THREE DAYS AGO
I haven't slept.
A pale dawn bleeds through the curtains, casting the whole room in a soft glow even though it's not even six o'clock yet. It's so quiet. I lie on my back, staring at the shadows on the ceiling. I hear a car going past, out on the main road, and wonder who it is out this early. Someone coming home from a shift at the hospital, or someone heading out to stack shelves at the supermarket before it opens? Or is it someone trying to sneak out for a day on the coast, to escape their back garden for a few hours against all the advice?
There are birds singing.
Zach's breathing is deep and even beside me. He's splayed out on his stomach, one arm tucked under his chest and the other hooked over his head. He was out like a light last night, no problem. He didn't seem to notice if he thought I was quieter than usual; or if he did notice I was stuck in my head about something, he assumed I was mad about something and decided it was better not to ask if I wasn't going to bring it up.
I don't know how he can sleep so soundly at a time like this.
He mumbles in his sleep, and I can't help but turn to glower at him. How dare he sleep so soundly when I've barely managed to snatch two or three hours, when I'm lying here so wide awake?
I can't get it all out of my head.
I just... I feel like such a fool.
A few endless minutes later, another car has gone by and Zach sighs in his sleep.
I can't stay here. Not like this.
Slowly, not wanting to wake Zach up to deal with this properly just yet, I slip out from under the covers. I forgo putting on my slippers so I can pad barefoot out of the room, grabbing my dressing gown on the way. The bedroom door creaks on my way out and I pause, but Zach doesn't stir.
I wrap myself in my dressing gown and creep to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
I regret it immediately.
The pizza boxes from our delivery last night sit there on the counter, taunting me.
Those fucking pizza boxes.
I glare at them while I wait for the kettle to boil, and my lip curls as I carry my tea out past them again.
We don't often order takeout, but when we do, it's not usually pizza. Chinese, or Indian, for the most part. Thai's our favourite, but Zach's also partial to a burger on Deliveroo. Except most of our favourites aren't open right now, so the ones that are open had outrageously long wait times and we were starving, so pizza it was, and...
And, well.
I try to shake it off, but I can't. Even with the pizza boxes out of sight, I've got Zach's voice in my head, crystal clear, when he leant over my iPad last night on the Papa John's website and said –
"Ooh. Let's get pineapple!"
"You what?"
"Pineapple," he repeated, that wide smile on his face, showing the gap between his two front teeth. He stretched across, adding one large Hawaiian pizza to the online basket. "I haven't had that in ages. Think it must've been football with the lads just after Christmas – remember, the match got cancelled because the weather was so bad, so we all went by to Johnny's to play FIFA, ordered a load of pizzas? Ah, that was a good night."
I was so completely stunned, I just let it happen. I let it stay in our basket and let him bring it into our flat and sit there next to me eating it and all the while, my head was spinning.
It's still spinning.
It's been spinning all night long.
I go out onto the balcony, curl up on the bench that Zach's dad made for us, and drink my tea in the quiet morning.
This will help, I tell myself. It's bound to. This is what people do, isn't it? At least, I know it's what Isla two doors down does. She posts about it on her Instagram stories. Her little fifteen-minute morning meditations. It does always look so nice, but hell, who can sit with just... nothing, for that long? Not even thinking? In fact, consciously trying not to think? It'd drive me crazy.
I catch myself: I've already failed at trying to sit here and just 'be', because I'm thinking too much.
How can I not think about it?
The boy ordered pineapple, on his pizza.
In the three years I've known Zach, he's never done something like that. I've never seen him eat a slice of Hawaiian. I've never so much as heard him express an interest in it, never offered any sort of contribution to the everlasting controversial debate, that most persistent of internet discourses: Does pineapple belong on pizza?
"Hey."
I startle, so caught up in my own tumultuous thoughts that I didn't hear him get up, or come out onto the balcony. My tea's half-drunk and cold; the sun is starting to burn the clouds away. I put my mug down and notice Zach frown, confused, as he looks between me and it. He takes a long look at me before sitting down.
His hair sticks up at odd angles and his glasses have finger-smudges on them.
I shift into the corner of the bench as he sits.
"You weren't there when I woke up. How long have you been out here?"
"Depends what time it is."
"Almost eight."
Jesus, how have I lost that much of the morning to this whole shitstorm?
"What's up?" He reaches over to take my hand but I pull away. "Babe, what's the matter?"
And even though I've been thinking about this for like, twelve hours now, I'm no clearer on what I want to say. I know I need to explain, but it's so much more difficult than that, and I can't tell him what started all this, can I? I'd look like a total nutter. Or worse, he'd laugh at me, and I don't think I can stomach that right now, especially since if he makes a joke of it all we won't ever actually deal with it.
So what comes out of my mouth instead is –
"How long are we going to stay here, Zach?"
"What?"
"Like, here. This flat. This was supposed to be the start, right? So what's next?"
"Uh..."
"Like is it a four-year thing? Ten? Twelve? We've only got the one bedroom. Or like, are we supposed to wait until I get pregnant and we start having kids to even think about moving?"
"Whoa, kids? Is this – where did – Serena, are you – is this you trying to tell me you're pregnant, or something?"
I scoff, rolling my eyes. "No, you dummy. I'm just saying. But like, we will, one day, right? Or at least, I'm assuming we will, and now I'm thinking – well, I'm assuming that, you know? Based on nothing, except... that you've never said otherwise. But we've never actually talked about if we even both want kids. Do you want kids, Zach?"
He stammers, and looks alarmed when I twist my face up to look him in the eye.
"I dunno. Like... I guess? If you do."
I'm officially lost for words.
I gawp at him, so Zach fills the silence by babbling on: "I'm not saying I don't, or anything, you know, I guess I just never really thought about it much. Jere and Kim were always talking about it. They were joking about all the grandkids they'd give my parents the first time Kim came round for dinner. I just always assumed... you know, it'd happen, if it was gonna happen. For us, I mean."
"What, you didn't think we'd like... discuss me stopping my birth control, or something? Or moving somewhere with enough space to raise a kid? Or two, or three? Or however many we 'happen' to have? You didn't think that there'd be like... any amount of planning in us having kids? Or that you should maybe form an opinion on whether you want them or not?"
Zach laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. He takes off his glasses, cleaning them on his pyjama t-shirt and clearing his throat.
I let him stall, because I really need to know what he's got to say for himself.
"Come on, Serena. We've only been going out for three years –"
"We bought a flat together!"
"– and we're only twenty-six..."
"Exactly! Kim's twenty-four and she's already thinking about kids. Why do you think they bought a house in the suburbs the way they did, why do you think they took a loan off your parents to get a bigger deposit so they could afford the mortgage on that place? It's three bedrooms, Zach. Do you think Jeremy and Kim need three bedrooms, or that they're planning for kids?"
"I thought you only wanted one bedroom."
"Yeah, for now! I just – it's the fact you haven't even... you haven't even thought about this, it's – I can't..."
I trail off, so angry I don't know how to tell him. I'm also aware that my voice is climbing higher and higher and louder, too, and I should probably take this inside before the neighbours all file a noise complaint.
I storm back inside, and hear Zach stumbling to follow me.
"Is this your way of telling me you want to start trying for kids?"
I spin back around, hands jabbing at the air or back on myself as I talk.
"No! I just – you know, I can't wait till I'm forty to start thinking about it, you know? I don't have that luxury." I break off with a sigh and tug my hands through my hair; they snag on knots, where I haven't even brushed it yet this morning. "We should be talking about those things, and we're not and –"
Zach sighs, rubbing his hand over his mouth, and I hear him mutter, "It's too early for this bullshit."
"What?" I hiss.
He blushes when he realises I heard him, but then his gaze hardens, his jaw sets, and he nods as if steeling himself before saying, "This is crazy, Serena, you get that, right? If you wanted to talk about kids, or if you wanna get married, or if you wanna move to a bigger house, or whatever, then why didn't you just say that? Why didn't you just ask me?"
"Well apparently if I had, you wouldn't have had a fucking opinion anyway!"
"Excuse me for not having planned out every minute of the rest of our lives!"
"We've been together for three years, Zach! You're telling me you never stopped to think how you might propose one day? Or even if you would? If you wanted to?"
"Do you want me to propose?"
"That's not the point!"
Zach scoffs, but the sound quickly turns into a disbelieving chuckle. He paces away from me and then back again, getting up close until he's only inches away. "Then what is the point, Serena? Why don't you fucking spell it out for me, since I'm obviously not getting it?"
I shove him back. "Don't look at me like that. Like I'm being crazy."
"You are! You're being crazy! You're acting like a psycho. It's not like you. What the hell is going on this morning?"
"I'm trying to talk to you about it but –"
"Oh, is that what you're doing? Because it sounds more like you're attacking me for not having been part of a conversation you think we should've had, without ever telling me! You do realise how properly mental this whole thing is right now, right?"
"Screw you, Zach."
"Do you want to sit down and talk about how many kids you want, or when you want us to get married? Have you already picked out colours for a nursery?"
"Oh, fuck you!"
I'm screaming now, and I don't even care if it wakes up the whole bloody apartment building. I grab Zach by his t-shirt to shove him out of the living room and into the hallway.
"If it's so bloody crazy why don't you just do what you do best and ignore it, and go away for a pint with the boys till you decide it's all blown over?"
"Come on, that's not fair."
"You're the one not being fair. You're the one calling me a psycho just because I want to talk about something real for a change!"
"That's not what I meant and you know it."
"Then what did you mean? Huh?"
"Sod this," Zach grumbles, shaking his head. "Maybe I should go."
"Yeah, you do that."
He strides into the bedroom, hauling one of his backpacks out from under the bed and starting to stuff clothes into it.
My heart clenches and it's suddenly hard to breathe.
This isn't what I meant, but – but fine, if he wants to go, fine, bloody well let him. See if I care. He can go away and think about it and realise I'm right and that we should be talking about these things, and what's more, he should have a damn opinion on them instead of whatever he thinks I want to hear, and let him stew and come crawling back in a few days with an apology and telling me –
"I'm going to go stay with Jere. When you've come to your senses, you can come find me there."
He stands there looking at me, lips pulled into a pout. A single line cuts through his forehead and I think for a second about how I've never seen his eyes look such a bright blue. He looks ready to cry and my heart splinters.
Please don't cry, Zach, because if you cry, I will too, and then we won't get anywhere.
"Fine!" I snap, my voice wavering only slightly. "Just – just – leave! Go on!"
"Fine!"
"Fine!"
***
He got as far as the door before we saw the leaflet pushed under the door telling us we'd be stuck inside together for the next week.
I shut myself in the bathroom and cried for half an hour.