Page 37 of Lovers in Lockdown

Honey’s home.

Fuck.

Like a flash, I dash from the room with footsteps light as feathers, down the hallway and into the bathroom with a pounding heart and sweaty palms, the knowledge that if she catches me in the hallway, she’ll know I’ve been snooping, blaring through my head like a siren.

I make it to the bathroom in the nick of time, just as Honey rounds the corner to find me sagged and panting up against the doorframe.

She’s dressed in running gear, her tight body squeezed into a matching pink lycra set that makes my cock stir in my jeans, despite the adrenaline still streaming through my veins.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ she says, eyeing up the teardrop of sweat dripping down my forehead.

I smack it away instantly, looking at her as casually as I’m capable of, given the circumstances. ‘Nothing.’

‘Then why are you breathless and sweaty?’ She rests a hand on her hip and cocks her head to the side, assessing me.

She’s got me there.Think, Noah, think.‘Um, I had the shits?’

Oh yeah, good one, knobhead.

Honey’s lip twitches in disgust. ‘Gross.’

I’m certain there’s a much better excuse I could have given as to why I’m looking like I’ve had my head stuck inside a furnace for the past twenty minutes, but that’s all my simple mind could conjure up under Honey’s scrutinising glare.

But she buys it. And I guess that’s the most important thing right now.

‘It better not smell in there, I’m desperate for a shower.’

‘Nah, don’t worry, I opened a window.’ I peer into the bathroom, looking to see if the window actually is open to corroborate my story, and discover with a sinking heart that it’s tightly shut.

Honey follows my gaze, sees the closed window and directs her narrowed eyes at me. ‘You’re being weird.’

Clearly, I can’t trust my mouth to find a way out of this situation. It only seems to make her all the more suspicious and get me into deeper shit, so the best thing to do now is probably to just keep it shut.

So, I stare at her and say nothing.

And she stares at me and says nothing, trapping us inside a bizarre stare-off, us both standing in absolute silence, with neither one of us quite sure of what’s going on. And this goes on. And on. And on.

I’m pretty sure my fiftieth birthday passes whilst we stand rooted to the floor with wide, drying eyes. I can literally feel my hair receding.

‘You’re freaking me out,’ she says, finally breaking eye contact.

So, it appears not talking is worse than my word vomit.

‘I’m going for a shower,’ she frowns, stepping around me in an attempt to maintain as wide a girth as possible.

I sag in relief as she closes the bathroom door, my heartbeat finally returning to a normal pace.

So much for hoping she actually has a conversation with me today. Aside from the godawful one we’ve just had, of course.

I wouldn’t be surprised if this ridiculous encounter serves to keep her hauled up in the bedroom for even longer. I couldn’t even blame her.

Even I would avoid me after that.

I collapse onto the couch in the living room, hearing the pitter-patter of running water as Honey turns on the shower, and let the events of the last half an hour wash over me.

I barely had time to process what I found inside her room before she came home, but now the realisation of what it means dawns on me like a thousand golden sunrises.

She may have spent the last few weeks pretending that I don’t exist, but evidently, it’s not that easy to get me out of her head. If anything, the painting reveals a truth I know Honey would rather keep buried.

---