I can’t believe I almost fell out a window for a boy I just met.
But here I am, staring down at him with one hand cradled under the bundle he threw to me, and the other hand clamped around the edge of my window, holding me inside the building. Ruby walks over the bay window cushion, meowing her I told you so—I’m sure that’s what she said in cat-speak. I clear my throat, curl up next to the window, and catch my breath. He’s still sitting there by his window, chin on his fists, staring at me with the lasagna dish between his elbows, lost in thought.
“Hey,” I say, holding up the paper-bag-wrapped gift in my hand. It feels like something hard is inside. Maybe gumballs? Strangely shaped gumballs? “Swap on the count of three?”
As if I’ve caught him daydreaming—and I might have—he startles and pulls the lid off his lasagna. I can see the steam rising from here.
“Smells good, gotta say,” he says. “Knew that was basil.” And before I can even get my bag open, he’s spooning the first bite into his mouth. He shuts his eyes, leans his head back, hands up in surrender.
“You win,” he says. “No contest. I give up. This is bomb. You sure you didn’t order this straight from Italy?”
“That mean you don’t want my number after all?” I ask, reaching into the bag and pulling out…“What are these, cookies?”
My tongue brushes the cookie just as I hear his “No, don’t—!”
I cough, recognizing the combinations of smells right away. It smelled so much like shortbread, I thought it might be. But no. Just shea butter. Fresh herbs. And what smells like cocoa butter too.
“I agree, this tastes terrible.” I cough. “You lose.”
“It’s hand butter!” He laughs. “Y’all don’t read labels over there?”
I roll my eyes and look into the bag. One, two, three, four, five, six hand butter bars shaped like flowers, and one small white square of paper. I pull it out and read the careful handwriting.
I think you’re beautiful. And cool. And I have a surprise for you. Text me?
And there’s a phone number listed below.
“Sneaky,” I say, smirking at him.
“Doesn’t sound like a no,” he says, hands up, before spooning another generous helping of lasagna into his mouth.
“We’ll see,” I say, smoothing one of the flowers over my hands. The oregano scent comes through against the cocoa butter, making these smell like herbaceous sugar cookies. With everything that’s happened, I know I could use a friend.
But I like a tease.
So I leave him with one last smile before closing the window gently, and I turn to my room. My hands are shaking and sweaty. I take a long deep breath and crawl under the covers—back to my safe place. And then I do something I hope my therapist would be proud of me for.
I text him.
Me: You win.
Him: <3
My whole face goes hot at a single emoji. Really, girl? I ask myself, rolling my eyes at my own softness. But two more texts come through that make me even more shy. A screenshot, and an invitation. Pacific Northwest Fall Herb Festival. Tickets limited. Learn to cook with herbs fresh and dried. Food, drinks, and aromatherapy.
Him: Thought we could learn to cook together.
I don’t recognize this boldness I feel bubbling from me, but I love it. I go and find the link to my grandmother’s lasagna recipe from my mother’s blog and send it to him with the caption:
Me: Why wait?
I think I might have discovered another circle of Hell: Quarantining with your horrible, messy, way-too-loud, way-too-obnoxious roommate, who thinks the middle of the night is the perfect time to blast a Spotify playlist.
We’ve been roommates since she answered my Facebook post about needing one after my sophomore year on-campus housing fell through this past summer. I remember clicking through all of her pictures, thinking she looked normal. Nice. Pretty, even.
I could not have been more wrong. Well…not about the pretty thing, but literally everything else. She’s been the very definition of annoying since move-in day, from dishes left piled in the sink to using up all the hot water in the shower.
Aside from just our daily spats between classes over stolen food and taking out the trash, her friends give her some pretty strong competition for the top slot of Most Irritating, as they join her in obliterating our living room every Saturday night. I joined them once and left after half an hour, covered in Tom Allen’s heaping plate of chips and queso after he drunkenly tripped over his own two feet.
I guess that’s one good thing about quarantine. My living room is still intact come Sunday morning.
Groaning, I grab my pillow and press it down over my head, trying to block out the music that’s blaring its way into my room from the kitchen.
Or trying to smother myself. Either would be a solution.
I squeeze my eyes shut and turn onto my right side. Then my left. Then my back. But it’s no use. The steady bass still manages to make its way through, bopping any chance I have of completing another REM cycle right out the window.
Ripping the pillow away from my face, I fumble around on my bedside table for my phone, the screen lighting up with a tap of my thumb. I squint at the glaring numbers, my rage nearing a rolling boil as 3:03 comes swinging into focus.
I…am going to kill her.
I roll out of bed and jam my feet into my slippers before angrily wrestling with a hoodie, my arms getting tangled somewhere between the neck and armholes, the congestive fleece upping my frustration tenfold.
Yanking open my bedroom door, I storm across the living room, turn into the kitchen, and make a beeline for the black Bluetooth speaker on the wobbly, Craigslist-bought kitchen table. My first instinct is to launch the speaker across the room, but I opt for just flicking the power button
