Only You by K.T. Quinn

45

Molly

The Day I Spent In Jail

I sat in the Italian jail all night, tapping my foot and waiting to be released. The sun came up the next morning, then drifted across the sky outside my cell window. Occasionally a police officer walked by with another prisoner. There were four cells, each full of benches and big enough for a soccer team, but they were keeping everyone separated because of the virus.

That was a small miracle, I guess.

It was almost night again when a police officer unlocked my cell. I jumped up and asked, “Where are you taking me? Where am I going?”

“You are free to go,” he replied in surprisingly-good English. “Please come with me.”

I followed him through the police station numbly.

“Here are your belongings,” he told me at the front desk. “Cell phone, passport, and keys. You are receiving a formal warning for breaking the quarantine.”

“I told you I was turning in a test to the—”

“We have taken your passport information, and have reported your behavior to the American Embassy. If you are detained again, we will have no choice but to remove you from the European Union.”

“Is that a promise?” I muttered. The cop gave me an impatient look.

I left the station and pulled my belongings out of the bag. My phone battery was dead. Damn.

I hope Donovan is okay.

Without a phone I was kind of lost. I walked down a street for awhile until I saw the Colosseum in the distance. Based on the sun setting over there, that meant my hotel should be that way.

I followed the road, picking up speed as I went. Within a few minutes I was practically jogging. If Donovan’s condition had gotten worse and I wasn’t there to help him…

The front door to the hotel was still unlocked. I threw it open and rushed inside, turning toward the elevator, until something in the lobby caught my attention.

I gave a start. Donovan was sprawled out in the chair by the door, snoring softly behind his mask.

“Donovan!”

He blinked awake, then pulled himself to his feet. His dark hair was messy, and there was pasta sauce on his mask. His belt was only threaded through three of his jeans loops. He looked like a toddler who had tried to dress himself for the first time.

“You’re okay,” he said with a sigh of relief. “Molly…”

He stepped toward me, arms outstretched. I wanted nothing more than to hug him, to fall into his comforting arms and cry away my worries.

But I made myself step back behind the concierge desk, turning away as if the mere sight of him could infect me.

“You’re still sick,” I said.

“Shit,” he said. “I almost forgot. I came down here to go looking for you, and I needed to rest because I was so tired…”

He sounded so weak. Instantly I snapped back into my role as caregiver.

“Go back upstairs,” I told him. “I’ll make dinner.”

“Okey dokey,” he said. “I’m kind of hungry. You didn’t bring me cookie dough last night!”

I waited until he was in the elevator, then counted to a hundred like we were playing hide and seek. Then I took the stairs to the third floor. I held my breath as I walked to my room, knowing that Donovan had been walking and breathing in this space just minutes before. I slipped inside and closed the door with a deep exhale.

I took a shower to wash the damp, mildewy feeling of jail from my skin. Then I went downstairs and reheated the leftover soup from the other night.

“I can’t believe you got arrested for me,” Donovan said while we ate, chatting between the dividing door.

“Want to know the crazy thing? The food they gave me in jail wasn’t bad! It was definitely better than the pasta I made last night. What I’m trying to say is that if my food drives you crazy, you can get yourself arrested.”

“Yeah, but the company is better here,” he replied.

“How do you feel?”

“Tired. After running around looking for you… I was so worried about you, Molly. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I said. “While I was in jail, all I could think about was how I wasn’t taking care of you.”

“You can make it up to me with cookie dough, please and thank you. Then I’m going to crash.”

It was great to not be in jail, but the next day was boring. I brought Donovan some Gatorade in the morning, and then he went back to sleep.

I went to the lounge and played three games of pool by myself. After that I watched some TV on the projector, but that just made me miss him even more. The couch was too big for just one person; I was used to snuggling up with him on it.

I walked around the hotel, but my back was kind of sore from sitting on the bench in jail.

Eventually I decided to try my hand at making pasta from scratch. I looked up directions online, and copied the technique I had learned from Donovan. I cracked an egg on the counter and rolled it around a pile of flour with my fingers, allowing it to coalesce into a doughy consistency.

Somehow, I was doing it wrong. The result turned out all messy and crumbly, rather than the smooth dough Donovan had made.

“Good thing I can’t taste anything,” Donovan said at lunch. “This might be the ugliest pasta I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re eating for fuel, not for comfort,” I shot back.

“What I’m doing is fantasizing about eating jail food.” He chuckled at his own joke, then said, “Oh, I got an email from the testing site. My results came back positive.”

“Oh, thank God!” I said.

“Uh, what am I missing?” he replied. “Why are you happy about my positive test?”

“I’m happy the police turned in the test!” I said. “I was afraid they would throw it away to get back at me for breaking quarantine. I’m not happy you tested positive. We already knew you had it, anyway.”

“Did you hear back about your test?” Donovan asked.

“Nope! I’m assuming that’s a good sign. I still feel fine. Speaking of that, it’s time for a temperature check.”

I listened on the other side of the door as Donovan collected the thermometer. It beeped, and he said, “Thirty-seven Celsius.”

“Send me a photo,” I said.

“Molly…”

“I’m serious,” I insisted. “Proof, please.”

He sighed. “It’s actually thirty-eight.”

I quickly converted it on my phone. “That’s a hundred degrees!”

“I’ll take an aspirin.” I heard the rattle of a pill bottle. “My throat is sore, but I feel fine otherwise. No breathing problems at all.”

I chewed my lip. “If it gets worse, I’m going to make you go to the hospital.”

“I promise I’ll go if it gets worse,” he said.

All day I felt helpless. Donovan was sick and there was almost nothing I could do. Bringing him Gatorade felt like too little.

For a distraction, I threw myself into my new pasta-making endeavor. I spent an hour cracking eggs and rolling dough on the counter in the kitchen. The next batch of spaghetti that night was better than before, but there was something off about it.

At lunch the next day I tried ravioli. I assumed it would be easier to make since it didn’t need to be extruded like spaghetti, but it was much harder than I anticipated. I made the ravioli just fine, pressing down on the ends with a fork, but as soon as I dipped them in the pot of boiling water they fell apart.

That night I tried penne noodles. The dough felt right in my hands this time, and the noodles themselves looked downright normal when I dumped them in a strainer. I made a creamy vodka sauce to go with them, starting with a mixture from a jar and tweaking the amount of garlic and spices. I had to add three times as much salt as the recipe recommended because it didn’t taste salty enough, but eventually I got it right.

“I really hope this batch turned out okay,” I said after placing his bowl in the partition between our rooms. “But I want you to be brutally honest.”

While waiting for him to try it, I had an idea. I went out to the balcony and eyed the gap. I couldn’t carry pasta across, so I climbed over without it. I could eat it later.

I knocked on the glass door and waved. Donovan came over with a huge grin on his face. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I know I saw you yesterday, but I was too tired to really look at you.”

I got a good look at him again. He was still ruggedly handsome, but his dark beard hadn’t been trimmed in several days. There was a sunken look in his eyes. They were bloodshot, too.

“I’m happy to see you too,” I said, “but you look like you need a shower.”

“I’m trying a new tactic,” he replied with a lopsided grin. “I figure if I get nice and stinky, it will scare the virus away. Where’s your food?”

“I couldn’t bring it over. I’ll eat later. I just wanted to see you. Go on! Try yours.”

He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Holy shit. This is good.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I mean it. The pasta is the perfect consistency.”

“Are you sure there’s enough salt?” I asked. “I kept adding salt and adding salt, but it didn’t taste salty enough.”

“I can’t really taste the sauce,” he admitted. “I’m going based off mouth feel. And it feels like something I made myself.”

I squealed happily and did a little dance on the balcony. Donovan grinned at me and sat on the ground next to the glass.

“God I’ve missed you, Feisty.”

“I’ve missed you! It’s good to talk to you, and not to a wooden door.”

I watched him eat as the sun drifted below the Colosseum to the west. There were a smattering of clouds in the sky, which made the sunset extra colorful. Like a Renaissance painter had swished his brush across the sky.

“This is like our first night together,” Donovan said on the other side of the glass. “Remember?”

“I do. It feels like it was just yesterday… But it also feels like it was a year ago. Does that make sense?”

“Totally. The last month has felt like the longest of my life, but also the shortest.”

I smiled while watching him finish his entire bowl. That was a good sign. He even sounded like he had more energy. Maybe he was starting to recover, fever be damned.

“Want some cookie dough?” I asked.

He put the empty bowl down and covered his belly with his hand. “I’m full. Couldn’t possibly stomach another bite.”

Donovan kissed his hand, then touched the glass. I copied the motion and pressed my fingers against his. My food was getting cold on the other balcony, but I didn’t want the moment to end so I rested my back against the glass door. A moment later I felt him do the same thing. It was probably just my imagination, but I thought I could feel his warmth.

“Do you think we’ll ever go home?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Molly.” There was a pause, and he said, “I have a confession to make.”

I tensed. “Okay.”

“I cheated at hide and seek.”

I snorted. “I know you cheated. I saw the footage!”

“Yeah, but, like, I still get points for admitting it. Right?”

“We may only be a stone’s throw from the Pope,” I said, “but this isn’t a Catholic confessional. You don’t get points for admitting your hide-and-seek sins after you got caught.”

“Aww.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket. “Maybe that’s my flight standby status. Fingers crossed…”

He turned around to look at me. “Yeah? What’s it say?”

But it wasn’t an email about a flight home. It was from an Italian address I didn’t recognize. I opened it and scanned the body of the email. It was written in Italian, with an English translation below.

I gasped when I came across the important line:

TEST RESULT: POSITIVE