Only You by K.T. Quinn

37

Molly

The Day With ORANGES!

It was bad enough that I slept terribly, with nightmares about getting caught by the police, and about upsetting Donovan, and about going to bed without saying a word to each other.

Then I woke up alone.

For a few moments it felt like I had been abandoned. My bed was empty. I had messed up last night and now he was gone. Our fun adventure had come to an end. I was alone again, just like I had been the first few days of the lockdown.

But of course that wasn’t true. For one thing, I was in his bed. His suitcase was on the table to my right, and his shirts were hanging up in the closet.

For another thing, there was a folded note on the pillow next to me.

Out running errands. If I don’t come back, it’s because the zombies got me.

I smiled at the joke. It meant things were okay between us, despite what had happened last night. But I still felt guilty about everything.

I brewed a cup of coffee and walked out to the balcony. The sun was shining brightly and there was a cool morning breeze that stirred my Residencia Al Gladiatore bathrobe. I pulled it tighter around myself and watched the plaza below. A woman was hurrying along with a bag of groceries, making use of the four hours when she was allowed to be out for non-emergency reasons.

She was the first person I had seen in the plaza in a long time. It made things feel somewhat normal as I sipped my coffee.

By nine I started getting worried.

Molly: Did the zombies get you?

Donovan: They tried, but I escaped. I’m 100% unbitten.

Molly: That’s exactly what a zombie would say. Where are you?

Donovan: At the airport

Molly: ???

Donovan: I finally got a ticket home. I’m in first class as we speak. They’re serving champagne. Should I get the chicken, or steak?

Molly: Not funny!

Molly: You had better not be!

Donovan: I’m out running an errand. I’ll be home soon.

I typed out my next message, then waited several minutes before working up the courage to hit send.

Molly: I’m really sorry about last night. You were trying to be careful, and I got reckless. I shouldn’t have been using my phone to read the info signs, and we should have gone back the way we came. It’s my fault we got caught. I hope you can forgive me.

Donovan: Shit, it’s not your fault. And even if it was, I overreacted about it. Sorry for being a dick when we got home. I guess I was flustered after our run-in with the po-po.

Molly: You weren’t a dick about it! I deserved it! I’m the one trying to apologize here. You have nothing to be sorry for.

Donovan: That’s a relief. I picked up a surprise for you, but since I have nothing to be sorry for, I guess I’ll take it back.

Molly: Ohh

Molly: A surprise?

Molly: What is it?

Molly: Did you charter a private plane for us to take home?

Donovan: Line cooks can’t afford private planes, Feisty. My surprise is cheap.

Donovan: But I promise it’s worth more than all the art in the Pope’s house down the street.

I knew the surprise was condoms. He was right: that was worth more than all the wealth in the Vatican. As exciting as our shower sex was, teasing and rubbing and then pulling out like a couple of teenagers, I didn’t want to take the risk again.

And I planned on having a lot more sex with Donovan.

Just then I saw Donovan on the other side of the plaza. He was tall in his jeans and a grey T-shirt. Once again I was struck by just how well he fit in, with his Mediterranean features and dark hair. Even with his mask on, I could tell he was grinning widely.

When he got close, I leaned over the balcony and in my best Shakespeare impression said, “Donovan, oh Donovan, wherefore art thou Donovan!”

He laughed and unslung something from his shoulder. Two big bags, orange in color, which he held up like the prize-winning salmon at a fishing competition.

I gasped. “OH MY GOD!”

His smile disappeared. “Don’t scream too loud,” he shouted up at me. “Someone’s going to think you’re being murdered.”

I threw on some clothes and ran downstairs. Donovan had dumped the oranges in the lobby cleaning station we had built, and he was already running into the pool room to scrub himself clean. I poked my head in there in time to see his cute naked butt jumping into the hot tub.

“When you’re safe to touch,” I said, “I’m going to smother you with kisses.” I tossed him a change of clothes.

He lathered his chest with soap and grinned widely. “Don’t eat all the oranges in one sitting. There are some recipes I want to try.”

I went back into the lobby, put gloves on, and began wiping down every orange with a disinfectant cloth. It felt like overkill, but I didn’t care! I was too excited!

There was a box of condoms under the orange bags, too. I squealed happily when I saw that.

As I collected the clean oranges in a cardboard box from the kitchen, I noticed the receipt. Five Euros for the oranges was cheap indeed.

Donovan came out of the pool room in his new clothes. He dried his hair with a towel and said, “So you like the surprise?”

“I love it! The grocery store finally restocked?”

“Actually, I had to walk across town to the other store. I walked like six kilometers today.”

“You did that for little old me?” I batted my eyelashes at him.

“Only you,” he replied. “If it was anyone else, I’d let them get scurvy.”

His lips tasted like soap as I kissed him, but I didn’t mind. I held up the receipt and said, “Did you get diapers?”

“Must be a mistake on the receipt,” he replied after a short pause. “Things were crazy at the store. Come on, let’s get cooking. I have an orange-iced cookie recipe I want to try.”

I glanced at the box. “Do we have enough oranges?”

“My recipe only calls for one.”

“In about ten minutes, there might not be one left!”

He laughed. “Thankfully I only need to zest the peel. The inside is all yours.”

I sat on the counter in the kitchen while he prepared his cookies. I had sliced open an orange and was slowly eating the pieces, savoring them to make them last longer. The tangy, sweet fruit tasted better than I remembered and juice ran over my chin.

Donovan used a zesting grater to flavor a bowl full of icing he had made from scratch. The smell of oranges hung in the air, putting a permanent smile on my face.

“Mom always included orange slices in my lunchbox,” I said. “She thought oranges cured everything. Sleepy? Have an orange. Headache? Time for an orange. Scraped knee? Squeeze some orange juice on it—the stinging means it’s working! If she were alive to see the pandemic, she would probably claim oranges cure the virus. Or at least reduce your likelihood of catching it.”

Donovan laughed while mixing the icing with a whisk. A strand of black hair fell across his face, and he blew a puff of air to brush it away.

“I’m sorry it’s not a plane ride home,” he said. “But it’s the next best thing.”

“Oranges make me feel like I’m home. That’s good enough.” I swallowed a bite and then said, “I really am sorry about last night.”

He pursed his lips together. “Me too. At least we’re not in jail.”

“Yeah, but it still sucks we can’t go anywhere now,” I insisted. “And that’s my fault.”

Donovan stopped stirring his bowl. “That just means we have to find more things to do inside. So really, it’s a good problem to have.”

“Especially now that we have oranges!”

“Taste this.” He stuck his finger in the bowl and came out with a little blob of frosting. He aimed it at my face, and I leaned forward to suck it off his finger, giving it a little swirl with my tongue.

“Oh my God,” I said. “That tastes amazing.”

“Wait until you taste it on the cookies.”

“Forget the cookies—give me the bowl!”

I tried to steal the bowl from him while he pushed me away, laughing and play-fighting in the hotel kitchen without a care in the world.