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“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 gladyou’reokay,” 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 forfuel,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…”
