Calvin Sumner

     Dres is hovering ten feet away. Sulking, really.

     We haven't spoken since last night, when I came home from work and told him I was leaving. Now he's standing at the top of the stairs, watching me pack a duffle bag with that expression on his face that clearly says don't go. I don't want to go anymore than he wants me to leave, but it's the right thing to do. Which is different, I think, then his right thing. When he left, he was doing it because he thought it was what was best for me. And he hadn't even tried to talk to me about it. I was leaving because I knew it was what was best for him. And if it's best for him, then it's best for me by proxy. And anyway...

     "It's not permanent," I say as I count out underwear. I have to do my laundry every night when I get home, stripping in the little entryway off of the back door before I head immediately into the basement to decon. So I won't have to bring that many with me. The less I pack, the less permanent this feels. The less permanent this feels, the easier it is to move back into my mom's place.

     It's unfair, really, when I just moved in with Dres a little over two months ago. Feels like no matter how hard we try to move forward, we just simply can't catch a break. But no, that's not it. This isn't the universe trying to keep us apart. We're being smart, we're being compliant, we're heeding the warnings of this virus.

     "I don't like this," he says finally. That's the most I've gotten out of him in twelve hours. When I told him I was going to move out for the time being he looked like I'd punched him in the face.

     I had punched Dres in the face once and it was terrible. I didn't sleep for four nights, wrought with so much guilt about it. I don't want to hurt him. But I also will not be the reason he gets sick and dies. He's not dying. I decided that years ago. He outlives me in this life. Those are the terms and conditions of this relationship.

     I stop packing, looking up and over at him. His face is all squished like he's fighting back an expression.

     "And do you think I do?" I ask, getting up off of the bed to walk over to him.

     He takes my hands, holding them between us. "Then don't go."

     "Dres," I whine stepping close enough to drop my forehead on his chest. He lets go of my hand, reaching up to cup the back of my head. "You don't understand."

     "I don't care about the risk," he says quickly.

     "But I care," I say lifting my head to meet his gaze so he'll know how seriously I mean it. "If I get you sick..."

     "I'll be fine."

     "You don't know that." I shake my head. "This is so much worse than the President is saying it is. I mean he's literally not saying anything. But I had six patients yesterday who came into the ER and ended up in the morgue. Dres, that's insane. That kind of mortality? I've never seen anything like it."

     My chest tightens just from thinking about yesterday's shift. The way we ran around trying to give everything to everyone and watching none of it work. All our treatments were for shit because the patients still died. I'm not disillusioned by medicine. I know the statistics for cardiac arrests, strokes, MIs — I know that in a lot of those instances we aren't going to be able to save them, despite all our best efforts. I know these things but it's different when an otherwise healthy, up until that moment, seemingly fine, person comes into the ER with O2 Sats in the gutter, doesn't respond to oxygen interventions, and then throws a clot from out of nowhere and dies.

     I shudder, saying, "I can't save these people. I am doing everything I know how to and it's not enough. I can't save them, which means if you get it, I can't save you, either. And I'm not going to be able to live with myself, Dres. I don't care what you think you know about what I can and can't do or what I'll survive or what I'll get over. I'm telling you right now I'm just not going to be able to live with myself if I get you sick. So if you can't do it for you, do it for me. Alright? Can you do this for me? Please?"

     Dres slides his hand down my back, pulling me flush against him so I have to tip my head all the way back to look at him. "Okay," he says finally, his tone resigned. "We'll quarantine separately, okay? Don't get upset. I'm going to be fine. And you're going to be fine. It's only a few weeks. We'll be okay."

     He has me in his arms and it's the last time for a long time that I feel this—safe and warm in his embrace. I can say this now. We took it all for granted. The minuteness of touch. I didn't realize how much of a privilege it was to be able to hold the person I love.

Dresden Gibson

     The hardest part are the days where I get to see Cas but I can't go near him.

     He won't let me. Always standing at a distance, waving at me from the end of our walkway, wearing a medical mask. In March, he was bundled in a coat and then as the weeks passed and the weather got warmer, the layers stripped away but the mask remained. The distance remained.

     I thought that I would get through two weeks of quarantine and then Cas would be back and everything would be right again. And for the first two weeks, I was doing pretty okay. I started working on a cookbook, just as a way to pass time. When I wasn't cooking, I was reading Cas's books. He had several boxes we'd stored in one of the closets downstairs. The house had become apparently small when Cas moved in. I needed to build a bookshelf for him (I did build him a bookshelf during week five of Quarantine) but in the meantime his books were packed away. I unearthed them and started reading.

     Cas annotated a lot of his books. Maybe because they were school books and he needed the notes for essays. I didn't know, but it was more entertaining reading his thoughts in the margins then it was reading the actual book itself. Cas liked sentimental books, with lots of train of thought. He'd marked up his copy of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close to a degree where it was actually illegible. The cover was worn, fraying at the edges. He had a few books in this condition. Ones by Palahniuk and Junot Diaz. I thought that reading Cas's books would make me feel closer to him, but I've thrown This is How You Lose Her across the room more times than I've kept count. He's going to kill me for what I've done to the binding.

     So, yeah, all in all, quarantine is not going great. It was naive to think it'd be done and over in two weeks. And it feels pessimistic to think it'll never end, but most days I wake up and think this is never going to end.

     Which isn't to say that sleep comes easy. It doesn't. As per Cas's orders, I have to limit my time outside as much as I can. Walk the dogs fast, he says. Always wear a mask, and cross the street to avoid people. I've been running but not as much as I probably need to now that the extent of my daily activity is walking around my 5x5 home. The pent up energy, the anxiety and fear, the longing and missing — it all keeps me up at night.

     When I do fall asleep, I don't normally stay asleep for long. So it isn't all that surprising when I jolt awake one Tuesday night, Wednesday morning really since its past one. My hearts racing but I can't remember what I was dreaming about. Nothing good, I imagine.

     I reach over to my nightstand for my phone. The screen blinks at me, one fifty-four the time reads. I have no new messages. It's Tuesday-Wednesday, which means Cas was working his one to one shift. I should have a text from him saying he's home. It's not a rule, but it's a rule. He's supposed to text when he gets to work and when he gets home. I consider sending a text but decide to just call instead, a hot flush of panic coating my chest. I rub at my sternum as the phone rings. It keeps ringing until it eventually goes to voicemail.

     That's about all I need to be out of bed and on my feet, grabbing the first pair of pants I find. It's Cas's college sweatpants. They're high waters on me. I rush downstairs, grabbing my keys and my wallet before I yank the front door open and step outside. It's early Spring and the night is damp but still warm for April. Or maybe it's just the adrenaline fighting off the cold.

     I'm in my car when Cas calls me back. I haven't even turned the ignition yet. I set the keys down, picking up the call. "What happened?" I question, my tone urgent.

     Cas voice's comes over in a rush. "Uh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I crashed—."

     "What?" I ask, my tone sharp. "Crashed?"

     "I fell asleep!" he says quickly. "I mean I fell asleep, I'm sorry. I would've texted but I was just resting my eyes and then I was out. I'm sorry. Bad Cas."

     "Yeah," I say taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. I rest my head on the steering wheel, closing my eyes against the rush of relief that fills me. "Bad Cas."

     He laughs softly, but it's a distant thing. All of it is a distant thing now. Our whole relationship a distant thing. Everyone in my life — a distant thing. I don't get to see Jack, or Jasmine, or the kids, or Amelia, or my mother, or Olivia, or Charles, or Tasha, or Rumi, or Ms. Vivvie on Sundays, or Fiona and Antonio. Not only have I realized just how many people are in my life, and how they impact the daily function of it, but that I need that impact more than I ever thought I could.

     "How are you?" I say after I've calmed down. In the beginning, I was able to fake it way easier than I can now. My how are you's used to hit a positive note. We exchanged details of our days in depth. We sounded like we would make it through this.

     It's been almost exactly five weeks since Cas moved out. I've counted each day, ticking it off in my head, wondering when he'd finally be able to come home. As it stands, our county is the hardest hit in the state. They opened a Covid testing site in the community college parking lot but it's full by noon and turns away everyone after that.

     Cas makes a sound. I know it well. It's the not great but don't worry sound. I am always worrying. I worry about who he'll be when this is all over, after everything he's seen, after I've sat with him on countless FaceTime calls and watched him cry, unable to console him the way I want to, unable to do anything but watch him hurt.

     "All you can do," Dolores had said. "Is be there for him in any way you can. Even if it's just virtual. Even if it's through a door or a window. Just be there for him."

     I want to be there for him in person. I want to hold him. I don't want to console him through a window, a closed door, a phone call.

     Cas clears his throat and asks, "How are you?"

     I make a sound. It's the not great but it could be worse sound. And it could be. My family is healthy, my friends are safe, and Cas has not caught this god-awful illness.

     I say, "Hey, listen I'm sorry I called and woke you. I was just worried. Go back to sleep."

     "No, it's okay, I'm getting ready to drive home, anyway."

     I wince, gutted for whatever stupid reason. Obviously, his mom's home is just home. He's lived there most of his life, more of his life there than here with me.

     "My mom's," he clarifies after a moment. "I'm sorry. I'm tired."

     There's heat in the back of my throat and behind my eyes. I pinch my eyes closed, take a breath so my voice doesn't betray anything I'm feeling when I say, "Your mom's place is home, too. Be careful, okay?"

     Cas is silent for too long. Then he says, "I've gotta do groceries before I come over tomorrow."

     "I'll be here," I say because it's true. Because there's no where for me to go.