Page 1 of Locked Down In Watch Hill
ONE
ASHLEY
Disaster.
That was the best word for my year. Disaster. One after the next, all culminating in my current state—locked down in COVID-19 quarantine, furloughed from my full-time job, and all alone just a few days before my thirtieth birthday. The same birthday I had planned to celebrate with a trip to Cabo San Lucas, where I planned to spend four days luxuriating on a beach at an all-inclusive resort, fruity drink in my hand and sunscreen on my face.
Maybe I’ll make it there for my thirty-first birthday. Or fortieth? God knows.
Sighing, I closed the travel app on my phone. The resort staff had been kind and understanding, but they also hadn’t offered me the much-hoped-for full refund. All the begging and pleading in my sweetest voice didn’t get me anywhere with the people at the call center on the other end of the phone. Instead of money back in my checking account, I now had almost five thousand dollars in airfare and hotel travelcredits, along with promises that they wouldn’t expire anytime soon.
A trip for a woman with a whole different life, one who lived in an alternate universe.
I got up from my couch and paced the floor of my apartment once more. Eight hundred eighty-two square feet of open floor plan in a renovated building three blocks from downtown Watch Hill, a leafy and quiet suburb on the east side of Cincinnati. A living room, galley kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, two closets, and a balcony overlooking the small courtyard that united twelve units, all of which fanned out in a small U-shape.
Two years earlier, I’d called the place perfect while on the phone with my mom. She didn’t know anything about Watch Hill, but she’d been happy to hear me so happy about my new job as the special events coordinator at the Taft Boutique Hotel. “Dad and I can’t wait to see it,” she’d said. “And I know you’ll have fun decorating it.”
And I had.
I’d scoured online sales, antique shops, and closeout deals for the perfect pieces designed to turn the bare walls and square rooms into a mid-mod aficionado’s dream. A year later, I surveyed the place with satisfaction, dreaming of all the Instagram-worthy dinner parties and wine nights that I’d throw now that I had every wall decoratedexactly right.
That was then.
Before COVID-19 shook everything up, causing governments to close schools, restaurants, bars, and hotels to try to slow the spread of the virus. Before lockdowns, travel restrictions, and regular quarantines. Before...
Stop obsessing over it, Ashley. You’ll go crazy in here if you do. Besides, you’re luckier than a lot of people, and you know that.
My stomach rumbled, so I headed for the refrigerator. A few sticks of string cheese, some lonely orange juice, a box of takeout from last week, some canned wine, and a few condiments. A glance in the small pantry near the apartment’s back door didn’t do much better—just a mix of crackers, flour, some cereal, and a few canned soups.
Another sigh escaped my lips, this one heavier than the first. I needed to go to the grocery store, but that meant masking up and braving social distance guidelines I wasn’t sure would protect me from the virus.Not that you can go, anyway.I closed the refrigerator and leaned against it. I was in quarantine thanks to a contact-tracing email from my dentist office that said I shared the waiting room with a patient who later tested positive for the disease.I knew I should have canceled that routine cleaning.
Still feeling defeated, I flopped back onto the living room couch, the pull of hunger in my stomach growing stronger with each breath. I knew I could order groceries online, but I wanted to save the service fee, and somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to open the app on my phone with a running list of necessities. A grocery order meant cooking, and by God, I didn’t feel like doing that either.
Then I remembered the email gift card.
A month earlier, my sister, Bridget, sent it to me as a surprise, a virtual kiss all the way from New York City. She sent it along with regrets about being unable to make it to Cabo due to her own COVID-19 quarantine restrictions and concerns about her future mother-in-law who lived with my sister and her boyfriend in Manhattan and had a withering case of COPD. “I’m going to miss you so much on your birthday,” the email read. “And especially the chance to have one of our epic pizza nights. Order some on me.”
The message included a thirty-dollar voucher to Watch Hill Pizza, a spot just around the corner from my apartment.
God bless Bridget. She often had epic timing. A few clicks later, and I had someone on the line from the establishment.
“I’ll take a large pepperoni pizza,” I told the employee who asked to take my order. “With an extra round of cheese, please, and some garlic knots.”
The whole thing came to about twenty bucks, and it was far too much food for one person, but I’d save the rest for lunch the following day. I hung up with a smile on my face and a relief coursing through my veins. My upcoming thirtieth birthday might look nothing like what I expected, but at least I’d get a decent meal out of the unexpected twists. Add a little red wine and some binge-worthy TV shows, and I’d be able to make it through the weekend.
And making it was what mattered.
***
KYLE
What a year.
What a blasted, strange, twisted, unforgettable year. But at least amid all the upheaval I had the restaurant. We’d managed to stay open despite all the state-wide operating restrictions, and for the first time since taking it over, I was thankful I was the guy who ran a pizza parlor for a living. Watch Hill Pizza was my savior in more ways than I could have ever expected. If there was one thing people wanted during hard times, it was pizza.
Pizza, beer, and chicken wings.
“Got another order,” Tyler said after he hung up the main phone line. “Pepperoni pizza and garlic knots.”
