, but it doesn’t work. Fuck, I have to get this out. “I want to go home,” I force out the words again, “and I want you to come with me.”

He’s been silent this whole time, I haven’t even heard the bed creak. When he clears his throat, my eyes look in his direction. His voice is husky as he asks, “Are you okay?”

I shake my head. “I feel like shit.”

“Yeah, me too.”

It makes my heart hurt worse knowing he’s in pain. “I’m sorry.”

“I know. Me too.”

The next wave of pain is coming, I can see it in the pinch of his eyebrows and controlled breathing. I’ve done too little too late and he’s given up on me. The sleeve of my hoodie is rough as I try to dry my cheeks. I won’t fall apart more. I won’t make it harder for him to do what he needs to do. Because even though I know this is over, I won’t call it. I’m not strong enough for that.

“You were right,” the words are forced through his clenched jaw, “I do have baggage. I’m… I had you built up in my head. You seem like you don’t care what anyone thinks and that’s something I liked about you.”

My lip might start bleeding, I’m biting it so hard. I will not sob. I will let him speak his mind and then I’ll run away. I can make it. I can survive this.

“But it wasn’t fair to hold you to what I imagined. Of course, you care what people think, we all do. I wanted you to be more than human and that’s bullshit.” His eyes soften. “Stop biting your lip, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know.” He inhales deeply. “Billie, you’re different than I thought you were.”

No. No. Nonononoooo.

“Okay.” I’m hyperventilating, I need to get out of here. “Thank you again. Bye.”


I’m turning away from him, but I stop and turn back.

In his usual graceful, athletic way, he moves to stand. There’s no hesitation but there is caution. In two careful strides, he closes the distance between us. The laptop’s weight slips from my grasp into his. He places it on top of the dresser. My arms are crossed over my chest as he pulls me into a hug. His arms are firm and tight across my back. I let myself rest my forehead into the crook of his neck and feel his chest rise and fall against my forearms.

Into my the hair at my temple, he says, “I like who you are. If my past was different, if I was who I used to be, but I’m not… You can only get me with the baggage.”

I look up at him with my tear-drenched eyes. “But you’re trying.”

“Is that enough?”

“Can anyone ask for more?” I thought I was already at my most pathetic, but then I realize there’s lower to sink.

“You should go home and think about that.”

“You won’t go with me?”

“It’s not a good idea.”

I shuffle away from him. He’s standing just within his bedroom and I’m just outside of it. It takes me a few seconds, but I force the insurmountable pain into a dark corner inside of me. I know it’s still visible in my eyes because when I meet his, he reaches for me.

“Don’t,” my voice is a broken whimper.

His chest falls in a exhale, both of his hands fist into his hair.

I clear my throat before forcing my voice level. “Thank you again. Bye, Edgar.”

My purse is where I left it. I swing it over my shoulder, ignoring the weight of his gaze following me. I keep my eyes fixed on the front door, then on the bright green budding leaves in the Spring sunshine.

With my car door closed behind me, I slip on my sunglasses and try to keep it together until I get home.


My house feels unlived in when I get home. All of my things are where I left them. But I am not in the same state upon my return.

Charging my phone, is probably the best first step. I set it on the wireless charger and give my fridge the side-eye. That thing is going to stink and I do not have the willpower to deal with it. Is one more night really going to make any difference?

My phone screen goes white as it powers up. It asks for my pin code. It’s alive and I’m bombarded with messages. One text message stands out among them all.


Sophia: I’ll take you down Bitch


I could almost thank her for the clarity she’s given me.

A plan forms and I begin executing it, immediately.


From Marty Vee:

Thank you for reading! If you’re enjoying the story please share it with a friend.

Day 14 and an Epilogue will bring our story to an end next week.

You and Me In Quarantine: Day 12

From Marty Vee:

This is a Romantic Comedy novella I’m sharing in segments, about two people who don’t like each other getting quarantined together. I suggest starting at the beginning:

But I’ll recap anyway:

Billie is a junior reporter for a local network and Edgar, her least favorite person, works in the same position at a competing network. They are quarantined together at his house. She recently found out that most of her previously conceived notions about him are based on someone else’s lies. As these things go, feelings got all involved and they did the deed. On Day 10 she asked some National Guard soldiers if she could grab some things from her home and come back to Edgar’s place.

I hope you enjoy it!

You and Me In Quarantine

Day 12

The hair at the top of Edgar’s neck is damp with sweat. He took off his shirt, a few minutes ago. And with it went my ability to pretend not to stare. His back is to me and I watch as he lowers into a deep lung. His arms simultaneously bending backward into a triceps press with dumbbells gripped in each hand. I might trip on the treadmill at the flex of muscle under his skin but I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.

And I do not want to.

His phone starts ringing. I resent the caller when he puts down the weights and strides to the phone. With one hand he answers the call, with the other he uses his discarded shirt to wipe away his sweat.

“Hey Mike.”

My eyes are still taking their fill. Edgar is standing in profile to me; tall and broad-shouldered, basketball shorts sitting low on his hips.

I watch as his posture straightens.

His eyes dart to mine. “Why would you ask me that?”

My eyebrows draw together, silently asking him what’s going on. He shakes his head. Does that mean, he’ll tell me later or that it’s bad?

“What video?”

I stumble mid-stride. My hand smacks the emergency stop and the treadmill slows. The blood in my veins does not, it’s pounding in my head. My vision narrows. I grab the rails on either side of me for support.

“Why would that be any of your business?”

Only hearing one side of the conversation is ratcheting up my anxiety.

“Has my work been neglected in any way?” Pause. “Then why would it make any difference to you or the network?”

The darkness around my vision partially recedes. Stepping to the floor, I begin pacing in front of the window. My focus remains on Edgar, I try to decipher every nuance in his body language; using it to build the other side of the conversation.

“That’s a stretch, Mike. Stay in your lane.”

Some corner of my brain appreciates Edgar’s solid backbone. He’s not asking for any forgiveness. Why would he? That part of me whispers. We haven’t done anything wrong.

“Yeah, I’m gonna call you back… No, I won’t answer any of your questions… Because you’re my producer and I don’t owe you any explanations.” He scoffs. “If this is a sex scandal then people will sensationalize anything.” He listens. “Look, Mike, I’m not blowing you off. I told you I’d call you back, so you’re gonna have to sit tight and wait.” With the jab of his thumb, he ends the phone call.

In a calming gesture that would be used on a scared animal, Edgar splays his hands between us. The phone is encircled by his left thumb and index finger. “Okay, this is not a big deal. Mike can be dramatic.”

“What’s going on?” I force my voice to sound dispassionate. It’s not convincing considering I can’t stop pacing.

“That was my producer. There’s a video.”

Ohnoohnoohno. “What video?”

“Some fan layered one of your videos on top of mine and there’s some imperfection in the wall lined up that more or less proves that you’re here.”

Goddamn it. I knew it.

“Sophia is blasting it all over social media, so it’s blown way out of proportion.”

My mouth goes dry.

“I think, the moral of the story here is, people have a lot of time on their hands.” He’s trying to joke, but I’m not able to see any humor.

I fan my hands at my face, I feel way too warm.

“What’s the big deal?” He asks.

My expression must convey the really I feel because he rolls his head back and stares at the ceiling.

“Alright.” My brain finally figures out what I need to do next. “Let’s watch this video and check out the damage, then I have to call my producer.” Fuuuck.

He follows me into the kitchen. He’s looking down at his phone—probably already taking in the dumpster fire we’ve been thrown into. I tap my nails on the island countertop waiting for the laptop to load. When it does, there’s the ting of messages loading into my email and messenger. I’ll deal with those later.

My notifications are going crazy.

I click on a response to a link Sophia tagged me and Edgar in. It seems like a good place to start. Ignoring the comments—but my eyes snag on the words “fake bitch”—I hit play on the video.

It is exactly as described; proof that I’m at Edgar’s house. That in itself wouldn’t be a big deal, but as I broaden my focus, I can see our real issue is how it has been circulated.
The original post makes a light-hearted joke about us being secret rival lovers. But then Sophia got her claws into it.

Her post is scathing.

She describes how while she and Edgar were still married, I started working with them. She claims that she could tell right away that he was falling in love with me and that it had ripped her heart out. That she never blamed me because she wasn’t ‘jealous woman.’ Also, she always saw me as a friend, that I was someone she could reach out to about the issues she had with her ex-husband. That I openly expressed dislike for the man—she even shares some screen-shots of text messages I’ve sent her.

It’s a whole book and she’s a strong storyteller.

Her sign off is something about how I’m duplicitous and I violated her trust.
Then the pin is out of the grenade and the comments are blowing me to bits. Some jabs go Edgar’s way, but mostly it’s me. I should stop reading them. They aren’t helping.
I’m feeling smaller and smaller after each one and there are hundreds.

“You okay?” He slips an arm around my waist, giving me a half hug.

I don’t look at him. “Can I use your phone?”

“Yeah.” He gives me a kiss on the temple that I’m not ready to accept. Then there’s a void where he was, I note that he’s going to his room, probably to give me privacy.
I have to open my email to get my producer’s number, it’s on her signature. There’s a couple of messages from her, one with the subject in all caps “WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU??” I open it and read:


I keep getting your voicemail. Clearly, we need to damage control. Call me so I can help.


I don’t have to look any further because her number is listed after that.

The phone is pressed to my ear and gets one full ring when she answers. “Hello?”

“Hey Val, it’s Billie. My phone is dead so I haven’t gotten your voicemails.”

Her tone is full of restraint. “Why is your phone dead?” I’m considering how much to share with her, when she continues, “Billie, just tell me the truth.”

“Do you really think this is that big of a deal?” I ask with forced confidence.

“That depends on how we spin it.”

I take a deep breath, then tell her everything—omitting Edgar’s personal life and the fact that we are sleeping together.

“Why didn’t you tell me all of this earlier? That’s why your appearance has been so casual? You don’t have any of your normal supplies.”

“Yeah, about that. I look fine in those videos.” I might be redirecting some of my aggression towards her.

“You do, but you usually put in more effort. The network was concerned that it looked like you were feeling scared or depressed and they wanted to convey more confidence to our viewers.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me that?” I demand.

“Because I thought you might be feeling scared or depressed, I didn’t want you to feel bad.” I can hear that she’s barely containing her irritation.
“Well, instead, I thought you wanted me to turn up the sex appeal and that felt like shit anyway.”

The speaker sounds like there’s a gust of wind on her side; probably her breathing hard.

I guess, we both could use to be more honest with the other.”

“I guess so.” I don’t sound convincing.

“So what exactly is your relationship with Edgar?”

“How is that relevant?”

“Billie, you are scraping away at my last nerve. It’s relevant because there’s a couple of ways we can spin this. We can claim you two are friends, despite all of the shit you’ve said about him, and you decided to shelter in place together. Or, we can say that this is a whirlwind relationship that swept you off your feet and the moon and the stars and all of that romantic shit.”

It’s what happened, but I don’t want to give that much of myself away for public consumption. “Again, why is that relevant?”

“Because,” she may be clenching her jaw, “it depends on how we play this out. We can work with his network and do a couple of joint videos to be cute and smooth things over. We need to have a plan of attack on how we deal with the ex-wife in all of this. She’s painting you in a really bad light and we need to get a hold of the narrative. So, are you in love or just friends?”

“We haven’t really talked about it.” I know what Edgar wants and I want to save face. I already look like a man stealing lying whore, is it better to pretend that there aren’t any romantic feelings? Will that affect our abilities to become public in the future? If we even have a future after this.

She sighs. “Look, I don’t know what the hell is going on here. You’re obviously not telling me everything. I know we aren’t friends, I know that you’ve never really warmed to me but I cannot help you if you freeze me out. Figure out your shit and call me back.”
The call ends.

I’m stewing because she’s right. I’m not warm to her and I don’t have a reason why. My only explanation is that I’m distant with most everybody. It takes me an abnormal amount of time to open up. Maybe that’s what I liked about Sophia; she didn’t want to know me, she wanted me to know her. Or the version of her that she painted.


I open the door to Edgar’s room after a tentative knock.

Except for his messed up hair, he looks completely composed. His hands on his hips, he stands with feet shoulder-width apart by the window. My eyes land on the divot in the wall that had caused this whole mess.

“Are you okay?” His expression is full of concern.

I don’t want to answer that instead I say, “Val, said we have two options.”

He straightens his back and lifts his chin parallel to the floor. “Who’s Val?”

“My producer.”

“Oh, you’ve never referred to her by name.”

I know, because I’m a broken person that takes every measure to keep people at arm’s length.

“Well, she thinks we can either come out as friends or say we are in love. She would like to coordinate with your network.”

A crease forms between his eyebrows. “I don’t like this. I don’t want Sophia playing puppet master here.”

I have to swallow down a spike of rage. “Yet here we are.”

Muscles flex in his jaw. “Okay, yesterday you said you needed more time. We can say we’re friends.”

“But if we claim to be in love, I think public opinion is more likely to take our side.”

“I won’t do that.”

“Excuse me?”

“I read the post and some of the comments, I know you’re getting the brunt of this, I want to do whatever will help you. But I’m going to draw the line at pretending to be in love.”

“What’s the big deal? You were just saying yesterday you wanted to be exclusive.”

“Being exclusive and lying about how we feel are two different things.”

It’d be a lie for him? It takes the air out of my lungs.

He keeps going, “I want to establish our relationship on our terms, not because we were forced into it. Sophia has soured too many things in my life. I won’t do it. I’ll be your friend on camera, I’ll pretend to laugh about the things you’ve said about me, but I will not tell people we are in love unless that’s the truth.”

The flippant way he’s confessing his menial feelings is taking a shitty situation and making it worse. I thought he felt for me, what I feel for him—even if I haven’t given him any reason to know that. The worse version of myself is clawing to the surface. My basic instinct is to hurt him as much as he’s hurting me. But I resist.

“How do you see this playing out?”

“Ideally, we say nothing. We do our jobs and let this burn itself out.”

I shake my head. “How’s that been working for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been waiting for this to burn out for years. You have a restraining order and still she’s forcing herself into your life. She warps people into hating you and you just keep taking this lying down. Just waiting for it to go away.”

“Look at the expert over here. You’ve been on the receiving end for twenty minutes and you know everything there is to know.”

“I know the way you’re handling it is wrong.”

“And you think lying would be better?”

“I never said I’d be lying.”

He and I both take a quick inhalation at my words. I watch his chest rise and then hold. There’s a buzzing in my ears. My mouth goes dry. I want to hide, like actually hide; maybe in a dark closet like a goddamn child.

“That’s fucking low.” His voice shrivels my insides, it’s sucking all of the oxygen from my lungs. “I thought it was fucked when you suggested claiming that shit to other people but to try and manipulate me like that? That is fucking low.”

“It’s not manipulation.”

“I can’t talk to you right now.”

“Oh, okay, so you’re using the maybe it’ll go away tactic for me too. Good. You know, I thought there was something between us. But you’re too busy throwing your baggage at me to hear what I’m saying.”

“What you are saying today is drastically different than what you were saying yesterday.

“Doesn’t make it not true!”

“Then where the fuck was it yesterday? Don’t make it out like I’m damaged goods when you’re claiming to love me because the spotlight is on you.”

“And aren’t you just being so noble? I wanna help you in any way but not really.” I know it’s the wrong words to say. It makes it sound like what he thinks is correct. But I’m too scared and hurt to pull back my attack. “You’re just, what was it you said yesterday, projecting all your shit about Sofia onto me. Instead of taking me at my word.”

“Your word?” Where there was heat in his voice a moment before, it’s turned to ice. “I read your words. That little conversation that you had with her; the shit you said about me, the names you called me. You haven’t even said the other words, just vaguely insinuated them.”

My heart is somewhere in my stomach.

His jaw is clenched like he’s fighting back saying more. We stand there staring at each other. I’m looking for any of the kindness that I’ve grown accustomed to seeing in his eyes.

It’s not there.

There’s nothing in his expression. I realize, I’m seeing his reporter face. A mask to hide everything. “I can’t talk about this, right now.” He says with the bland authority of a news-caster.

I don’t trust my voice not to shake, so I don’t speak. I turn and walk out of his room, closing his door behind me. Blinking my eyes, I struggle against the welling tears.


I “spoke” with Libby; mostly a ranted and railed against the injustice of the whole mess. She listened and suggested that I “talk” to Edgar.

Yeah, no thanks.

I also emailed Val. She was not impressed with my decision to wait to respond. But if I addressed this now I’d end up crying either in outrage or consuming grief.

Disguised by the shower, I let myself sob. Powerless broken-hearted sobs.


From Marty Vee:

Thank you for reading! If you are enjoying the story, please share it with a friend. You can continue on to Day 13 at:

You and Me In Quarantine: Day 11

From Marty Vee:

This is a RomCom novella I’m sharing in segments, about two people who don’t like each other getting quarantined together. I suggest starting at the beginning:

But I’ll recap anyway:

Billie is a junior reporter for a local network and Edgar, her least favorite person, works in the same position at a competing network. They are quarantined together at his house. She recently found out that most of her previously conceived notions about him are based on someone else’s lies. As these things go, feelings got all involved and they did the deed. On Day 10 she asked some National Guard soldiers if she could grab some things from her home and come back to Edgar’s place.

I hope you enjoy it!

Day 11

I’m looking at social media, not for any purpose other than passing time and the addictive nature of scrolling. My butt is going numb because this sofa doesn’t allow for blood flow.

The bike shorts he lent me the other day are the only things I want to wear anymore. My makeup is “done” and my hair is in a long braid over one shoulder. I just emailed a video to my producer. My anxiety about the video I filmed in Edgar’s bedroom has gone away. It was ridiculous anyway. Obviously, no one found us out. I can make a big deal out of nothing sometimes.

Edgar is on his phone next to me. He’s wearing basketball shorts and a thread-worn tshirt. I’m surprised he isn’t shirtless more often. I don’t understand why he’d cover any of his skin up. Maybe I could get him to stop.

He half smiles at a text message and it makes my lips twitch upwards.

“Who you talkin’ to?” I ask.


“Who’s Cat?”

He rolls his eyes and his shoulders tense. “Right, Cat as in Cathrin is my friend. Kitty is the shitty name Sofia calls her.”

“What’s wrong with the name Kitty?”

“Nothing, but it’s not her name.” There’s a bite to his words, that could be directed towards his ex-wife, but it feels directed at me.

“What are you two talkin’ about?”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Are you checking up on me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you checking up on me?”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing is going on between me and Cat.”

What the hell is going on here? “Yeah, that’s cool.” I add because I want to cut this off at the knees, “You know I have guy friends, right?”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, his neck turning red. “Shit, sorry. I…” His head shakes again. “I just, I guess that’d be called projection.”

“Something with Sofia?”

His blush has risen to his cheeks. “Yeah, she’d get jealous anytime I talked to a woman. Sorry.”

I shrug. “It’s okay.”

I look back at the computer screen, but my mind is focused elsewhere. It’ unsettling, how quickly he landed on that accusation. I guess, he did admit that it had nothing to do with me. I want to brush it off, but I can’t yet.

Also, how serious are we in his mind? I like him way more than I’m comfortable with but we haven’t discussed being exclusive or anything.

“I freaked you out,” he cringes.

It’s then that I realize, I’m scowling at the keyboard. “I’m fine,” I lie.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Then because I want to decipher where we stand, I add, “This is just casual anyway.”

He goes still, the color drains from his face. “Is it?”

“I mean, I like you.”

The muscles in his jaw flex. “But you just want to be casual?”

“I don’t know, I guess I haven’t really thought much about it.” That’s mostly true. Sure, last night I laid awake dreading what my feelings for him mean. Bu that was only one night. “It seems a bit early to call, right?”

The tension in him relaxes. “If you think so.” He says this without any resentment, he almost sounds relieved.

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve got time in spades, if all you need is time, I can be patient.”

“Feeling pretty confident, there?”

One dark eyebrow lifts towards his hairline. “Do I have a reason not to be?”

I don’t want to lie to him but I also don’t want to tell him, “no,” I just roll my eyes instead.

We watch each other for a few seconds. I’m expecting him to lean over and maul me, in the way that I like. Instead, he puts his arm around my shoulder and scoots closer to me. His thigh is pressed alongside mine. I can feel his muscular side against my arm. It’s pleasant, but there aren’t any sexual intensions. It’s contact for contact’s sake. For intimacy.

In his other hand, he holds out his phone for me to see. “Sometimes, Cat and I just send each other stupid memes.”

I’m reading the through them, one after another. My finger scrolls the images up, each meme lamer than the last. “These are terrible.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Do you send each other any funny ones?”

He nods. “When they’re relevant but mostly, it’s this.”

“So… you’re just a total nerd with her.”

He gives me a proud closed mouth smile and an eager nod. “Full embrace.”

I laugh but I’m also shaking my head. He’s so damn sweet.

“She encourages you to be totally you,” I observe.

The goofy expression on his face morphs as he considers this. “Yeah.”

“That’s a good friend.”

“She is. What about you? Is that Libby for you?”

“For sure,” I answer.

“What’s your favorite thing about her?”

I don’t have to think long, before telling him, “She’s so open with her affection. It makes me feel more comfortable with mine.”

“Ugh. I really like you.” His hand on my shoulder squeezes.

“There is no through-line on your conversation today.” I’m picking on him but inside I’m glowing; surprised he can’t see it.

His large brown eyes roam over my face before they land on mine. “You’re complicated and I like it.”

“You would think after Sophia, you’d want simple.”

“She gave the impression of being simple; open book. It wasn’t real.”

I have an itchy feeling in my gut. I’m not an open book, that’s for sure, but I’m not exactly what I seem either. People assume that I’m confident, without any insecurities. I don’t show the full range of my emotions to anyone. Being vulnerable is one of my biggest fears, so I’m not.

“I’ve had a lot of therapy,” Edgar admits. “It’s hard to have your trust violated like that and then it hasn’t fully stopped, with her… continuing to force a relationship, despite how fucked up it is.”

“I’ve considered therapy.” The words are out of my mouth before I even realize the thought. He’s sharing with ease, it’s provoking the same out of me. But I don’t want to take the words back, not yet at least.

I don’t know when or how I became so self-protecting but it has definitely affected my relationships. My childhood self was always mitigating any uncomfortable exposed emotions; learning how to keep from crying, learning how to laugh when something hurt.

Learning how to keep people out.

I don’t know how else to be. It’s ruined past romances, but I don’t want it to ruin this. I want this, with Edgar. My feelings for him have become something with its own life. They breathe their own air. They’re going to start speaking for me soon. I’m way past liking him. It happened so fast.

If he told me that he loved me, I would say it back.

I would mean it.

“It’s challenging, but it’s worth it.” He shrugs.

“Wanna watch something?” I jerk my head towards the TV. I can’t keep talking about this, with all of these dangerous thoughts in my head.

His unabashedly gentle expression warms a few degrees. The phone in his hand lands on the coffee table with a thud, then he pinches the computer on my lap closed and sets it on the floor. Anticipating heat stirs in my gut. I watch as he slowly leans towards my propped knees. His hand glides down my no longer smooth shin.

My head falls onto the backrest, loving the feel of his warm skin on mine.

Then he stops.

I snap my eyes open and look at him. A mischievous goofy grin on his beautiful mouth.

“The fuck?” I demand.

“You said you wanted to watch something.” He’s holding a remote control out to me.

“I’ll make you pay for this.”

“Looking forward to it.” But he settles in next to me.

The sofa is as comfortable as it could ever be.


From Marty Vee:

Thank you for reading! If you’re enjoying the story please share it with a friend.

You can continue to Day 12 at:

You and Me In Quarantine: Day 10

From Marty Vee:

This is a RomCom novella I’m sharing in segments, about two people who don’t like each other getting quarantined together. I suggest starting at the beginning:

But I’ll recap anyway:

Billie is a junior reporter for a local network and Edgar, her least favorite person, works in the same position at a competing network. They are quarantined together at his house. She recently found out that most of her previously conceived notions about him are based on someone else’s lies. As these things go, feelings got all involved and they did the deed.

I hope you enjoy it!

Day 10

The video I filmed in Edgar’s room yesterday posted almost an hour ago. I felt paranoid, so I watched it again for anything that would expose I’m at his house. There’s a slight shadowy divot in the wall over my right shoulder. It’s nothing noticeable if you’re not staring at the background of the shot. Also, the imperfection would still have to be in one of his shots; he’d have to film in almost the same location as me, and he’s taller so the angle would be different.

This is ridiculous. I need to calm down.

My producer didn’t give me any crap for my appearance, that’s maybe a good thing. Either she has come to terms that this is as good as it’s going to get or I’m going to get a talking to when this is all over.

Edgar and I are in his bed. We haven’t bothered with the sofa today, because it is where comfort goes to die. I’m doing Suduko in one of those cheap books you can buy at the checkout, while he reads a new novel out loud. Because he’s the most indulgent person or I’m just spoiled.

He’s wearing his reading glasses. I fixated on how delectable and studious he looks. But I can focus almost seventy percent of my attention on other things now.

A fog-horn blaring from his phone makes me jump. “What the hell is that?”

He reads the screen. “A message from the Governor. The quarantine has been extended.”

I knew it was going to happen; the spread of the virus hasn’t diminished enough. I feel… conflicted. There’s disappointment; I miss my friends and family and I really want everyone to be safe. I also want some of my own possessions. I want my clothes and my phone. He’s been very accommodating, but there’s nothing like my over worn sweater. I’d kill to put on a pair of jeans.

But I’m fairly pleased. It means more time with Edgar. I don’t know what to call our relationship or how it’ll change when we aren’t forced to co-habitat.

One thing is certain, I’m not ready to be public.

I’ve spent years talking trash about him. I need to figure out how to backtrack on some of that smack before people know that I not only don’t hate him but I like him. I like him a lot. More than I know how to handle.

The Crow’s feet by his eyes appear as he squints into the middle distance.

I assume I’m reading his mind, when I ask, “What are we gonna do about food?”

His face relaxes and he shrugs. “There’s canned and dry goods in the spare bedroom closet. We’re good for a couple more weeks. It’s not the healthiest living, but we’ll live.”

“My God! How were you ever going to eat through it by yourself?”

“They said to prepare, I prepared.”

“For the Apocalypse?”

He gives me that “you’re so cute” smile. Bastard.

“I was just thinking, that you must be feeling trapped,” he explains.

I stretch to buy myself some time while I think that over. “You’re just as trapped as I am.”

He’s quiet for a few breaths. His eyes on mine. My stomach feels queasy, wondering what he’s going to say next. I can already feel how sweet it’s going to be. And then he says, “Being with you doesn’t feel like a trap at all.”

Okay, I was basically thinking that but I can’t tell him. “Ugh, you’re so mushy.”

“Do you hate it?”

I sigh. “I want to.”

“But you don’t?” There’s the smallest lift of his lips.

It pains me but I admit, “Not particularly.”

He makes a sound like he’s tasted something delicious. He sets the book and his glasses down and crawls over me. With a fist pressed into the mattress on either side of my hips he bends his head down and takes my yoga pants into his teeth, scraping my skin through the fabric. My mind goes fully offline, as I watch him tug them downward, revealing a sliver of skin just under my stomach. Teeth and lips scrape on the newly exposed flesh.

My lungs release a shaky breath.

We both startle at a loud, authoritative, knock on the front door. We look in that direction.

His head swivels back towards me. “What the hell was that?”

I sputter a laugh.

He crawls over me to stand and I follow, much less gracefully.  There’s an amused expression in his eye as I get tangled in the covers and almost fall.

“Don’t,” I demand.

“How did I not know you’re clumsy?”

“Shut up.”

“All this time, I thought I was paying attention.”

“It’s beds and trampolines, I’m really bad at soft flat surfaces.”

“And dancing.”

I hold up a warning finger. “I am a spectacular dancer!”

I am not.

“Well, you’ve got a style,” he concedes.

My humor comes out in a honk.

He hugs me against his chest and kisses my temple. “I loved dancing with you.”

The knock comes again, louder this time.

With my hand in his, he walks to the front door. At the kitchen island, I let go of his hand to lean against the counter with my arms crossed over my chest. I didn’t put my bra on today, so I’d like to disguise that fact from the unexpected intruder.

On the front porch, stands two soldiers in uniform with masks over their mouths. The one closest to us speaks in a clear voice. “Hello, we just want to check-in that you have all the provisions that you need.”

Edgar begins to nod, but I interrupt him. “Actually, I, uh—I could—It was—” Okay, get a grip. I didn’t expect this, I’m having a hard time putting my thoughts together. Full sentences, now. “I wasn’t expecting to be here.” I twirl one finger around to encompass Edgar’s house. “So, I don’t have any of my own clothes and I have a ton of food at my house. Can I go grab that stuff and come back?”

I see the two soldiers share unsure looks over Edgar’s shoulder. His pupils might as well turn into little hearts. I glance at him and quickly away. My stomach does a flip. In my peripheral vision, I can see him fighting against a smile. The smile is winning.

It’s pulling at the loose strands of my heart like it’s a marionette and that smile is the puppet master.

“We’ll have to speak to our commanding officer,” the second soldier states, “Can we get a phone number? And your address?”

“Sure,” Edgar nods, “should I write it down?” When they tell him yes, he grabs the pad of post-it notes and pen from beside the fridge and jots his number on it with my name above. I recite my address for him to add.

“I wouldn’t expect a response until tomorrow at the earliest but more likely a couple of days,” the first soldier takes the post-it with a gloved hand and stuffs it in her chest pocket.

“Thank you,” Edgar and I say in unison.

They give a polite wave.

When the door is closed, Edgar goes to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. His back is to me, as he speaks, “Grab stuff and come back, huh?”

“Would that be okay?”

He snorts. “I already told you, I want you here.” He reaches for a towel.

“I really called your bluff if you didn’t mean it.”

Rounding the island, he’s looking at me like a starving man looks at a snack. “I meant it.”

The distance between us is gone. He bends at the knees and throws me over his shoulder in a fireman hold.

In shock, I squeal. I’m not used to being picked up, because I’m a grown person, but I do not hate it.

His strides are quick and I watch the floor as we approach the bed. He throws me down on to it, before covering me with his body. His mouth swallowing my laughter.


Edgar has been asleep for a while, he’s making a soft almost snoring sound in my ear. The pressure of his chest against my back rising and falling, roots me. And I know I could plant myself here. Not only does it feel like he wants it. But more importantly, I do.

I want to claim him as mine. I want to be his.

Without warning or my permission, I’m falling in love with him. It’s approached me with such speed that I didn’t see it coming. Now that it’s so close, I don’t think I can step out of its way. It’ll either carry me with it or obliterate me.

He heaves a sigh. His arm tightens around my waist.

I close my eyes to the swell of conflicting emotions.


From Marty Vee:

Thank you for reading! If you are enjoying the story, please share it with a friend. You can continue on to Day 11 at:

You and Me In Quarantine: Day 9

From Marty Vee:

This is a RomCom novella I’m sharing in segments, about two people who don’t like each other getting quarantined together. I suggest starting at the beginning:

But I’ll recap anyway:

Billie is a junior reporter for a local network and Edgar, her least favorite person, works in the same position at a competing network. They are quarantined together at his house. She recently found out that most of her previously conceived notions about him are based on someone else’s lies. 

I hope you enjoy it!

Day 9

This morning could be beyond uncomfortable.  And I’m stuck here if it is; “I have somewhere to be” is not an option. I don’t know what to anticipate or what the best course of action is. How do I want this to play out? I would like to have sex with him again, but will that complicate things further? If it’s been complicated at all. Maybe he’s super chill about these things. I can be chill.

We fell asleep naked, lying diagonally across the bed. At some point during the night I pulled a pillow under our heads and he draped the covers over us. I’m no longer surprised to wake up cuddling with him, that seems to be what we do. He’s pressed against my back from shoulder to knee.

I’m torn between arousal and apprehension. There’s no clear course of action for what we’ve done.

Admittedly, it’s possible I didn’t think this through completely. I might have done that thing where I fly off the handle and now I don’t know what kinds of repercussions I’m dealing with. What did sex with Edgar mean to me? What did it mean to him? Before last night, I was on the verge of considering him a friend. Not that I was ready to admit that to anyone else. Is he the kind of friend that I have sex with? I’ve had casual sexual relationships in the past to varying degrees of success. But the stakes were never quite this high.

He groans and cups my breast. I feel him grow hard against my thigh before he rolls on top of me.

I’m deciding that more sex with Edgar can only simplify things.

Also, his naked body was correctly advertised. It’s very good.


It’s mid-afternoon. My coworker, Mitch, who was supposed to film a video today but he had an incident involving his four-year-old son and dish soap in the dishwasher. I saw the photos on Mitch’s profile. The entire kitchen is bubble-land with a cute little blond boy having the time of his life in the middle of the mess.

So I’m filming instead of Mitch today. I usually record earlier in the day by the workout room’s window, but the lighting is wrong this late in the day. I check in the living room, but that’s not great either, I really need to be on the other side of the house. I go into Edgar’s bedroom. I know that he’s recorded in here, so I double-check the background of the shot is just a blank wall. It’s a light gray color, an observant viewer might recognize that the color is the same. But that’s unlikely. Lots of people have gray walls.

After recording the video, I send it to my email to forward it to my producer. It won’t post until tomorrow because it’s so late.

I find Edgar in the kitchen loading the dishwasher.

It would be an understatement to say that I smile back at him. I try to turn the wattage down but I can’t. I can feel that my face is all teeth and bright eyes. To get my stupid expression back in line, I tilt my head down but keep watching him. His smile doesn’t falter but his expression goes a little “Aww.” Like I’m something adorable.

I roll my eyes. “Alright. Enough of that.”

“Enough of what?” His face is going to get stuck that way if he doesn’t stop smiling.

“Looking at me like I’m a particularly cute puppy.”

He presses the button to begin the dishwashing. “Then stop being cute.”

“I’m not.” Seriously, never in my life have I been called cute.

“You are.”


“You pretending that you’re not affected by me. It kills me.”

“I don’t do that.” I narrow my eyes at him and fight my dumb lips from curling.

He laughs. “You’re doing it now.”

I make a tisk sound.

“Ugh,” his hand covers his heart, “you’re too much.”

“Shut up.”

“I can’t handle it.”

“I’ll shut you up.”


I push him against the refrigerator, a magnet falls with a thud to the linoleum floor. My kiss is harsh but playful; my teeth taking warning bites on his lips and jaw and neck. He cups my ass with both hands and pulls me tighter against him.

“Oh no,” I scowl up at him. Gripping each of his wrists, I push his hands back to his sides. “You’re being punished.”

“Fuuck meee.” His voice is pained and aroused.

“When I’m good and ready.”

His erection bounces against my lower stomach. He groans, his head falling back against the stainless steel.

“You’re never gonna call me cute again,” I whisper into his ear. My hands climb under the hem of his shirt before I run my nails down his abdomen.

He inhales sharply. “You’re fucking adorable.”

I pull back to glare at him through my eyelashes. “I’ll make you pay.”

“Adorable,” he taunts.

“You’ll eat those words,” I promise.

Promises are very important to me.


We’re still breathing heavily from our latest bout of sex. It’s a whole new way to pass the day. Things have progressed at an aggressive rate. He’s so fun to be with; even outside of the whole sleeping together situation.

He’s running his fingers down my hip and then his knuckles up. Fingers down and knuckles up, over and over again.

I’m watching, my eyelids getting heavy.

It’s dark outside, I wonder what time it is. But I don’t care enough to remove my cheek from his chest and check the clock on the wall. Instead, I listen to it tick away seconds into the silent room.

His body gives a little bounce as he chuckles.

“What?” I ask, realizing that I’d almost fallen asleep. My eyes look up at the ceiling, but his face is behind me, I can’t see him unless I move. And that’s not happening.


Okay, I’m going to have to move. I roll—without any grace—so that my opposite cheek is now resting on his lower belly and I can look up the into his face. He’s propped with a pillow under him and his shoulders against the headboard.

“Tell me.”

“Just taking in that we’re here.” He gestures to encompass us laying on his bed.

Being contrary, I shrug. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Stranger things than you serving me false papers by my stalking ex-wife leading to us having enthusiastic—”

“Enthusiastic,” I laugh.

“Sex all day.” He ignores my interruption.

“Yes, I’m sure stranger things have happened.”

He blinks at me with skepticism. He’s smiling when he says, “In you’re life? Because in my life, I sent you a drink a couple of months ago and you sent it back to me.”

I tense at his words.

“Whoa, what just happened?” His smile is slipping off of his face.

You just reminded me that this is a totally shitty idea. I want to yell at him. I take a deep breath and with ice in my voice I say, “You mean the drink you sent to gloat?”

He goes rigid. “I was not gloating.”

I sit up to face him at eye level. We aren’t touching anymore, the distance that is usually between us is back. But this time we’re naked for it.

“So, it was coincidence that you won an award that I was nominated for as well,” I point out.

He snorts and I feel anger simmer in my gut.

“I was feeling confident, so I took a risk.” His words are spoken slowly and deliberately. “You sending it back really cut the confidence out from under me.”

“Am I supposed to apologize for that?”

“No.” He takes a deep breath. “But I wasn’t gloating.”

My eyebrows draw together, I’m missing something here. That seems to be the reoccurring message of all of my interactions with Edgar. “Then what was it?”

He snorts again. I really want him to stop doing that.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“I wanted to talk to you.” He says this glaring at the wall over my left shoulder.


He. Snorts. Again.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Snort one more time, I dare you.”

“What’re you gonna do? Beat me up?”

“Just don’t. And answer the question.”

“What question?”

My jaw is clenching. This man is stressing my short supply of patience. “Why did you want to talk to me?”

“Oh, that.” He rolls his eyes. “That is obvious.”

“It is not.”

His head tilts and his eyes lock onto mine. He’s staring at me and taking slow breaths like the information will seep into my consciousness from our shared oxygen.

I sigh. “I don’t know what kind of mind-melding you’re trying to do here but It’s not working. Just answer the damn question.”

He makes a disgusted sound before muttering, “I have a crush on you.”

My eyes go round, like, huge. My open mouth is trying to pull into a smile but I’m fighting it back.

“Why do you think I do such embarrassing shit around you?” He demands.

I’m gonna laugh soon. It’s just all so awkward. “Like tell me you look very good naked?”

“Prime example.”

“Well, you do.” I give a little shrug.

His eyes roll. “Thank you.”

“You have a crush on me.”

He must catch my antagonizing tone because he meets my eye. His head tilts in a warning.

“Like we’re in middle school.”

“That’s what it feels like, I haven’t been this embarrassing since I was pubescent,” he groans.

My lower lip is meaty between my teeth. “It’s like a big crush, like carving E + B into a park bench.”


“Are you gonna try to hold my hand in math class?”

“Shut your beautiful mouth.”

“Is your mom gonna pick me up so we can go to the semi-formal together?”

“Alright.” He launches towards me. I only have time to squeal as he tosses me on my back. He uses his beautiful mouth to shut mine up.

So, I win.


From Marty Vee:

Thank you for reading! If you are enjoying the story, please share it with a friend. You can continue on to Day 10 at:

You and Me In Quarantine: Day 8

From Marty Vee:

This is a RomCom novella I’m sharing in segments, about two people who don’t like each other getting quarantined together. I suggest starting at the beginning:

But I’ll recap anyway:

Billie is a junior reporter for a local network and Edgar, her least favorite person, works in the same position at a competing network. They are quarantined together at his house. She recently found out that most of her previously conceived notions about him are based on someone else’s lies. 

I hope you enjoy it!

Day 8

Edgar and I are cuddling again this morning and I don’t get to pretend that I don’t know. We wake up at the same time. Or I wakeup stretching and it wakes him up. I’m in the middle of the bed—possibly slightly more on his side than mine but it’s not like I whip out a measuring tape. He has his arm across my stomach and a leg over my right thigh. My shoulder pressed against his chest. I’m holding his elbow with my right hand. His left arm is under my neck.  I might have drooled on his bicep.

As I have seen his bicep before, I get it. Unconscious Me, I get it.

We both go rigid when consciousness clarifies how our bodies are entwined.

Over my shoulder, I look at him. His face is only inches from mine. His lips are slightly parted and surrounded in a day’s worth of stubble. They’re so plump and firm and defined; with ridged edges. I wonder if they’re as soft as they look.

My eyes flick up. He looks from my mouth and meets my gaze. There’s heat in his brown eyes—a dark almost black ring around the iris then prisms of a redder brown towards his pupil. The morning sun is casting him in a golden glow. He looks like the best morning come to life. And I know something to be true that I have been wondering about for a couple of days now.

I want his mouth on mine.

I want to feel his body weight on top of me and I want to know how he feels under me.

I’m going to kiss Edgar.

Right. Now.

But then he rolls on to his back! I’m about to crawl on top of him when he sits up and throws his legs over the side of the bed.

“Morning,” he says with a sleep thick voice, he’s facing away from me.

“Hmm.” It is the only response I can muster.

He stands, stretches his arms over his head before disappearing into his bathroom.

Okay? What to make of this? Is he not into me? I don’t think that’s the case, but it’s a possibility. I thought we’d bridged some of our differences since this whole thing started. I could be wrong. Maybe he’s just not attracted to me. Or maybe we have resolved some differences, but he still doesn’t like me as a person. I’m not usually very sensitive to stuff like that, but the idea hurts my feelings.

Not a lot. Just in a totally crushing way.

It’s twenty minutes later before I emerge from my bathroom. The smell of coffee leading me to the kitchen. I skipped a shower, but I did my makeup. I have to do that video for my producer. The beach babe hair backfired; it was kinky in the middle but flat and straight at the top and the bottom. I pulled it into a high ponytail but that was a frizzy mess. Now, with my hair down around my shoulders; hopefully, it’ll relax and I can do something with it before filming.

The sight of Edgar makes my gut plummet. He’s lifting a mug to his lips and looking down at his phone on the counter. Probably reading an article, some updates on current events.

I take in the sight of his profile; strange feelings raging within me. A combination of wanting and apprehension. I’m unraveling. Some self-preservation I had built around me is crumbling. I feel bare.

Less than an hour ago I would have… I would have done everything. No limits. Some flood gate has opened and there’s no getting the water back in. I know something about myself that I cannot unknow.

I want him.

It may actually be… desperately.

I want him desperately.

Without looking up from his article, he gestures his mug to the corner of the island. A prepared cup of coffee is steaming; it’s the perfect shade of dark tan.


I’m pretty sure that Edgar was avoiding me all day. That can be the only explanation for why he seemed to disappear from every room I walked into. The only words we exchanged were in regards to me borrowing his phone for work and then me returning it.

The email response I received from my producer was less than glowing. I’m getting just about fed up.

My last patience was spent when Edgar ate his dinner at the table instead of on the sofa with me. We were in the same room technically, but my back was to him.


I went to bed almost directly afterward.

I have his laptop open on my lap, The Office playing but I’m not paying attention. My mind is preoccupied with wondering what changed from yesterday to today between me and Edgar. And there is only one explanation: Me.

I’m the difference.

My chest aches. I can feel the sharpness of tears stinging my eyes. Am I really going to cry? Because some guy doesn’t want me back.


I’m not that woman.

I don’t do that shit.

I slam the cover closed on his computer and set it on the floor.

It’s stupid. With everything else going on, Edgar’s rejection is what puts me over the edge? But that’s exactly it.

I’ve ignored a dull aching fear for weeks. But now, I’m in the aftermath; a tipping point met and those fears have spilled into the forefront of my mind.

I want a hug from my mom. And to share an ironic look with my dad while we eat at our favorite cheap Mexican restaurant. I want to go to Libby’s place and share a bottle of wine complaining about our lackluster love lives.

I just want some normal.

It’s my job to pay attention to current affairs and I’m doing my job. I’ve always been efficient at separating my feelings from the happenings of the world. But right now, I feel weighed down by them and the future looks bleak.

I want to go back to the time when I thought I knew what to expect from life and the people around me.

Pulling the covers up to my wet cheeks, I wish I had my own pillow to cry into.


My eyes are dry when Edgar comes to bed.

Thank god.

I’d never forgive myself if I cried in front of him. I feel the bed dip under his weight. My back is to him. I’m bear-hugging a pillow against my chest. I wish it would hug me back. I’m not one for a lot of physical contact but I could really go for some comfort right now.

How ridiculous is that? How ridiculous am I?

My grief turns to anger in a flash. I spring onto my knees facing him. The blankets heaped on the foot of the bed with one slash of my arm.

He startles into a reclined position, his elbows supporting his upper body.

“What the hell?” He asks as I demand, “What is your fucking problem?”

“I have a problem?”

“Don’t you?”

“Are you okay?” He sits up fully. Concern etches his features as he takes in my appearance. I’m sure that my eyes are puffy—it’s too dark in the room to make out if they’re bloodshot. My lips feel swollen and dry. I don’t even want to begin to wonder about the state of my hair. Whatever. Who cares if I look deranged?

“Oh, I’m fine!” Motherfucker.

“What’s wrong?” There’s a crease between his eyebrows.

I put my hand on his chest, I think I was going to shove him but I fist his shirt in my palm instead. “Nothing’s wrong with me. What is wrong with you?”

Fingers encircle my wrist and pull my grip free. His shirt snaps back into place with a stretched and wrinkled patch.

He’s scowling at where his skin touches mine. The hold is firm but gentle. I watch him, wondering what the hell is going on in his brain. What the hell is going on in my brain? Why do I care so much about what he thinks? I try to tell myself that I don’t, but the lie doesn’t sit well.

It dawns on me that today is the first day since the quarantine began that I felt alone.
I clench my eyes shut against the fresh sting of tears.

No. I will not cry.

“Hey,” he breathes. He presses my closed fist just below his collar bone before pulling me into a hug.

My forehead is in the crook of his neck. I want him to hold me but I say, “Don’t.”
He lets me go. His arms hovering inches away from my body before they slowly settle next to his legs.

I don’t move; I keep our remaining points of contact: my fist against his cotton-covered chest and the skin of my forehead to the skin of his shoulder and neck.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” He whispers after a couple of silent moments.

My voice comes out humiliatingly wobbly as I say, “I just—it just became too much today.” It’s a partial truth.

“You asked me what’s wrong with me,” he points out. “Why are you mad at me?”

Ugh. That’s what I get for getting all worked up and not thinking it through. “Nothing.” I sit back on my heels. My skin missing his.


The blankets and sheets are a mess but I get to keep my back to him as I sort them out.

“Yup.” I lay on my side of the bed, the blankets pulled high over my shoulder, facing away from him.

I haven’t heard him move, so I assume he’s still in his seated position. I feel like he’s staring down at me. Can the bed swallow me up? I’ll sink into it and never come back to the surface.

“You haven’t liked me for a long time.” His words spoken into the dark room cuts a new wound into my heart. “The whole time you’ve known me. I get it, I was… the worst version of myself and… there was shit being said about me.” Every thought sounds like it’s being forcibly pulled from him. “I want you to—” he tries but then tries again. “It seems like—” He sighs. I can feel the impact of his body falling back. “I don’t want you to hate me.”

Instead of addressing that not only do I not hate him anymore but I like him, I ask, “Why did you avoid me today?”

He gives a humorless laugh. “I almost did something stupid this morning. So I kept my distance.”

I frown at the wall before rolling over to frown at him. He’s flat on his back looking up at the ceiling. “What stupid thing?”

“Something really stupid.”

It’s a gamble that might turn out to totally shred my ego but I ask, “Were you going to kiss me?”

“I’ll sleep in the living room.” He starts to roll out of bed; his legs over the side and his torso erect.

I push myself up on my elbow and hip. “Don’t.”

Over his shoulder, he looks at me. I feel his eyes move from my face to my hair hanging in messy tendrils towards the pillow to my bra-less chest as his eyes sweep back to mine. Swallowing my insecurity, I go back to my knees. With clumsy progress, I move closer to him. There’s a crease between his eyebrows and his lips are parted. I bite my lower lip, nerves tying my stomach in knots. On my knees and with him sitting with his feet on the hardwood floor, I’m a couple of inches taller than him. His left hand settles on the small of my waist. He looks up at me through his black eyelashes. My palm rubs against the stubble of his jaw as my fingers stab into his thick hair at the base of his skull. The fingertips of my other hand rest on his shoulder.

His eyes close at the brush of my lips against his. The positioning is awkward, with the rotation of his spine and my stomach pressed against his side, but we kiss like that. His lips soft and warm against mine. The connection is sweet and tender, just like him. His tongue slicks against mine. I can feel pressure rising inside of me; wanting him mounting like heat.

He’s melting me. The protective layer I keep between me and everyone else is dripping away; I should feel scared but I don’t.

My fingers fist in his hair and I run my teeth on his upper lip.

He pulls away an inch. I groan in protest.

The way he looks at me makes me blink; there’s surprise there but also intensity.

I feel like he’s memorizing me. I’m want to memorize him; the curl of his eyelashes, the bold slash of his eyebrows, the slight indentations of wrinkles in his skin that deepens when he smiles. He’s not smiling now, his mouth slightly parted.

I want that mouth back.

He rotates, kneeling on the bed. His chest against mine. His knees barely on the edge. I shove both my hands into the hair at the back of his head and pull him back to me. He follows my urgency and my unspoken directive as I lie down. He presses himself above me, I can feel him hard between my legs. My mind is spiraling slowly out of control.

Logical thought has taken a leisurely position in the backseat. Its desire behind the wheel.

I touch him and kiss him with fanatic enthusiasm.

He’s just as desperate.

Our clothes are thrown across the room.

Our bodies wrap around each other, writhing and sweaty. The hair on his thigh scraping  the skin of my inner thigh. With seeking hands and mouths we discover each other’s pleasure.

His fingers press into my hip.

My teeth bite into his deltoid.

It’s wild and uncalculated. It’s way better than I would ever expect a first time to be. He reacts to me with throaty groans and growls. I want to find all of the ways that I can provoke those sounds from him.

Under my skin, shocks of electricity follow the path of his hands. None of what he’s doing to me is technically new but the way he does it… The way he looks doing it…

I can’t breathe. I can only want.

I want more.

Until I’m left panting, back arched. Sated.


From Marty Vee:

So this is pretty PG-13 for the genre, but I’ve been struggling with how explicit to be. I’d love input from readers. Was this a let down or did it work for you? Please email me at or comment below.

Thank you SO much for reading! If you are enjoying the story, please share it with a friend.

You can keep reading Day 9 at:

You and Me In Quarantine: Day 7

From Marty Vee:

This is a romantic comedy novella I’m sharing in segments. I suggest that you start at Day 1. You can find it here:

Just in case you’re not going to do that, here’s a recap.

Billie is a junior reporter for a local network and Edgar, her least favorite person, works in the same position at a competing network. They are quarantined together at his house. She recently found out that most of her previously conceived notions about him are based on someone else’s lies. 

I hope you enjoy it!

Day 7

I have to orient myself as my mind comes awake. There are a couple of important things to remember that clarify reality.

Let’s begin; after dinner, I did work on my puzzle and Edgar did read out loud to me. When The Golden Girls were fully assembled, I cleaned up the kitchen and he continued reading, because the story was gripping. In the end, we finished the book but we stayed up too late.

I needed to fall asleep, but I wasn’t sure where I’d be sleeping. He had been generous to let me use his bed two nights in a row. I didn’t want to sleep on the sofa and even though he hadn’t complained I knew he didn’t want the hardwood floors again.

So, I said, “You know, there’s plenty of room in your bed for both of us.”

He tilted his chin away from me. “You’d be comfortable with that?”

Seriously, he could stop being so careful with me. It was appreciated but at this point unnecessary. “It’s no big deal, let’s just go to bed.”

I brushed my teeth and washed my face—I had combined some Castile soap and coconut oil, then just coconut oil for moisturizer a couple of days ago—in my bathroom. By the time I got into his bedroom, he was already laying down on the side closes to his bathroom door. I switched off the lights and went to the other side of the bed. I had to unclasp my bra and slip it out from under my tshirt before getting under the covers but I forced myself to not feel weird about that.

I hate sleeping in a bra.

It’s not like he could see anything anyway.

“Goodnight,” he said as he shifted to face the bathroom.

I had my back to him as well when I responded with my goodnight.

So that’s how we ended up sharing a bed.

What I don’t know is how I ended up sharing his pillow. Apparently, at some point in the night I crossed the invisible centerline and didn’t go back. I usually don’t move much while I sleep, so this is very weird for me.

I can say, that it smells like him over here and there is something delicious about that smell.

I lay completely still, my eyes still closed, Edgar is warm and firmly pressed against my back; from my shoulders to feet. He’s wearing shorts so the skin of his shin is against my calf. His left arm is under the pillow under my head and the right arm is hooked over my hips. His breath is humid on my neck. Every couple of exhales he makes a throaty groan that I have to be this close to hear.

I might be able to shift myself from his grip and get back to my side of the bed without him being aware of it but the contact feels so good.

He feels… so good.

My ego keeps telling my body to move but my body keeps telling my ego to shut the hell up.

With a content sigh, I lean tighter against him. My ass nuzzling against his groin.
Through his nose he breaths in sharply, his chin and lips brushing against my cotton-covered shoulder. The arm at my hip stiffens and pulls me more securely to him. A sound of pleasure vibrates into my shoulder.

He grows hard against my ass.

I don’t know how I do, but I continue breathing normally. I pretend to be asleep despite my arousal throbbing.

I know he’s conscious when I hear a quiet, “Fuck,” in my ear. Then an even quieter, “Fuuuuck,” before he puts distance between his erection and my ass. With slow careful movements he untangles himself from me.

In the end he pretty much has to fall on the floor of his bedroom to accomplish this. I have to imagine what it looks like because I’m still pretending to be asleep. The whole situation makes me want to laugh, but I hold it in until I hear the shower turn on behind the bathroom door. Even then, it’s more of a silent smile than laughter.

Is he masturbating? That question has me sobering up. The imagery is not unpleasant.

Before he’s out of the shower, I go to my own bathroom to bathe.

He’s eating some oatmeal and blueberries in the living room when I emerge clean.

I’m French braiding my wet hair over my right shoulder. Maybe, it’ll dry and be beach babe wavy tomorrow for my work video. I’d really need to do two braids for that, but I only have one scrunchy. Maybe I can find a rubber band.

“Morning,” I say as I pass Edgar on my way to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” his voice is croaky. His phone buzzes and he bends to grab it off of the coffee table.

“How’d you sleep?”

He’s quiet for a moment and I watch him from the fridge typing out a text. He answers, “Fine. You?”

“Fine.” I’ve already planned out the verbiage of my next couple of questions. “So, I totally woke up on your side of the bed. Did I crowd you all night?”


“Was I there when you woke up?”

He swallows a bite of food. “I wasn’t paying attention.” He says it very convincingly. I know he has to be good at masking his thoughts for work, but seriously, if I didn’t know better I would believe him.

“Okay, as long as I didn’t bother you.”

There’s another buzz from his phone, he’s looking down at its screen. “Not a bother.”


I keep having to stop myself from touching him; nowhere scandalous, just his arm or his shoulder. One time I almost touched his knee, he’s still wearing shorts so it’d be even more awkward than if he had been wearing pants. But I caught myself and made it look like I was brushing something off of the sofa. Real smooth.

It’s like there’s a gravitational pull from his skin to mine.

There’s some crazy reality show that a couple of my friends were talking about on their profiles so I turned that on. It’s about to start playing the third episode but I have too much anxious or excited energy. It’s ping-ponging against my insides and I can’t hold still anymore.

“I need to do something.” I roll onto my back to look up at Edgar.

I was stretching on the floor while watching TV. He’s sitting on the sofa with his feet propped on the coffee table.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.” I come to a seated position and pause the show. “I need to do something, like, physical.”

He points towards the spare room. “There’s all that equipment—”

“No, I don’t want to work out. I want to, like, play—like, wrestle.” I’m saying ‘like’ a lot I do that when I feel nervous.

His eyebrows shoot up. “You want to wrestle me?”

I laugh and don’t look at his biceps. “No.” Yes. “That’s just like the kinda energy I have right now. I need to do something. Something fun.”

“Okay… except for wrestling any other ideas.” He watches me while I think.


His chest rises with a slow deep breath and then his cheeks puff out on the exhale. “I’m gonna need to be drunk for this.”

“Oh shit, are we drinking?”

“I am.”

A couple of shots and halfway through a mixed drink, he pushes the coffee table against the wall and then the sofa back a few feet. It looks like he’s done this before. We connected his phone to his sound system and Daft Punk is playing.

“Alright, we’re gonna have to do some icebreaker moves,” he says swinging his arms.

“Why are you so nervous?”

“This is not my normal setting.”

“You’ve never danced in your living room?”

“Alone or, you know, spontaneously, yeah.”

“Oh please, it’s just me.”

He snorts. “Yeah, just you.”

I roll my eyes. I get it, I can be judgmental and I have kinda been my most judgey towards him. “Okay, what do you need me to do?” This was already a weird situation and it’s getting weirder.

“Do the most ridiculous move you can think of.”

Without hesitation I body roll from my feet up. It’s a move that Libby and I developed a few years back and we find it hysterical. The roll is heavy in the knees and the arms remain limp at the sides of my body. It’s like a wacky inflatable arm man when the arms are broken.

He watches me, an open mouth smile spreading.

“Didn’t know I could move like this, did ya?”

“I’m impressed.”

“It’s called The Mermaid and it’s an original.” I jerk my chin at him. “Well, come on. Don’t make me dance alone.”

With a chuckle, he nods in agreement before breaking into a very good Running Man.
The night is fun and he makes me laugh a lot. Our dancing is goofy and playful with zero grinding. The only touching we did was when he grabbed my hand and did a dramatic spin and then dip.

We drank a couple more beverages but switch to water before bed.

I do not need to be drunk while I lay next to him, with the memory of his playful grin and laughter so fresh.

I’m dead tired as I lay down and pull the covers up, but I don’t fall asleep right away. His breathing is even. It’s the only sound outside of mine. Our world is so isolated. It’s easy to imagine that it’s only him and me. The thought is kinda comforting.

Without anyone else to have an opinion, I don’t have to explain how my feelings for him are changing. They’re getting so confused. I don’t hate him anymore.

I really don’t hate him.


From Marty Vee:

Thank you for reading! If you are enjoying the story, please share it with a friend.

You can continue on to Day 8 at:

You and Me In Quarantine: Day 6

From Marty Vee:

This is a romantic comedy novella I’m working on. I very much suggest reading from the beginning.

Day 1:

But I’ll give a quick recap just in case.

Billie has been trapped in quarantine with her workplace nemesis, Edgar. During a conversation on Day 5, she discovered that her opinion of him is greatly based on lies and manipulation from someone they both know.

Day 6

It’s Saturday.

Not that that’s at all relevant to life right now, but it is. Saturday.

I’ve had this twisted gross feeling in my gut all morning and it’s easily traced back to Sofia. Not only, did she use me to violate her restraining order but she lied to me over and over. That’s disturbing. But not as disturbing as how I believed her. Every time. I wanted to trust her. I wanted Edgar to be as terrible as she made him out to be. Gathered, when I met him he was surly and sullen. Over the past couple of years, I’ve watched from a skeptical distance as he’s brightened. But I wanted to believe in that first version of him that I’d met.

Admittedly, if I had a soon to be ex-wife who was corrupting my work and the people around me, I’d be a shitty version of myself, as well.

My heart gives an uncomfortable lurch thinking about how dark that time must have been for him.

I’m sitting criss-cross apple sauce on the living room floor. The laptop is on the coffee table, I’m trying to video chat with Libby. I need to get out of my head. It’s ringing, then it cuts off. No answer.

That’s crushing.

I’m about to try my parents, when her call comes through on my end. My disappointment turns into thrilling excitement instantaneously.

“Hey!” I can see my too excited face in the bottom right corner. But it matches the level of excitement on my best friend’s face.

“Oh my god! I miss you!” Libby has a deep voice, so even though this is said a few octaves higher than her normal voice it’s not what I’d call high pitched.

“I miss you so much! You have the best face! Like my favorite face in the whole wide world!”

“You have my favorite face!” She shakes her hand in front of the camera like she’s wiping something clean. “Okay, okay, okay, let’s get right to business, I’m totally in love with Candace from work and I’m pretty sure she’s in love with me.”

“Really?” I shift on my sit bones, excited energy coursing through my body. “Why do you say that?”

The only word I can think of to describe Libby’s smile is besotted. “I mean, I’m in love with her because she’s… amazing. I already had a crush on her and now, you know, I got to know her. She’s amazing.”

“You really like her.”

“I really like her.”

“Wow.” My heart might float away, it feels so light. I try to put on a bit of a hardass facade but something like my best friend having interest reciprocated, just brings me joy. “That’s so… I’m just super happy for you.”

Edgar comes out of his bedroom and heads to the kitchen.

I snap my fingers as an idea strikes me. “Libby, you should ask her on a virtual date, you could watch the same movie from your sofa and drink some wine while video chatting.”

“That is a cute idea.” Her blue eyes light up

“You should totally do that.”

She sucks on her top lip, it’s her thinking face. “I don’t know.”

“No, don’t ‘I don’t know’ you’re way out of this. Just do it. Come on, you know that’s a smooth move. Like, if some guy did that for me, right now I’d be butter.”

“Easy to spread?”

My come back is interrupted by a choking sound from the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Edgar is wiping his mouth on his arm, “spit take.”

“Are you eavesdropping?” And because I know that Libby is about to quote Samwise Gamgee, I look at her and say, “Don’t.”

She closes her mouth.

“And no, not ‘easy to spread,’ I just meant like soft and melty.”

“I wasn’t trying to, but I can hear,” he answers wiping down the counter.

“Well, since you know what’s going on, you wanna weigh in?”

“It’s a solid move.”

I look back at Libby. “See? Do it.”

I can hear her flicking the nail of her ring finger against the pad of her thumb, her nervous habit.

“Libs,” I console, “everyone is nervous when they ask someone out. You’re a total badass and if she doesn’t say yes I will Internet Troll her. Bad. Real bad.”

“Don’t do that,” she says but she’s smiling.

Edgar is heading back to his room but I have a question for him so I call out, “Hey Edgar, is your producer giving you shit about how you look in your at-home videos?”

Lines form in his forehead. “No, is yours?”


“Seriously?” Libby chimes in. “Why?”

Before launching into the whole thing, I pat the floor next to me for Edgar. “Come hang out, unless you’re busy.” I can’t imagine what he’d have on his calendar but I want to give him an out.

Libby’s eyes widen at me in a, Seriously? I haven’t gotten a chance to tell her what I learned yesterday.

With my returning look I try to express, Later.

“With what?” He chortles. Lowering himself to the floor, he crosses his ankles and leans back on his hands. “Hi, I’m Edgar.” He jerks his head up in greeting.


“Nice to meet you.” He’s got a cute shy smile on his face.

I adjust my angle so that I can speak to both of them. “Okay, so, she keeps on telling me to pull the camera back, so more of my body is in the shot.”

In the preview screen I can see him glare at nothing under the coffee table.

“But I can’t, you know, because I don’t have clothes. And she wants me to do more with my hair and makeup, which again, pretty limited on what I can do. To some extent, I get it. I’m a network reporter, my appearance is part of my job but…”

“You look great in them,” Libby states, “like someone I’d share a beer with.”

I snort at that. We love to joke about whether or not I look approachable. It usually depends on whether I’ve forgotten that I have Resting-Bitch-Face.

“I’ve seen your videos, you look fine,” Edgar adds.

“You watch my videos? Don’t you get enough of me during the day?”

He’s still not looking at the screen so I share a look with my best friend.

His lips quirk and he looks at me with half-lidded eyes. “What if I said no?”

I’m searching my brain for a response, I just keep coming up with static; like an old tuning radio with no frequency. And he’s just watching me. I can’t think with him looking at me like this. I remember another reason I dislike him, I don’t know how he found the switch but he can flip my brain right off.

“I’m gonna need popcorn for this,” Libby’s joke gives me something to pull my focus from his face.

That stupid hypnotic face.

“Hardy-harr.” I roll my eyes at her.

“Nah, you’re my competition,” he admits.

“Oh, so it’s research?” Libby leans towards the camera with a shit-eating grin on her face.

“Yeah,” he mirrors her expression, “research.

They share a laugh and I can’t tell if it’s at my expense. “I don’t like this.” I point between Libby and him before shoving at his very firm deltoid. I snatch my hand back before I do something embarrassing like squeeze. “You can go back to your room now.”

“But I love this so, Edgar, you can stay.” She points between me and him.

“Who’s side are you on?” I demand.

“Mine! I need entertainment.” She switches topics before I can argue, “So back to your producer, you feel like she wants more sex appeal out of you?”

“I think that’s the underlying message like maybe she wants me to sex it up to compete with Internet porn?”

“That’s not your fucking job.” The only other time I’ve heard this much anger in his voice was yesterday.

But Libby is already talking, “I’ve got an idea. Ed, we’re gonna need a button-up and a tie and you’re gonna have to be the cameraman. I’m thinking Angelina Jolie in Mr. and Mrs. Smith minus the rain boots. We could go full Pretty Woman but we don’t want to break the Internet during a pandemic.”

“Thank you for the confidence boost but somehow I think my tits added to the plethora of tits that the World Wide Web already supplies, would be white noise.”

“It’s not a bad idea though,” Edgar’s tone is reasonable, “we could film it, see how it plays. Then I’d have to up my game.”

And then because I’m wondering if this is still a sore spot, I say, “Well, it’s already been established that you look so good naked.”

“Very, I said very. I look very good naked.” He’s being cool about it but I can see a slight blush rise on his throat. Then to Libby he says, “I’m judging by your silence she told you about that.”

“Oh yeah.” She answers quickly.

I widen my eyes and tilt my head at her.

“I mean, no.”

My eyes roll so hard my entire head lulls. I almost pull my neck out.

“I’m sorry! You have to tell me when I can’t say things!”

“We have had this conversation, just assume that you can’t say things.” This is something she’s heard me say before. I’m sure I’ll say it again. Whatever.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” I direct at him, “I tell her everything. Poor woman has to hear about how I wash my hair.”

“Riveting subject,” Libby says in the driest voice possible.

But Edgar makes a sound between a hmm and purr. “How do you wash your hair?”

He’s doing that heavy-lidded eye thing again! My brain’s going offline. Stop it!

“Is hair washing a kink for you?” I ask trying to mimic Libby’s dry tone.

“Learning new things about myself every day.”

Uhhh… Ummm…

“You need to go.” Because I cannot think.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it. Libby, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

She fans her fingers then snaps them into two fists. “I cannot tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this.”

He gives her another one of his friendly smirks and waves as he walks off camera.

She just looks at me for a little while, her fingers interlaced in front of her mouth. I know she’s waiting for the sound of his bedroom door closing. When it does she says quietly, “There’s so much to unpack there.”


I told Libby about all of yesterday’s revelations. There’s no describing how wide her eyes grew. Then she went on to say that he likes me. I told her it’s possible that he has the hots for me but I very much doubt he feels anything else.

Her response was, “Woman, sometimes you are so dumb.”

We fought about that for a while. Not her calling me dumb—she doesn’t actually think that and I’m clever as fuck, so I don’t care about that. We fought about how she thinks Edgar likes me. I told her to supply evidence and she said she just knew. Like that’s an acceptable argument. I pointed out how he’d sent the gloating drink after he won the award this year and that he hadn’t ever made any moves toward me.

“He knew you hated him,” she pointed out.

“I’m not convinced that’s past tense,” I told her.

She rolled her eyes. “Alright, so you’re at that place where you don’t want to accept that you were wrong so you’re being stubborn for no reason.”

“I’m not being stubborn.”

“We have to change the subject, I cannot keep fighting with you about this.”

My mouth clamped shut but I was stewing, I couldn’t think of anything else to talk about. She seemed to be equally unable to move the conversation on. We ended the chat shortly after that, with her promising to ask Candace out.

I’m about to take a shower but my leg hair is getting pretty unreal, so I knock on Edgar’s bedroom door.

“Come in.”

He’s propped on one elbow on top of his white down comforter, music playing from his phone. His finger is pinched between the pages of a book. It’s a different book than he was reading to me the other night. He slips his reading glasses off before looking at me.

“Did you finish the other book?” I ask.

“Nah, I’m waiting for you.”


He shrugs. “You haven’t worked on your puzzle in a couple of days.”



I ask the question I came to ask. “Do you have any disposable razors?”

“Nah, I use a safety razor.”

“Fuck,” I say under my breath.

“Your legs?”

I nod.

“You can use it if you want.”

“I tried one a couple of months ago, I couldn’t figure it out. It was like I wasn’t doing anything at all.”

“I could do it for you.” Then he adds, “If that’s not weird.”

Is it weird…? I’m somewhere between apprehensive and, I guess, desire.

“Sorry,” he looks at the white fabric he has pinched between two fingers, “it’s weird, pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“No, actually, if you would. Please.”

He nods and checks the page number of the book he’s reading before removing his finger.

Oh, so we’re doing this right now?

On his way out of his bedroom, he pulls open his third dresser drawer. He tosses a pair of biking shorts at me. The door closes behind him and I change from his sweats into the shorts—which are so comfortable they may come up missing when I can finally return home. They fit tight around my thighs, so I don’t have to worry about him getting an eye full.

So that’s good.

There’s a soft knock on the door and I take a second to reevaluate that this is what I want to do—it’s a surprisingly hard yes. I could not possibly say why, but my stomach is full of excited butterflies. When I open the door, Edgar’s holding one of the kitchen table chairs under one arm.

His eyes make a quick pass up my legs to my face and then they do not stray from there.

“This is what you wanna do, right?” He asks.

“Do you not want to? You don’t have to.”

“No, I don’t mind.”

“Okay, cool.” I lead the way into his bathroom.

He directs me to sit on the chair that he placed facing the tub and has me prop my feet up on its edge. He turns on the hot water and soaks two towels, then wraps each of my legs in one. It’s quite the treatment. I did not put this much effort into my attempts with a safety razor.

Lining a couple of bottles on the ledge, he takes a seat next to them. He indicates for me to place my left foot on his right leg.

My throat is getting tight. I have to force my breathing normal, which makes me feel like I’m slowly suffocating. My heart rate is elevated too; it’s thrumming in my ear.

With slow deliberation, he unwraps my leg. He tosses the dripping towel on the tile floor of the shower. I jump a little at the smack it makes.

His eyes narrow at me, his lips parted. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, I just didn’t expect that.” My voice is not breathy, thank god. I just sound annoyed. Which is fine.

“You wanna put it on?” He asks holding a bottle of shaving cream up to me.

“No, you know how much you need. And just, you know, from the knee down.”

His hands spread the cream in a thin layer on my skin, it’s smooth and light. Then he’s wiping his fingers and palm clean on the towel around my right leg. He starts at my ankle cupping my heel in his left palm which is warm and strong. The strokes are short and careful with very little pressure.

He’s in no hurry.

And I am here for it.

That left hand encircles my ankle next. The razor cleans away at my calf and shin, the skin sensitive to the air and his warm breath. Which climbs up with his progress.
When his focus shifts to my knee, he takes a handful of my upper calf and I feel it in my core. His exhales are now spreading from the inside of my knee to my inner thigh.
I have to press my lips tight to keep any embarrassing sounds from escaping my mouth.
When he’s finally done, he takes the towel from around my right leg and uses it to wipe off any excess shaving cream. He holds the jar of moisturizer towards me.

I shake my head and breath out one syllable, “You.”

I watch his chest rise and fall. The smell of sandalwood fills my nose as he pumps it into his palm. His hands work the lotion into my skin with firm downward motions but it won’t all soak in. He nods towards my fist in my lap. “Your hand.” I give it to him.

“Your hands are dry,” he observes as he rubs my hand between both of his.

“All the handwashing.”

“Do you need more lotion in your bathroom?” His voice is low if I wasn’t sitting so close to him I’d have a hard time making out the words.

“No, I just forget to put it on.” I might as well be whispering too.

We’re both watching where our hands meet. I’m either fascinated by it or avoiding eye contact.

“Have you done this before?” I regret asking because he glances up at me through his eyelashes. I’m trapped in them.

“Shaved a woman’s legs?”

My voice is gone. Fuck, he’s so handsome—all hating him aside, he is so handsome. Luckily, I can nod my response.

“No.” He grabs the shaving cream again and his attention shifts away from my face.

Killl meee. There’s a whole other leg.

I swallow and hope my voice has decided to return to me. “You’re good at it.”

I watch his Adam’s apple bob in response.


So, I’m trying to ignore the residual aching between my thighs; tension is still begging for a release. What will forever be called “The Shaving Incident” was over an hour ago. I planted myself on the sofa—I thought the physical discomfort would help my body move past the wanting. It’s yet to be effective. Currently, my back hurts and I’m still all squirrelly. His laptop is open on my propped knees and I’m scrolling social media.
I decided not to take a shower. I don’t want to wash off the smell of his lotion, it’s different than what’s in my bathroom. In his shorts my smooth legs are exposed, I keep absentmindedly rubbing my fingers up and down my shin.

Edgar is making dinner, the smells of sauteed onions and garlic have my mouth watering. The food situation is still stocked but approaching sparse. We’ll have to be more creative next week about how we prepare our meals.

I hear him pulling plates from the cupboards. The smell of food grows stronger, and then he’s holding a plate with some chicken and red sauce out to me. After setting the laptop on the coffee table I take the offered plate.

I mumble a thank you to the food.

We aren’t making eye contact yet.


From Marty Vee:

Thank you for reading! If you are enjoying the story, please share it with a friend.

Keep reading on to Day 7:

You and Me In Quarantine: Day 5

From Marty Vee:

This is an excerpt from a novella I’m working on. I suggest starting at Day 1:

or Day 4:

But just in case, here’s a recap:

Billie is quarantined with her least favorite person, Edgar, because she was serving him papers at his ex-wife’s request. Billie has been sleeping on a terribly uncomfortable sofa, but the night before Edgar took the sofa and let her sleep in his bed.

Day 5

I wake up to sunlight burning golden through Edgar’s bedroom window. It’s really bright, it must be mid to late morning. I can hear him talking on the other side of the door, but not loud enough to understand what he’s saying. There’s another voice too. I assume he’s on the phone.

On sleep stiffened limbs I go into his bathroom to do the necessaries. My toothbrush is in the other bathroom but there’s mouthwash in the medicine cabinet. I don’t snoop through his things or anything but from what I can tell, there isn’t anything interesting in there.

I notice the manila folder I brought over in the trash by the toilet. Tossing the papers doesn’t make the problem go away, buddy. He still owes Sofia alimony. Apparently, he’s very behind.

I put my bra back on then my hoodie before exiting his room. I leave my tshirt atop his bed—which I made—I’ll grab it later when I get laundry going.

In the living room I see his blanket and pillow on the floor. Did he skip sleeping on the sofa all together; the hardwood floor was the preferable choice?

He hasn’t noticed me yet, he’s in the kitchen sharing a laugh with whoever is on the phone. I can see him leaning his hip against the counter taking a drink from a coffee mug with one hand and holding his phone with the other. Do I get my cup of coffee or wait for him to get off the phone? I can smell it. It’s kinda ruining my ability to think.

“You’re up,” he says to me. He sounds surprised.

“I am.” I answer.

“Oh!” I hear a mature woman’s voice from his phone. “So your mystery guest is a woman.” Then louder she calls, “Young lady, come meet me.”

“Mom,” he chastises, “it’s not like that. This was poor timing.” His attention shifts to me as I walk towards him. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to meet your mom?”

“So true, why wouldn’t she want to meet me?” I can see her face on the screen he’s holding. He got her coloring and eyes. They are beautiful. She is beautiful. If his skin ages as well as his mother’s has, he’ll be in good shape.

“Hello Mrs.—”

“Call me Daniela,” she interrupts me. Pointing to the screen her finger appearing large in the foreground perspective, she says, “I know you. You’re the reporter from his old network.”

I nod. “Billie Sanchez, pleasure to meet you, Daniela.” I’m giving her my hundred-watt smile. I like moms. But also, I can feel Edgar’s tension and I kinda love it. Is he concerned that I will get along with his mom or that I won’t?

“Ed, why are you being so secretive about having such a beautiful woman at your house?” She asks him.

“Because it’s not like that, I told you, it was poor timing.”

“Beautiful? Well, thank you.” Looking from the screen, I say to his profile, “Did you hear that, I’ve been upgraded from ‘not unattractive’?”

“What?” His mom asks.

“Nothing,” he answers dryly.

I grin back at his phone. “Inside joke.”

In the preview screen I can see him fighting a smile. “Mom, I’m going to hang up.”

“I’ve hardly spoken to her,” she admonishes.

“That’s fine. I love you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Can I speak to Billie tomorrow?”


Heaving a heavy sigh, Daniela says to me, “Terrible timing or not, I’m glad you’re there. I would hate for Ed to be alone right now.”

Ugh. Moms never stop mom-ing. Fricken sweetheart. “He’s not terrible company.”

His dry response makes me turn my head to him. “Wow. High praise.”

My smile is still turned on to its full potential when he looks my way. He swallows and looks away quickly.

One of his mom’s eyebrows is raised when I look back to her.

I hardly have time to say a polite goodbye before he hits the red button and ends the call.
We don’t shift away from each other right away. His bicep is close to mine but not touching. I watch the toes on his right foot curl and release, curl and release. His nails are trim and clean. Feet aren’t my favorite body part on anyone but as far male feet they aren’t bad.

“So that was your mom,” I say taking a step towards the island. Leaning against it, I face him.


“What’s up with your dad?”

“He was in the other room, we talked before you came out.”

“You’re mom seems great.”

His eyes become hazy, like he’s thinking. “You two would get along.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re both no bullshit kind of women.”

My eyebrows lift. “I’ve never been so flattered to be compared to someone’s mom.”

He shrugs and walks away, his coffee mug in hand.


It’s been super quiet the last couple of days. My place isn’t very loud, it’s just me that lives there, but I usually turn on music or an audio book during the course of the day.
I have his laptop open on my lap. I’m trying to address an email from my producer asking me to put a little more effort into my appearance for my videos. I’m trying to think of a polite way to say, “Go fuck yourself.” I’ve seen how Edgar looks when he does his videos; his hair styled but otherwise casual. I’m already putting in more effort on my appearance than he is. Maybe his producers are just more laid back than mine. Seething anger is curling tight in my stomach.

Fucking double standards.

I need a distraction.

His music is on his desk top so I click it open. Right away I find a playlist called Dance! I’m going to have to know what this playlist consists of. What does Edgar dance to? And what does he look like when he dances? Because I’m still apprehensive to give him any credit for anything, I’d like him to be bad at it. But like looking good naked, I assume he’s a good dancer. I love to dance even though I’m not spectacular at it. Like, I have rhythm but I still kinda look funny. It’s fine, I still love it.

I’m reading through the song titles. They’re… surprising; like on brand surprising. I turn to watch how he reacts as I click on Scissor Sisters’ I Don’t Feel Like Dancing. He’s rounding the kitchen island, bowl in hand but when the music starts his step falters. His eyes meet mine.

“So, you’re going to have to explain something to me,” I say.

He sighs. “I bet.”

“Like,” I’ve been fighting back this question for a couple of days now but there’s no resisting it anymore, “Why do you own a Hufflepuff tshirt and Golden Girls puzzle?” Then gesturing to the computer on my lap I add, “Why is your Dance! Playlist full of Scissor Sisters and Spice Girls and Taylor Swift?”

“There’s some Daft Punk in there.”

“Yeah, that really saved your bacon.”

He snorts and gives me an apprehensive smile. “I have this friend, she and I became close a couple of years ago… We were both going through a divorce—not that that’s relevant but… whatever.”

Oh shit! I know about this friend; Kitty or something. Sofia was convinced that Edgar and this woman were sleeping together and she blamed their marriage ending on the infidelity. How had I forgotten that he’s a cheating asshole? Fucking prick.

“She thinks it’s funny to get me gifts that are ridiculous, but also something I might have admitted to liking at some point. It’s annoying but it is funny.” He sits at his end of the sofa, a bowl of cottage cheese and tomatoes in one hand and spoon in the other. He waves the spoon towards the computer. “She made the playlists.”

“Are you two a thing?”

He makes eye contact with me before answering, “No.”

But can I take his word for it?

“Were you ever?”

He squints in thought. “It got a little weird, but no.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not what either of us wanted. It wasn’t us that made it weird…”

“What does that mean?”

He doesn’t look totally comfortable with the conversation. I should let him off the hook. I swear I was about to but then he answers me. “There were rumors spread that made things uncomfortable between us for a little while.” He looks down at the food in his hand.

Rumors? Does he mean that they were not having an affair while he was married to Sofia? “So you and Kitty were never an item?”

His head jerks up to look at me, his eyebrows drawn together.

Shit. He didn’t say her name in this conversation. I shouldn’t know it. Busted.
His brown eyes look sorrowful; an old wound reopened. My stomach sinks; not because I’ve been caught snooping but because I can see his pain. I can’t turn off my empathy, even for an adulterer.

“You’ve heard the rumors, then.”

We’re silent. Even Scissor Sisters stop singing. I hit the space bar before then next song can start its happy tune.

He surprises me when he says, “You know how someone accusing you of cheating is a warning sign that they’re the ones cheating?”

“Yeah…” I answer. I’ve been on the receiving end of that glaring indication.

“There’s a lot of truth to that.”

Was he claiming Sofia was the unfaithful one? I just can’t see it. She was so destroyed when their relationship ended. She ended up changing jobs because she couldn’t stand working where she once worked with him.

“I know you like her,” he started, “I get it; she’s charming, charismatic. She makes you feel like you know her. But some people are different than they seem.”

“So you’re saying she’s some master manipulator?”

“You could say that.”

I really cannot with this guy. “Was she just being manipulative when she was crying in the bathroom at work?”

He closes his eyes like I’ve slapped him.

“Or what about when she changed jobs because she was too upset to work where you two had worked together.”

He snorts! I cannot believe it? Seriously, what’s funny about that?

“That’s what she told you?” There’s an edge in his voice I haven’t heard before. “That’s fuckin’ rich.”

“Is it?” I match his venom with my own.

His eyes no longer look wounded, they look sharp capable of cutting. “Billie, she still lives in our old house. Why would it be too difficult to work with our old memories but not live with them?”

I don’t have a response. I didn’t know that. I don’t know what to make of that.

If what he’s saying is true, then it threatens my entire idea of Edgar. Much of my opinion of him is based on the knowledge I received from Sofia but if that isn’t true… I really don’t know what to make of this. I try to find evidence to support my opinion of him that I collected independently of her. But I don’t have a lot of material there. I’m usually pretty efficient at avoiding him.

“Why did you go for the Junior Reporter position if you knew you weren’t going to keep it?”

His eyes blink at my subject change.

He takes in a deep breath, seeming to consider my question. It shouldn’t be a difficult to answer. How full of shit is this guy?

“I wanted to stay but after I filed for divorce my work started getting fucked with.”

“What?! You’re lying—”

“I am not.” His voice is firm, deeper than usual.

“You’re saying Sofia sabotaged your work?”

“Yes, and more than that.”


He turned to face me, his leg bending on the cushion between us. “She did more than that. Before I got all of my stuff out of the house, she poured bleach on my clothes and took a saw to the supports of our old couch so that it broke in half when we were moving it.”

I feel my eyes widen, they might fall out of my head. I don’t want this to be true. “No way.”

“What do you think happened to the air mattress, then?”

“Nooo…” I say this mostly to myself like I’m realizing a plot twist in a movie.

“Yup. I haven’t used it since I moved it out of the house.”

“She sliced up your air mattress?”

“I’m more pissed about the couch and clothes, but if you’re hung up on the air mattress… she fucked with other shit too.”

“It’s just so petty.” I’m still not totally convinced but if I’m honest the man I’ve been living with for the last few days doesn’t resemble the man Sofia painted. He isn’t temperamental or mean or inconsiderate.

“It is.”

“But what about the papers she had me serve you the other day?”

He lifts his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Those weren’t papers.”

“You’re not behind on alimony?”

“I don’t pay alimony, I was going to have to but then she destroyed all my shit.”

“So what was in the envelope?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I really do.”

He studies me as if he’s weighing if he can trust me. He doesn’t look sure about saying what he says next, “Pictures.”

“Of what?”

“Her and some guy.”

My mouth drops open. “You’re lying.”

“They’re in the trash in my bathroom if you need proof.” It sounds like a challenge.

Do I need proof? I might. This is just too unreal for me to believe. I stand and go into his room.

The envelope is still in the trash. I open the flap and pull out the contents. To say the picture on top is explicit is a wild understatement.

“Oh Jesus,” I exclaim and close my eyes.

“Satisfied?” I hear him from the doorway.

Shoving the photos back into the envelope, I ask, “Why would she have me deliver these? Why not just email them to you?”

“I filed a restraining order. It’s been years of this shit.”

“Why not drop them off herself? I’m sure having me bring them is a violation of that order.”

He nodded. “I don’t know, but I think it’s because I would have to name you in the police report. I tried to file the report online, but it wants your name. I won’t pull you into our bullshit. That’s why she chose you.”

Chose me? Like me specifically? Like he’s protective me; that she knew he’d protect me. I don’t understand.

“File it. I don’t stand for this nonsense. You didn’t pull me into this, she did. She shouldn’t get away with it.” I hold the envelope out for him to take, like I did a few days before. “You can’t throw them away, they’re evidence.”


Edgar let me have his bed again tonight. It’s such a relief. Another good night sleep is more than I deserve, after today’s bombshell it’s even harder to understand his hospitality.

I’m still reeling from the realization that everything I thought about him was greatly skewed by a very untrustworthy person. I’m running through Edgar and my interactions; our jobs put us at the same events often. We see each other at press releases and news conferences. There are conventions that we both cover. There have been awards we were both nominated for, some I received some he did. There was, of course earlier this year—before award ceremonies were canceled—that he won Junior Reporter of the Year and he sent me a drink at the bar.

The gloating was grossly unnecessary.

I sent it back.

So not all of my opinions are based on Sofia’s stories.

I have a hard time changing my opinions once I make them. I trust myself. I’m not all wrong about him. I can’t be. I have to admit, if only to myself, I have been a terrible reporter on the subject of Edgar. Where was my due diligence?

His bedroom feels like a different place than it did yesterday or even a few hours ago. He feels like a different person. Someone I’m shaping with my own impressions. Am I so susceptible to someone else’s influence?

It’s more difficult to fall asleep tonight than it was last night.


From Marty Vee:

Thank you for reading! If you are enjoying the story, please share it with a friend. Here’s Day 6 if you’d like to continue:

You and Me In Quarantine: Day 4

From Marty Vee:

This is an excerpt from a novella that I’m sharing in stages. I very much suggest reading from Day 1, the link is:

Day 3:

But to recap:

Billie is trapped in Edgar’s house during quarantine because she was serving him papers from his ex-wife. Billie has hated Edgar for a couple of years, so this is not ideal.


Day 4

This sofa is going to kill me.

My back and shoulders are a mess of knots. In an attempt to stretch them out, I unroll a mat on the spare room floor and begin a yoga routine. I wake up sometime after when the sun shifts into my face from. Evidently, while doing a gentle back rotation, I dozed off. There’s a puddle of drool on the mat beneath me. I wipe it up with a disinfectant.

The exhaustion is still with me when I emerge from the spare room and find Edgar stocking my linen closet with more towels. I tell him that I need to borrow his pants again. Mine has to go in the wash because of the no underwear thing.

That’s a fun truth to admit. His eyebrows draw together and he looks at me with his head slightly turned. “You don’t have any underwear on?”

I shrug. “I don’t wear them with yoga pants.”

His eyes lower to my crotch.

“Hey!” I snap my fingers. “Eyes up here, buddy!”

“Shit. Sorry.” He rubs his thumb and index finger into his eyelids, his neck growing red. “The other day… you were wearing my pants without any underwear on?”

“If I had any other option—”

“No, I’m—no, I’m not mad.”

“Then what’s the big deal?”

He rolls his lips together, the cupid peak still out—his lips are too full to disappear completely. It’s a pained expression.

“Wait, are you turned on?” I demand.

His brown eyes meet mine in a way I can only describe as sheepish.

“Jesus Christ, so underwear is the barrier between you getting horny or not?”

That gets a shocked laugh out of him before he bites his bottom lip. It slips slowly out from between his teeth.

I go a little tight between my thighs.

Uncalled for, sir.

“You’re not unattractive,” he replies haltingly.

“Wow. Steep praise.”

He rubs at the back of his neck, the bicep of his arm flexing with the movement. “Alright, we should stop this conversation.”

“What is my not unattractiveness too much for you?”

“No. Stop talking,” he rolls his shoulders, “I was an ass that first night. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“That first night?”

“Ugh. I won’t repeat it.” He cringes rubbing his forehead with his fingers. “If you don’t remember, let’s just forget it.”

“Do you mean when you said you look good naked?”

His whole face goes bright red. So red. I’ve never seen someone blush so hard.

“Oh fuck,” he moans, “I’m an ass. Fucking embarrassing.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I know, I can feel it.”

“I mean so red.”

“I know.” His head dips towards the floor. There are Crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes from how tightly he has them closed. “You ever say something to someone that is so humiliating, but you’re trapped in a house with only that person for days? Has that ever happened to you?”

Oh god. I am laughing so hard I’m having trouble breathing. But he keeps going.

“I don’t know why I did it; as soon as I said it I was like, you fucking creep.”

I need to lean against the wall for support. My eyes are watering and my cheeks hurt. I snort a little as I force air into my lungs.

“I’m glad you think this is funny.” His voice still sounds pained but through my tears I can see a smile pulling at his lips.

“I am dying! You’re going to kill me.” I’m holding my stomach, I cannot stop.

He gives a little chuckle. “Why is this funny?”

I have to start over a couple of times because the words keep getting caught up in all of the humor. “Okay,” I swipe my eyes one more time, “I didn’t see it as a creeper move but maybe I should have.”

He groans at that and I start laughing all over again.

“Also, you being so embarrassed and having nowhere to go. Christ. So funny. You’ve just been silently suffering and I thought nothing of it.” Yup. Nothing at all. Well, I’ve given it some thought, but not because he made me feel uncomfortable. I’ve just given it some thought because… I’m leaving it at that.

“I—I’m gonna leave.”

That sobers me. “You can’t!”

“Not outside,” he holds his hands out to halt my momentum towards him, “to the kitchen. I’m hungry.”

“Oh good.” I start laughing again. I don’t really know why it’s so funny but it just is. And it feels so good to laugh.

He’s shaking his head as I follow him to the kitchen. Where my puzzle is partially finished on the table. I stand over it; just a couple more pieces in the background to go. I’m not ready to complete it, what will I do then? So instead of sitting down there I go to the seventh layer of hell that is his sofa and open the laptop. I’ve already messaged my mom and Libby. They’re still doing well. Libby “leveled up” so that’s cool. Apparently there’s a woman at her office who also plays that game and they’ve been chatting on their headsets.

I have to stretch my face, it’s sore from smiling so hard.

There’s an email from my producer telling me that they need a video today or tomorrow. I might as well do it today.

“Can I borrow your phone in a little bit?” I ask Edgar when he sits next to me.

He nods taking a bite of yesterday’s stir-fry.

“Cool, I’m going to do what little I can for my appearance.” I stand and stretch because that’s what you have to do when you vacate this sofa. Fighting a smile, I continue, “I’ve been recently bestowed with the title of not unattractive. So, I’m going to do my best to live up to it.”

He’s always shaking his head at me. “I’m glad that’s what you took away from that.”


The video went fine, I included my upper shoulders this time. If that’s not satisfactory, then the studio is just going to have to deal. Also, thankfully Edgar has to wear makeup on occasion for his job because he has makeup remover. So, my face is washed and my teeth are brushed, with the toothbrush Edgar gave me that first night, and I’ve flossed.
It’s getting late. I’m going to have to fall asleep soon.

“You tired?” He asks.

I stretch my right arm across my chest, trying to work some tightness out of my shoulders. “I’m getting there.”

“Take my bed, I changed the sheets this morning.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You need some decent sleep. What I didn’t spend on this damn couch, I spent on my mattress. You’ll like it.”

So he bought this sofa? This isn’t the one from his divorce?

“I’m good,” I tell him, even though his bed is really tempting.

Standing, he grabs the pillow atop the folded blanket, I’ve been using. He gestures for me to follow him. I don’t know if I should but I do.

He pulls a corner of the blankets and sheets down from the top of the bed. Replacing the pillow on the bed with the pillow in his hand, he steps around me and out of the open door saying goodnight as he leaves.

Okay… so… okay.

I slip between the sheets and pull the covers up. I hardly have time to register how comfortable I am before I fall asleep.


From Marty Vee: 

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