Until the World Stops - L.A. Witt Page 0,12
him in the end, but I get why he did it.”
“Shame it ended the way it did.”
“I know, right?”
Especially since the way it ended was the reason I was stuck with him for the time being.
It wasn’t that I regretted helping Tristan, but maybe I’d bitten off more than I could chew. The really shitty part was that there was no way out unless I wanted to be a total dick to Tristan. Which… Okay, I kind of did want to be a dick to him, because that was how deep the resentment had burrowed, but that wasn’t me. Especially not when it would cost Tristan his healthcare. He was healthy now, but who was to say he wouldn’t break his leg tomorrow or find a suspicious mole next week? Or, given the way things were going in the world, contract some virus that no one knew quite how to treat?
So I couldn’t cut him loose like that.
In the interest of getting his degree as quickly as he could, Tristan was working part-time. And I’d been fine with that. I was still driving the same Corolla my dad had given me—paid off, free and clear—before I’d enlisted, and I made enough as an E-6 to pay the rent, keep the fridge stocked, and cover the utilities.
Tristan had held up his end of the deal, and he’d taken on the lion’s share of the domestic chores, which was a huge help for me. Twelve-hour shifts with an hour-long commute each direction didn’t leave a lot of time or energy for housework except on my off days, and before Tristan, I’d basically spent my time working, driving to or from work, cleaning, cooking, or sleeping. He’d taken a lot of that off my shoulders, and I appreciated it. And I felt like a bit more of an asshole for resenting him and avoiding him.
Financially, Tristan contributed as much as he could, but lately, that hadn’t been very much. He had a gig as a security guard at an exhibition center in Bangor, and the last couple of weeks, his hours had been getting cut left and right. As more and more came out about this weird virus floating around, events with more than like two hundred people were being canceled. Without those events, the place didn’t need Tristan, and he’d barely worked at all since the beginning of the month.
I kept reminding myself it wasn’t his fault. Neither of us had seen this thing coming, and now people were starting to call it a pandemic and had no idea how bad it was going to get or how long it was going to last. It was spreading, it was getting ugly, and what kind of asshole would I be if I held it against him that his pay was taking a hit?
Probably the same kind of asshole who found every excuse necessary to be out of the house, even if it meant stretching my budget to include gas and half the cost of a cheap hotel room. Well, except that the well of willing, available men was drier than usual.
Maybe I should go find a beach and chill for a bit after work. After all, one of the perks of living on Maine’s Down East coast was that there were beaches everywhere. Not the big ones that were always crowded with people, but tiny, secluded beaches that were almost impossible to find twice.
From the first time a coworker had told me about them, I’d been in love with those hidden places along the coast. They’d been my escape from everything. Work. Life. The man I’d married. All winter long, I’d been waiting for the cold to fuck off so I could start visiting them again.
I could do that after work today. It would probably be dark by the time I got there, but a dark, quiet beach was better than going home.
In the meantime, I picked up my phone and thumbed through Tinder again just for something to do. Of course there were no new profiles. In fact, there were fewer today—new or otherwise—than there’d been yesterday. More and more profiles were going inactive, or they included things like happy to chat, but not meeting anyone until C-19 goes away and gonna wait out this pandemic thing before I meet anyone.
Should I do the same? Or was that an over-the-top reaction?
I was worried about this virus. The problem was I didn’t know how worried I should be. Some people insisted everyone was