You and Me In Quarantine: Epilogue

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. On Day 13, Billie asked Edgar to go to her home with her and he decided not to. So sad. But THEN she pulled a brilliant stunt with a new video and had an argument with the ex-wife AND THEN Edgar showed up at her house and they go through the rest of quarantine together. So happy.

I hope you enjoy it!

You and Me In Quarantine


There’s a tear in the vinyl booth Edgar and I are sitting in. We’re holding hands under the table on top of his thigh. I’m having a hard time not digging into my purse for hand sanitizer, but I just put it on after splaying the menu open on the table. It’s our first time eating out of the house since the Quarantine was lifted. The smell of onion and cooking meat wafting from the restaurant kitchen is tantalizing but I might not be able to eat through my anxiety.

The door to the outside opens and I look up to see my mom and dad walking in. She lets out an excited squeal and my dad shakes his head but I can see the humor in his eyes.

“Mom!” I exclaim as I stand to hug her.

Hug her. I get to hug my mom.

Seriously, I regret ever taking any hug from her for granted. I regret every time she hugged me and I only leaned my shoulder into her.

I’m making up for that now. I wrap her in my arms and rest my head on her shoulder. Her hair tickles my skin and I breathe in the smell of her hair spray. I feel her tears dampen the shoulder of my shirt. Her inhales are shaky. Her fingers stroking the hair down my back as she whispers, “My baby girl,” over and over.

I register that Edgar and my dad shook hands and are now standing awkwardly next to us.

I’m the first to pull back. My left-hand grabs Edgar’s arm as I say, “Mom, this is Edgar.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She gushes and wraps him in her arms. I had warned him it was going to happen but he seems pleased by her friendliness anyway.

My dad takes the opportunity to crush me in his hold, his head resting on mine. “I missed you, Billie Goat.”

“I missed you too, Dad.”

When we sit down, I’m relieved to watch Mom pull hand sanitizer out of her purse. The little bottle gets passed around to all of us. The pungent smell of alcohol lingers for a few seconds.

I wonder if we’ll ever get to a point like before the virus.

Edgar drapes his arm across my shoulder and pulls me into his side. A satisfied hum vibrates in my throat and I watch both of my parents blink in amused surprise. It’ll take time for them to get used to me being unguarded with him. I stay there, my body formed to his side. His lips press against the top of my head.

I entwine our fingers, our palms pressed together and squeeze.

The future is unsure, but it always was. Some truths remain the same.

But sitting in a booth at my favorite cheap Mexican restaurant with my parents and the man I love, I feel different. Somehow, without the constant self-protection, I’m freer. I found someone who I can be free with.

Someone to be brave with, in an uncertain world.


From Marty Vee:

I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you reading my little book. I have been so endeared by the positive feedback I’ve received. Such a joy.

When I started writing this, it felt like an escape from a stressful world. I hope that the reading of it has been just as much of an escape for you.

Shamelessly, I’m going to ask that if you have enjoyed You and Me In Quartantine you’ll share it with a friend or on your social media.

I wish you all the best!

With Love,

Marty Vee

You and Me In Quarantine: Day 14

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. On Day 13, Billie asked Edgar to go to her home with her and he decided not to. So sad.

I hope you enjoy it!

You and Me In Quarantine

Day 14

It’s been almost twenty-four hours without Edgar. I wonder if you can go through with-drawls for a person. It would explain the physical ache in my chest and the way my skin feels empty. I have Amy Winehouse playing very loudly—I’ve skipped Valerie twice already, it’s too upbeat. The playlist ends and I start it over. There’s something about her heartbreaking self-destruction that appeals to my mood.

I keep catching myself staring into nothing, my brain lingering on moments with Edgar. There’s no way to change the past couple of days, so I wish I would stop looking for the places I went wrong. I need to stop thinking about what would have been correct.
It’s too much to hope that he’s still watching my videos. But I hope he sees the one that posted this morning. I could kiss Val for making that happen so quickly. I wouldn’t because there’s a pandemic and, even though I want to be friendly with her, I don’t want to be that friendly. But I appreciate her.

I was nervous when I sent the file, but her response was positive.

Libby and my mom both texted me to say they were proud. My dad actually called me to tell me that I had giant balls. “I don’t know how you walk with those big ol’ nuts.”

Deadpan, I answered, “Thanks, Dad. That was very weird.”

When Sofia called, I got to put my giant balls to the test. After a fortifying breath, and ensuring the phone call was being recorded, I answered, “Hello.”

Yeah, Hello.” The disdain in her voice matched mine.

“I don’t want to talk to you—”

Should’ve been a slut with someone else’s husband, then.” She interrupted me as I was saying, “and I’m recording this conversation.”

“Ex-husband.” I corrected.

Why would you do this to me? I trusted you!

“I didn’t do anything to you. You told me a lie and I acted out of ignorance.”

You’re little innocent act isn’t going to work. I see who you really are.”

“Who am I?”

An almost animal-like roar came through the line. “You’re a lying bitch! If you get anywhere near Edgar I’ll beat the shit out of you! Your whore mother won’t recognize you.”

It took a few seconds to process that this was a person I once considered a friend. Not a close friend, but a friend. All of her aggression was kept under a carefully orchestrated veil and now that it had been lifted I could look into the pit. It was dark and filled with dangerous creatures. Am I that terrible a judge of character? I hurt for Edgar all over again. How could he trust his own judgment after this woman?

I shook my head, I would not let her provoke me. This wasn’t a conversation, this was an attack. I considered the best way to show my strength. “Okay, do not call me again.”

That’s all you have to say to me?!

“You know what, no. I never want anything to do with you again. But if being with Edgar means never being rid of you, I’ll take him. He’s worth it. I want him more than I never want to see you. I know you won’t listen, but don’t contact me again—”

I don’t know why you think you can take him from me!” Her voice raised in volume and octave. I ripped the phone away from my ear.

“I’m hanging up.” I didn’t wait for her response before ending the phone call. I double-checked that the phone call recorded correctly and saved it to my computer. She continued calling. One missed call after another. Then she filled my voicemail. I saved all of those to my computer too. The text messages came next.

I turned my phone off.

I started researching restraining orders. It obviously hasn’t been perfectly successful for Edgar, but I need to do something.

Sofia is just one of the reasons I’m avoiding social media.

I’m also not ready to see if everyone is still railing against me or has changed perspectives. I don’t blame them. I’ve been just as guilty of flash outrage and believing lies. But I feel betrayed and I can’t forgive yet.

The opening beat of Back to Black begins tapping out of my speakers and the darkness surrounding my heart grows heavier; more oppressive. I hit the space bar on my keyboard to silence the song. But the weight is still there.

I remind myself that I have people who love me and even though I feel alone, I’m not. But good God, I feel alone.

My eyes and nose sting.

I take a deep breath and pull up the video I filmed last night, hoping it’ll redirect my thoughts. It’s a high-risk move, it will either work or send me spiraling. I stare at my makeup-less face on the screen. The redness of my eyes and my swollen skin. It’s not flattering but seeing it makes me feel strong. I look determined. I look like someone who can handle a dangerously volatile ex-wife. I hit the triangle hovering over my face and it begins playing.

“Hello, I’m Billie Sanchez and I have become the subject of vehement dislike on the Internet. Which under normal circumstances would be difficult but as that is the only form of socialization right now… it feels a little worse.

“I’m a local public figure and this is not my first time being blasted publicly. I’ve had my qualifications for my job called under question. I’ve been called terrible names because I don’t smile as much as people want me to. I’ve had my appearance ripped to shreds. But this is the first time that my personal life has taken the spotlight.

“I am not proud of the way I acted. I betrayed trust and let someone I’d like to remain close to down.”

On screen, I swallow and I remember it was because my throat was tightening but there’s no evidence of that on film.

“It’s not enough but to that person I’d like to make a public apology.”

In the recording, I stand straighter and square my shoulders. “Edgar, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I let someone else tell me who you were before I didn’t get to know you for myself. I repeated lies said about you and I’m embarrassed that I let them shape my opinions. I’m sorry I would have given into a bully instead of standing up for myself and you. You deserve to be treated better than that.

“I want to be the kind of person who isn’t afraid of doing the right thing, even if that means admitting when I’m wrong. I hope you can forgive me.”

My expression hardens. “As for the accusations towards me, that I’m duplicitous and fake. I would like to ask everyone making that assumption to take the time to get to know me. Consider, that sometimes information comes from an unreliable source. To the people who do know me, make up your mind for yourself. I can tell you from first-hand experience, making amends after the fact is not a comfortable position to be in.

“Lastly, I would like to address the claims that I broke up a marriage, but that statement is so wildly false I can’t even begin to point out its flaws and I wouldn’t want to air business that isn’t mine. So, unfortunately, I need to accept that I can’t correct this without sharing confidences. You’ll just have to take my word for it or the word of someone else. I’m powerless to your decision.”

“But,” I angled the phone so that it included the screen of my computer which is filled with screen-shots of text messages from Sofia. I had to blackout her name, but most of them are the corresponding texts she had already shared. Only this time without her side of the conversation retracted. On the mild side she says things like, “I can’t believe I married him. Worst. Decision. Ever.” She calls him names and then the texts turn nasty towards me.

I finish the thought I’d started before displaying the conversation, “this is an attack on my character and I won’t take it lying down.”

After a bland sign-off, the video ends.

Watching it, I wish I had put my apology to Edgar at the end. He’s the audience I really want to reach but it’s done now. Once again, I should have thought before I acted.

I’m not sure how long I stare into space, my thoughts untethered balloons floating away from me.

My heart skips a beat or two at the three chimes of my doorbell. My first thought is Sofia. She must have sneaked through the city and is in a deranged fit on my front porch. Then I remember how she enlisted me to pull off her scheme and my imagination conjures up a large angry man.

I’m not answering that door.

But how would Sofia know I’m home? She must think that I’m still at Edgar’s… I never did confirm that.

There are three soft taps on the door and a voice calls through, “Billie, it’s me.”

My jaw is somewhere on the carpeted floor between my feet.

Then he says, “Please open the door.”

My senses have become unreliable sources. “Edgar?”

Billie,” my name is almost a sigh. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah!” I cry. I climb over the back of the sofa instead of walking around it; too eager to see him than be embarrassed. I flip the deadbolt and the lock and swing the door open.
There he is. Right there.

A late Spring sunset casts golden light off of his black hair. He’s wearing jeans and a dark gray jacket unzipped over a white tshirt. His knuckles are white around the handle of a large suitcase. There’s relief in his expression but also uncertainty.

“What are you doing here? How are you here?” My mouth hangs open, loving the sight of him and not believing it.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve left with you yesterday. As soon as you pulled out of the driveway—” he ran his hand through his hair.

I can almost feel it between my fingers.

“I realized I’m an idiot.”

A slow smile grows on my lips and I watch one grow on his as he continues, “I called Sergeant Brown from the number in my phone and left a message with his assistant—is that what you call ‘em? I don’t know the army term for it. And when he called me back I… begged. Just groveled to let me come to you.”

I sigh a breathy laugh, hanging on every single one word. I may still be in shock at the actual sight of him.

“I even convinced him to watch your post from this morning.” He shrugs. “The Sergeant is a self-proclaimed romantic and gave me clearance.”

“I can’t believe this.”

We just stand there staring at each other like giddy fools.

“I can’t go back home, so…” He shrugs one shoulder.

I have a tent you can put up in the backyard.”


“Sure thing.”

We go back to smiling at each other, breathing the same air. Existing in the same spot.
After a couple of breaths he says, “I really want to hold you, but I should wash my hands.”

I giggle, “Yeah.” I step back to let him in. He hefts the large suitcase with him. “So, like, three-quarters of that thing is food, isn’t it?”

“Only half, I used some restraint.”

We both laugh like it’s the funniest thing we’ve ever heard. Our joy making everything brighter.

He turns on the kitchen sink and lathers his hands with soap.

“So, how’d you get my address?” I ask trying to engage my mind in more than watching his skin rubbing against his skin.

The look he gives me through his eyelashes is so adorably bashful, it might actually stop my heart. “I got a pencil and shadowed the next post-it in the pad.”

“Like Nancy Drew?”

“I guess so.” He dries his hands on the towel hanging under the sink.

Turning, he faces me. I’m leaning one hip against the adjacent counter. He looks so good in my kitchen.

My face is lit up to its full wattage. I don’t even try to tone it down.

His fingers trail my jaw and his thumbs trace my lips. I grip his wrists and stare up into his large brown eyes. He presses his forehead to mine. My eyes close, I want to capture time.

I would extend this moment and spend the rest of my life in it.

I’m so busy trying to memorize the feel of him—warm and solid and here—that when he whispers, my eyes startle open.

“You said that if you were going to keep fucking up you wanted it to be because you’re brave.” His chest rises with a breath. “I want to be brave like you.”

Somehow, my smile grows. Any bigger and it won’t fit on my face.

“I love you too.” I watch him speak the words, as well as hear them.

That’s it. The last I can take before wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my mouth to his.


From Marty Vee:

Thank you for reading! If you’re enjoying the story, please share it on your social media or with a friend. You can finish the story at:

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 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:

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Keep reading on to Day 7:

You and Me In Quarantine: Day 3

From Marty Vee:

My site wants to skip Day 2, so you should read that before reading this.

Day 1 Link:

I definitely suggest reading  from the beginning with Day 1 in if you’re not going to do that I’ll summarize:

Billie pulled a rash move and found herself quarantined at her least favorite person’s house, Edgar, without a charger for her phone or change of clothes or really anything else that would be necessary.


My clothes are clean. I was going to wash them myself, but he already had a load ready to go while I took my shower yesterday. It was just waiting for my meager laundry to add to the mix. Then everything was moved into the dryer before I realized what was happening. I did take care of my bra; handwashing it in the bathroom sink and then hung it over the shower curtain rod to dry. It was only slightly damp when I put it back on today.

Being braless around him had been weird. I didn’t want to ask him for a sweatshirt which would have made it more subtle, so I just tried to not move my upper body too much. I do not have braless boobs. When the girls are free they are wild!

His eye contact was firm when we happened to be in the same room.

I borrowed Edgar’s phone to film a video for work with a very tight frame on my mostly makeup-less face. I sent it to our producer, she didn’t complain but she did say next time I’m going to need to pull the shot back.

A very large silver lining to this whole mess is that cases of the virus are starting to plateau. They’re still growing but not as quickly. My parents are fine so far, as is Libby. She’s playing a lot of some video game, she told me the name and such but… I don’t know what she’s talking about. She’s having fun though. I, of course, get all of these updates via messenger. Edgar has pretty much fully relinquished his laptop to me except when he has to get some work done. I use it for work too.

Our jobs require us to be informed on all current affairs—which is almost exclusively the virus: any medical advances or the politics involved in help arriving to hot spots or how other countries are dealing with the care of their citizens. It’s all so consuming and horrifying that I’m doing my job and then pushing the information to the back of my mind as best as I can. The most he and I have discussed the situation is when I found an article by a BBC reporter that I suggested he read.

Edgar and I, hardly occupied the same room yesterday but today we’re both in the living room.

I’m relieved and annoyed that he’s been a decent host. Based on the stories I’ve heard from Sofia, that is all but miraculous. She was always sharing stories about how he never made considerations for her. That he always had something to say about her choices, even super small ones.

With all this in mind, I know I would not have been a gracious host for him. I would have made him wash the clothes on his back by hand and then wait for them to air-dry or wear them wet. I would not have found it in me to produce alternate clothing for his comfort. I would not have shared my Nutella. It’d be basic provisions only for him.

Over the past forty-eight hours I’ve been thinking about that a lot. Spending time with him is reshaping my impressions. Then I remember the junior reporter promotion I went after, that he got over me and then quit the job a month later.

Quit. The. Job. A. Month. Later.

Like what was his point? His ex-wife—current wife at the time—told me he only went for the position because he was concerned that I’d get it. Which I did, after he vacated it.
The manila folder I gave him has disappeared from its former location on the kitchen table. I’m okay with that. I don’t need him remembering that he should be an asshole to me.

His book is open on his lap. He does this thing where he runs his right thumb down the pages. They make a soft flapping sound as they separate and come back together. I want it to be annoying but it’s kinda cute.

Another thing, he wears reading glasses. They are also cute. They’re a little large and dark-rimmed, totally dorky. I very much have a thing for studious men and he is pulling that look off. That is annoying.

I’m scrolling on his laptop, but my eyes are melting out of my face from all the screen time.

“Do you have any puzzles?” I ask.

“Like a jigsaw puzzle?” His eyebrows raise over the rims of his glasses as if my question surprises him.

“What other kind of puzzle could I mean?”

“There are other kinds of puzzles.”

“Answer the question.”

He takes in a deep breath through his nose and looks out the living room window. I watch his profile, waiting for him to speak. I don’t see how this is a difficult question.
Finally, he releases the air in his lungs. “I have one.”

The way he said it has me concerned it’s explicit or something. “Okay…”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want you to see it.”

Okay, yeah, he has a vagina jigsaw puzzle, I’m sure of it. “I’m not going to make a big deal of it. I just need to do something other than look a screen for a little while.”

“Bullshit. The next eleven days are going to be you giving me shit for this.” He runs his palm on his chin. It makes a rustling sound as his skin brushes the two days’ worth of beard growth. He must not have to record himself today.

“I promise I won’t.”

“You can’t keep that promise.”

“I keep my promises,” I insist. Seriously, I do.

He shakes his head, a man for the gallows. “Not this one.” His glasses go on the coffee table and the bookmark gets slipped between the pages. “Come on,” he jerks his head for me to follow him, “I have a couple of games too.”

I’m kinda nervous about what games he might have if he has a porno puzzle, but okay. I don’t know where I’m expecting him to go, his house isn’t huge. By yesterday, I covered every square foot of it with the exception of his bedroom and that’s where he leads me now. I follow him trying to be discreet about collecting many details as I can. This room feels very different than the rest of the house. For one thing, the bed is unmade and yesterday’s clothes are in a pile on the floor by his bed. The rest of his place is very clean.

Does he sleep nude? The dirty clothes indicate that he does.

I’ve gotten a little distracted by the idea of his naked body. I mean, how good does someone have to look naked for them to not only know that they look good naked but also to tell someone? So, yeah, I’m a little distracted but not obsessed.

Whoa, his closet and master bath situation is ridiculous. Like, a soaking tub separate from the shower with slate-colored tile. You walk through the bathroom to get to a huge walk-in closet. How is all of this here?

“What the hell is going on here?” I ask circling my fingers at the setup.

“The bathroom and all that?”

“Why do you clarify everything, just answer the question.”

His arms cross over his chest. “You’re questions are not clear.”

“They’re obviously clear enough.”

He does one of those sighs before he answers, “The house was a three-bedroom, I converted the smallest room into the master en suite.”

“Won’t that negatively affect your resale?”

“Probably, but I’m happier about living here.”

I can only blink to that. This man is a mystery.

“Excuse me.” He points to the shelving behind me.

I glance over my shoulder and see some games: Monopoly, Risk, Settlers of Catan, a very large Cards Against Humanity and Pandemic—too soon, dude. But my eyes land on a box that is somewhere between purple and pink. It’s the puzzle. I reach up and slide it from its spot between two of the games.

It’s a Golden Girls puzzle. The Golden Girls.

Oh no. I have so much to say. There are so many thoughts. One zinger after another. I’d have less material if it had been a full bush vagina. But nope. We’ve got the timeless wonder that is four women who made up one of the best shows in sitcom history smiling softly up at me.

“I’m waiting,” he says behind me.

My heart is truly aching when I reply, “I promised.”

He laughs. I don’t know why, but he does, he must love my pain.


He’s in the living room and I’m seated at the kitchen table, the border of the puzzle is almost complete. The color transitions of the background are really subtle. It’s going to be a fun puzzle. I’ve moved past wanting to make fun of him to wanting to know how he came to own said puzzle. Like, did he search specifically for this? Was this what he intended to own? If so, why was I the first person to open the box? Was he saving it for a special occasion? Did he intend to binge-watch the show while he pieced it together?

I need to stop this.

He’s back on the sofa, leaning against the armrest and his legs across the seat. I can only see him from the shoulder up over the back support. He’s looking down at his lap, reading glasses back on.

“You should read out loud,” I tell him.

He wasn’t moving but somehow he pauses, like his mind stills or something. Then he looks at me, pulling his glasses off. “You want me to read to you?”

“When you say it like that, I sound like an old lady with vision problems. Which,” I gesture to the table’s contents, “okay, The Golden Girls jigsaw puzzle isn’t helping but it wasn’t my choice.” I decide this is more of a self-deprecating comment so it doesn’t break my promise. “I was reading that book yesterday, it’s good. You should read out loud.”

“I’ll be done with it by tomorrow, you can finish it then.”

“Or you can just read it out loud and I can do two things at once.”

He stands and stretches, his back arching revealing a strip of tan skin low on his belly. There’s a stripe of black hair.

I look back at The Golden Girls on the box, but I can feel Bea Arthur looking unimpressed with me. I know there’s no foolin’ you, Bea.

Taking the seat across from me he asks, “What page are you on?”

Why is he being so nice to me? I would never go back in a book to read for someone else, but I also hate spoilers so I’m not going to stop him.

I hold out my hand. “Let me see it.”

He gives it to me and I flip through careful to keep his bookmark in place.

“Top of page sixty-three.”

He takes the book back and just starts reading. No argument.

I don’t get this guy.


From Marty Vee:

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