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“Josh?”
At nearly one o’clock in the morning, he honestly didn’t expect her to answer the door; he definitely didn’t expect her to answer the door in a form-fitting camisole and shorts that barely brush the tops of her thighs. Her hair is damp and curling and her face is scrubbed clean of makeup, pink and freckled.
“Josh?” Donna asks again, tilting her head as though trying to pry an answer out of him through telekinesis.
(He wouldn’t be surprised if she did.)
“Hi.” He clears his throat, eyes darting over her shoulder to where Cookie the cat is slinking past the couch, eyeing him warily.
“Hi,” she echoes.
Josh feels increasingly stupid and small, somehow, with the knowledge that it’s the fourth time this week he’s shown up at her doorstep — pitiful, agitated, unable to get through a single night without her warm body pressed to his.
“It’s nothing.” He waves a hand in front of his face. “Uh, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He doesn’t move. His feet remain firmly planted on her roommate’s silly CATS WELCOME — PEOPLE TOLERATED doormat.
Donna doesn’t move, either. This is the routine. Her eyes gloss over, a look he’s seen far too often in the past nine months crossing her face.
He wishes she’d stop that. That look makes him crack like an egg, all his broken pieces slipping through his fingers faster than he can blink.
“I… I can’t sleep.”
That’s not the party line. That’s not “I need you to look at something” or “they shut my water off” or “I’ve had too much to drink” (he has) or “your apartment’s closer to the Hill” (it isn’t). This is the ugly, raw truth that knots in his chest until he stumbles out of bed, grabs his keys and drives until he finds himself, inexplicably yet inevitably, outside her door.
Her eyes go wide. “Is it…your lungs? Did you take your inhaler? Josh, the doctor said you need to take four to six puffs every morning and — ”
“It’s me,” he blurts. He tries to swallow past his tongue, which has somehow turned to lead. “It’s just me.”
“Nightmares?” she ventures softly.
He doesn’t nod, doesn’t move a muscle, really, but his eyes cloud over and she immediately takes his hand in hers, pulling him into the apartment.
“Sit down. I’ll make you some tea. But Therese is asleep so I’d better not hear you shouting at CNN.”
Josh cracks a smile as she putters around the stove, allowing himself a few shaky breaths while she runs the tap.
He’s in. She won’t let him go home tonight.
The problem is – how long can he keep this up?
“Careful,” she warns, “it’s hot.”
The mug scorches his hands, pleasantly numbing them. He settles back against the cushions, eyes drooping, lulled by Donna’s steady breaths. She glows in the lamplight, curled up in the armchair with her legs tucked beneath her and a book in her lap.
“Were you, uh… sleeping?”
Donna peers carefully at him. “No.”
He nods, closing his eyes. “Okay.”
He’s almost asleep when her book lands on the table with a thud. Bleary-eyed, Josh jerks upright, nearly spilling the now-lukewarm tea down his shirt.
“That is horrendously dull.”
“What is it?” He squints at the cover.
“Thinking Ecologically: The Next Generation of Environmental Policy.”
“… I recommended that book.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He pulls on his hair. “It’s an in-depth narrative concluding — ”
“ — the climate crisis is also a public health crisis? I already got the Cliff’s Notes version from you. And it’s pretty self-explanatory. I don’t think I’m the intended audience here.”
“Well, its intended audience wouldn’t check this out of the library unless it was shrouded in religious metaphor.”
“Which is why we need to read and articulate it?”
“Bingo.” He sets down the mug, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Fuck, I’m tired.”
Her face softens in the low light. “You want to go to bed?”
The question is starkly intimate, settling thick in the air between them. Maybe in another life, he’d whisper god, yes, squeeze her hand and pull her into his arms, and there wouldn’t be a moment of hesitation, no darting eyes or tentative touches. No one would wonder is this okay, is this too far — because they could never be close enough.
Instead, Donna stands and stretches, turning out the light. Josh folds the blanket on the couch, neatly and purposefully, before he follows her like a lost dog into the bathroom.
His toothbrush is still there — the blue spare Donna had dug out of her closet on Christmas Eve. Now she hands it to him without a word, spitting delicately in the sink while he squirts toothpaste into his mouth.
“Put it on the toothbrush like a person, Josh,” she chides him.
“‘Mfine,” he mumbles, spitting and wiping the mirror with his wrist when he’s done.
Her bedroom light is switched off. A blonde head peeks out of the covers, tucked up to her chin, and he kicks off his jeans and slides in next to her.
She rolls over, closing the distance between them. One soft hand frames his cheek, fingernails lightly scratching at his sideburns. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, and means it, dropping his head into her neck. It’s his favorite spot; it smells the most like her. Nothing bad can permeate it. Not smoke, or copper, or asphalt — just Donna.
The stillness of her bedroom isn’t stifling, not like his own when he wakes clawing at his chest. Here, it’s safe, full of the comfort that only comes with peaceful permanence. Here, without pretense, without consequence, to hold and be held, his quiet sobs caught in the dark, her kisses carving a pocket in time.
When he wakes, she’ll be putting the finishing touches on her makeup, the coffee will be made, Therese will be at the hospital for the morning shift and the cats will paw at his face. He’ll shoo them away and bury his nose in her pillow for five more minutes before wandering into the den with a clear head and a bashful smile.
“How’d you sleep?” he’ll ask, searching her face.
She’ll smile. “Good.”
“Good.”
“The best sleep I’ve had in a while.” She won’t look at him this time, and his stomach will somersault.
“Me, too.”
(She’ll show up at his door that night. He’ll let her in without a word.)