Until the World Stops - L.A. Witt Page 0,39

glass. “It’s getting me out of spending a week with my in-laws.”

I snorted. “Oh come on. They’re not that bad. They fucking adore you.”

“Uh-huh. Aside from the part where I’m the reason their son lives three thousand miles away from them?”

“Ooh, right. I forgot about that.”

“Of course you did.” But he was chuckling, and as he gently moved Tilly onto the cushion beside him, he added, “At least we are this far away. If we were within driving distance…”

“Oh God.”

“Exactly.” He rose and gestured with his glass. “I’m getting a refill—you want one?”

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

We exchanged subtle smiles, and he went into the kitchen with Tilly trotting behind him.

Alone in the living room, I released a breath. He was right—it was a good thing we lived this far from my parents. I felt like a dick for even thinking that, but it was true. If we lived closer, they’d want us there even while they refused to take the pandemic seriously.

I shuddered. No, I’d take living here in this tiny duplex in this remote Maine town where there weren’t a lot of people and hopefully the virus wouldn’t take hold.

I was worried about my family, and that wouldn’t change any time soon.

But at least the guy I was living with took this pandemic seriously.

Chapter 11

Casey

I had no idea how many days we were into this stupid pandemic. It was starting to feel like a weird mix of Purgatory and Groundhog Day, where February was ten years ago and at the same time, how the fuck was it already Tuesday?

Right now, I was scrolling through Netflix in search of something I hadn’t seen before, which was going to get tougher now that movie and TV productions had been shut down like everything else. That would really help me regain my sense of time—when everything was reruns and TV seasons were on indefinite hiatus.

Beside me, Tristan swore and closed his textbook.

“Done for the night?” I asked.

“I wish.” He pushed the book away and rubbed both hands over his face. “Just can’t focus.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded. Turning to me, he said, “Ugh. I’m getting so fucking stir crazy.” With a dry laugh, he added, “I never thought I’d be jealous that you get to go to work.”

I kind of wanted to remind him that the base was toxic and populated by people I really had no desire to spend time with—including those who’d made sure Tristan’s career ended over that Facebook post—but I hesitated. Tristan barely left the house these days. He went grocery shopping once a week. He sometimes grabbed fast food from a drive-thru and brought it home. Otherwise, he was here with Tilly, his textbooks, and walls that had to be closing in until this place felt smaller than the guard shack.

“When was the last time you got out?” I asked.

“Does grocery shopping or going to the post office count?”

I shook my head.

“Then it’s, um… It’s been a while. I mean, I go run, but then I just come right back here and…” He gestured around us, as if the walls and windows were offensive to him now.

I watched him for a moment. I’d envied him for being able to stay home and be safe during this global shitshow, and it hadn’t even occurred to me what a toll that might take on him. “Well, um…” I cleared my throat. “If you want to get out of the house for a bit, we could go grab some takeout. And not like fast food drive-thru this time—I hear a lot of the better places are doing curbside right now.” I paused. “Olive Garden actually sounds really good.”

Tristan’s eyebrows jumped. “They’re doing curbside?”

“I think so, yeah.” I took out my phone, and as I looked up the nearest Olive Garden, added, “If they are, you want to?”

He hesitated. “Um, aren’t they kind of expensive?”

“Eh.” I shrugged. “It’s one dinner, and I don’t know about you, but I could go for something someone else cooked that isn’t fast food.”

He seemed to consider it. “Hell, why not? So, are they doing curbside?”

“Yep, including the one in Bangor.” I pocketed my phone. “Want to take your truck?”

“Sure. I’ll get my keys.”

Olive Garden wasn’t anything fancy, but it was a step up from paper-wrapped burgers and deep-fried everything. It was definitely an improvement from whatever canned, frozen, or boxed crap we made at home. When the server handed us the bag of containers, and the smells of garlic and breadsticks—oh my God, Olive Garden breadsticks—filled the truck,