I make breakfast for everyone the next morning. And the morning after that. And the one after that, trying to make due in the abnormality that is daily life now. It becomes a thing, which I'm fine with – I make breakfast to earn my keep or something. It's nothing really special – just pancakes from a mix, because I'm scared of touching anything else. I think, also, we're all a little down with the national lockdown and everything, but I'm quietly optimistic about it. With everything going on, it's an opportunity to learn about my future in-laws. Get to know Simon a little more. Learn how to cook, even. I think it'd be fun to know how to make a good tiramisu.

Mrs. Hopkins is on board with that. “I have some cinnamon Simon's father and I got when we went to South Africa, direct from Zanzibar.” It smells like regular cinnamon, but that more than tempts me to use it. “It'll also be nice to not have to cook every day.”

I ignore that. I know it's meant to be harmless, but it, just, rubs me the wrong way.

Simon's sitting at the breakfast table, too, picking at his food and eating slowly, chewing with his mouth open absentmindedly. He has that look on his face that says he barely slept last night. I woke up with him working on his computer at the foot of the bed.

I did get morning cuddles, which, with Simon, is always nice.

I can't watch him eat. It's like watching a cow chew cud, slow and steady, and it turns my stomach.

“So which one of you's the girl?” asks Finn.

Mr. Hopkins sighs. There's nothing new on the news, but he's still watching it on mute.

“Phineas,” Mrs. Hopkins warns.

“You strike me for being the girl.” He nods at me.

I stare at him, finding myself smiling at him. It's awkward and uncomfortable and I don't know how to answer that.

“Finn, enough,” Mr. Hopkins says, the same downtrodden look as his son on his face. “No one wants to know that.” He takes another bite of pancake. “It's undercooked, Mr. Cohen.”

“Colin,” his wife says. “You didn't make it.”

“If I was making it, it wouldn't be undercooked.”

I smiled. “Thank you for letting me know, Mr. Hopkins. I'm not used to cooking. I guess it's more...intuitive, than I thought it was going to be.” I glance back down at the pan, wondering how you're supposed to tell if one side of a pancake is done. I start scraping it with the spatula. “Tomorrow, I'll do better!”

“You're not staying with us, are you?” asks Finn. “You’ve been here for 3 fucking days already. Shouldn’t you be going…I don’t know, going to shoot heroin and carve a gloryhole in a public bathroom stall?”

Both Mr. Hopkins and Simon grunt under their breaths.

I blink. “I’m not into heroin, and I’m not into gloryholes, either.” Which was most definitely the wrong thing to say. Inside, I'm cursing myself and wishing I could hide for a little while.

Simon smirks at that, though, but I doubt anyone sees it.

“Watch yourself. Rotten child,” says Mrs. Hopkins. She pokes him hard in the arm. “And where are they supposed to go? Everywhere is closed. A lockdown isn't a 'you-can-leave-whenever' situation.”

“I don't really care where they go. Oh! I have an idea. How about you fucking leave?”

“Maybe you shouldn't have snuck onto my computer and sent that email to them in the first place.”

“I didn't think they would come back!” Finn says, his face growing more and more red by the minute. “It's all Pansy's fault!”

“I have a name, and my name's Micah.”

“Shut up! What'd you do to Simon? If Pansy wasn't around, he would've ignored it. I just know it! Like he ignored every single other fucking email I've sent him!”

“Phineas, enough.”

“Listen to your mother, Finn.”

“Listen to your mother, Finn,” he mocks back.

Mr. Hopkins sighs.

Finn pushes back from the table. “I'm done with this shit,” he says. “Going upstairs.”

I wait until I hear a door slam before going over to get his remaining pancakes. “I...guess I must've made his batch right,” I say. The plate's basically clean except for a few streaks of butter and maple syrup. “I'll try again tomorrow. They'll be better.”

“Micah, honey, I think we should pace ourselves with cooking,” says Mrs. Hopkins. “If everything's shut down, we should be careful in what we cook from now on.”

I nod. “Good thinking. We should probably take stock of the pantry, too. Right?”

“I like the enthusiasm,” she says, standing. “I'll get you a pen and paper to take inventory, okay?”

“Okay, thank you.”

“I'll do the dishes while I'm at it. My contribution to breakfast today.” She goes off, and a quiet settles over the kitchen while I finish my batch of pancakes. Only one bad one in the batch so far.

“Your mother tells me you're a graphic designer.”

“...yeah.”

“How much does that make?”

The sound he makes is dripping in regret. Simon hangs his head a little lower, his eyes too low for his dad to see.

“What, I'm just asking. Am I not allowed to ask?”

“I don't want to talk about it with you,” Simon sighs.

“I just don't understand how you could've thrown away that full ride to the University of Massachusetts to work freelance.”

“I applied there because you told me to.” He says it defeated already.

“Colin,” Mrs. Hopkins calls from the sink. “Can you go to the pantry and get me some more of those dishwashing pods?”

“I can do it,” I say.

“No, I want my husband to.” She stares at the back of Mr. Hopkins' head. “But thank you, Micah. I appreciate it.”

Simon stands and looks at me. “Thanks for the food, Micah,” he says, trying to smile, but is so clearly worn out that he can't. He takes his plate and walks over to me.

I'm holding my breath. I want to kiss him so freaking badly. I reach out for his hand.

“No one wants to see that,” Mr. Hopkins says.

Simon shrinks down.

My heart breaks.

He passes the plate to me absentmindedly, and that vacant look in his eyes is back. “I need to go work.”

“O-okay,” I say. “I-I'll be up after I eat, okay?”

He doesn't say anything. He heads into the living room (family room?) and towards the stairs.

“'Work', he says,” his father says.

“Colin, enough.”

Mr. Hopkins goes silent. Deflates into the chair and stares at the plate in front of him for a long while. He turns to me after I put my last pancake on my plate and watches me come to the last empty spot set on the table.

“Good morning, Mr. Hopkins,” I say, smiling. I put on a little of the softened butter and the maple syrup, and start eating. I don't really know what Mr. Hopkins was talking about, because they taste like pancakes. “How are you today?”

He stares. He takes in a long breath and sighs.

“Ugh, I know the feeling,” I say, cutting into my pancakes. “Do you know how long it takes to drive up from Alabaster-by-Sea? It's, like, 5 hours or whatever, but it is way too long to sit in a car. Simon's really my hero in driving that far. I never would've – ”

“Please do not talk about your...thing, with my son.” Mr. Hopkins doesn't look at me while he says it, like the act of doing this is so uncomfortable he can't stand it. “Whatever you want to do, you can do it behind closed doors. No one wants to see it.”

“Colin, get the soap.”

Mr. Hopkins stands up and goes to a set of double doors down this hallway that I think leads to the garage. He grabs one of those tubs of them, hands it off to his wife, and goes upstairs.

“Micah, I'm so sorry,” Mrs. Hopkins sighs. “I – Simon and his father – ”

“It's complicated. I can see that.” I bob my shoulders. “It's okay.”

“...did Simon tell you what happened? Between him and his dad?”

I shake my head. This flare of hurt and anger radiates in my stomach, and I can't really help but feel betrayed by him. I don't want to feel like that towards him. “We've only really been dating for 4 months.”

She raises a brow. “4 months?”

I nod, smiling. “Honestly, it – ” I laugh. “ – it all feels a little dream-like. I met Simon, and it felt like all the stars started aligning. I didn't believe in that kind of stuff, but – okay, I did a little, but with him, it's...I don't know. It's, just, really hard to describe it.” I look at her, and this sadness fills my chest. “I didn't expect to fall in love with him, but I did.”

“You...fell in love with him?”

I nod. “Again, like all the stars aligned, like a scene in a great movie. It was...absolutely insane and amazing, and I've never felt something like that with someone.”

“And you don't know what happened between him and his father?”

I shake my head. “I never thought to ask. I mean, before Simon got that email from Finn, it never occurred to me.”

Mrs. Hopkins nods, and sits down beside me. We sit in silence for a little while before she says, “Ask Simon to tell you about what happened. It isn't my place.”

“I will.” I don't know if I can. It feels invasive and a breach.

She drums her fingers on the table before asking, “I...want to ask, but I also don't want to prod. Did you...what was your parent's reactions, when you told them you...” She clears her throat. “Sorry, I - you read so much about it, and then doing it – ”

“Nono, I get it. I appreciate it,” I say. I take another bite of pancake. “...they never got to meet Simon. My mom died when I was little, and my dad isn't around.” I take another bite of breakfast. “But, I think they would've liked him.”

Mrs. Hopkins takes in a breath. “Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry.”

I don't want to talk about that with her, and I feel ungrateful for not wanting to talk about it with her. “I'll ask Simon about what happened later. I want to be in his corner no matter what happens.” Also because her saying “sweetheart” to me feels…weird, and I don't really want her to think of me as a poor, unfortunate soul.

She puts her hand on my shoulder. “You're a good kid, Micah.” She stands and goes back to the sink.

I pull out my phone and scroll through old messages. The group chat's roared back into life with everyone complaining about lockdown and how much they miss school and everything. I text back hoping everyone's staying safe.

I trace the rim of the plate, and finish my pancakes, an small island in the great white kitchen engulfed by green.

“I don't know, it all just – it feels weird,” I say, watching peripherally as Simon works at the desk. He's got his headphones on, to really focus or drown out noise, but he can't hear me. “Simon's brother, Finn, apparently, sent that email, but he seems ridiculously hostile towards us. But, I plan on getting to the bottom of it and sorting it out.”

Mr. Reynolds hums. “There you are,” he laughs. “I was worried for a moment. I thought we lost you to the ever-realistic Simon.”

“Never.” I smirk.

“What do your friends have to say about all this?”

I sigh, but do it away from the phone. “Fran and Michael think it's something from a TV show. Oscar has been M.I.A., and so has Harley. They did say they'd get back to me when they have the chance. Georgina and I've been messaging outside the group chat, and we've been catching up there.”

“And Marie?”

“She says she's busy with calculus class.”

“She's suspended from school because of a lockdown and she's doing homework?”

“I know.” I clear my throat. “I miss Alabaster-by-Sea.”

“We miss you, too. The house is too quiet, now.”

“How's the weather?”

“Sunny. Cheryl has been in the backyard this afternoon. You want to talk to her?”

“No, I talked to her last time. It's your turn.”

Mr. Reynolds laughs at that. “Oooooh, you're fun, Micah.”

“So're you.”

“Call us if you need us, okay? Even if you just want to talk, or vent. Stay safe.”

“Okay.” I hang up, and retroactively realize I never talked about the weird skepticism from Mrs. Hopkins. His brother. The animosity everyone seems to feel. The house, with it's great heights and slippery spaces and increasing isolation.

Simon sketches out a flurry of teal lines, referencing back to notes he had taken earlier. The effort is admirable, yet the look in his eyes is dull, unfocused, like he's trying so hard to be somewhere else. Just going through the motions.

I go back to the bed, lying down with a book taken from Simon's bookshelf, and shuffle myself just close enough to touch his back, but not close enough to press myself against him. I rub my fingers along his spine, and he shudders under my touch.

The number of deaths is all I can see when I close my eyes.