Page 9 of Locked Down In Watch Hill
He balanced the chicken wing box on top of a larger one for the pizza bread. “Hi, Ashley. I thought that was you under there.”
“Yep, it’s me. Somewhere under here.”
I immediately regretted not fixing my ponytail and the eye makeup smudged under my lids. Up until that moment, Seth had only seen me in highly curated situations, under the night lights of one of his clubs or at parties with exorbitant entrance fees and themes designed to optimize Instagram’s algorithm.
Not that it really mattered.
“How have you been?” I managed, a loaded question considering the last few months. “I mean ... are you making it?”
Of course, he wasn’t making it, not if he’d started delivering pizzas. The Seth I knew wouldn’t have come close to a job like that under normal circumstances. It would have been so far outside the realm of his thinking—especially when his life centered on making sure the next nightclub that he opened was better than the last.
But there were no nightclubs open anymore. None.
“I’m okay,” he replied. “I’m sure you heard I had to close The Frosted Heart.”
“I did.”
I glanced down at my fuzzy white slippers. They had more dust and grime on them than I remembered, probably a victim of too much time in depths of my closet. I’d have to throw them in the laundry at my first chance.
“I read about that a couple of weeks ago when you posted about it on social media.” I looked at him again. “I was really sorry to hear about it. I know that place was one of your babies.”
He shrugged, and I noticed how drawn his face was, how the skin sank around his eyes and made them so hollow. “Thank God Kyle had some extra work.” He pushed the boxes of cooling food toward me. “Here’s your order, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I took the food, making sure to stay at least six feet away from him and not allow my hands to touch his. “I think there was something wrong with the gift card that I used—”
“Tyler said you might bring that up, and that, no, there wasn’t anything wrong. You’re good to go.”
“Are you sure?”
Seth nodded. “Yep. Nothing to question.” He shrugged. “It’s been ... it’s been a weird year, and I am so glad that we were able to see each other. Almost feels like normal.”
I smiled, sadness pulling at my chest. He was right, itdidalmost feel normal, and while that was wonderful, it came wrapped in pain. I wanted to go back to before, back to when I didn’t know anything about pandemics, back to when I didn’t follow case numbers daily and doom-scroll social media for updates as the virus infected every corner of the world. Back when I didn’t know people who’d had relatives die, and who’d been sick themselves.
“I’m glad you’re okay. I hope ... I hope it works out for you at the pizzeria.”
“If we keep up the orders we are getting, I think it will. Whatever is going on, word is spreading about the place.” Seth’s eyes crinkled. “But I guess it’s all just the fact that everyone loves pizza.”
“Everyone does.”
“Kyle’s a good person, he really is. He didn’t have to give me any work. He could have turned me down like almost everyone else I’ve talked to, but he told me when I called him a few weeks ago that if he had something open up, I’d be the first on his list.” Seth spread his hand, and I noticed the row of Roman numerals tattooed across his knuckles. “And he came through.”
“That’s awesome.”
I hesitated. In the past, in the before, I would have asked him if this was his last delivery, then invited him to come inside. I would have been hospitable and friendly. But I couldn’t do that now. And that felt so bizarre. It was as if every instinct to show hospitality was ... on pause.Surreal.
“Well,” I said, my chest growing heavier as I spoke, “maybe, when this is all over, I’ll have the chance to see you again.”
“I hope so, Ashley. I really do.”
We said goodbye, and I shut the door, back into quarantine isolation, my apartment more and more like a prison with every passing hour I spent in it. I wandered to the kitchen table, calculating what I’d do for the rest of the night. After dinner, I might scroll through Pilates workouts on YouTube and force myself to do one, then aimlessly search funny videos to kill another half hour. After that, I could start episode one ofThe Harpist, a regency romance series I saw hundreds of tweets about, many of them praising the on-screen chemistry of Tanner and Brie Vance, who were married in real life. That would probably take another ninety minutes or so, and after that I’d fall into bed for another dreamless night.
Sounded about right.
I opened the box of chicken wings, and the smell of spicy buffalo sauce hit my nostrils. That was a good thing—another small sign that I didn’t have the virus, which people often said caused them to lose their senses of taste and smell. If I smelled the chicken, I wasn’t sick.
If I’m not sick, then quarantine ends in two days. Just two. You can do this, Ashley.
I ate four wings before moving on to the box of pizza bread, a smaller version of Watch Hill Pizza’s signature dish cut into strips and served with a side of marinara sauce. Before, this wouldn’t have been on the diet at all, not when I had parties to attend and nightclubs to prowl on whatever qualified as the singles circuit in the Cincinnati metro area. Still, that was before, and this was now.
