Chapter 4 #4
“The vending machine? You have no idea how old that stuff is.”
“It’s American food. It’s loaded with preservatives. Should be good for years and a zombie apocalypse,” he says, peeking through the blinds at the courtyard below. The pool and hot tub sit still and empty, reflecting the overhead lights. “Any requests?”
“We’re supposed to quarantine,” I remind him. “I don’t think that includes the vending machine.”
“The CDC cleared out. They won’t be back until morning to check up on us.”
“I’m fine. A bottled water would be nice, though, if they have it.”
He nods and grabs his key card. “Water and snacks. Got it.”
Then he’s gone, door clicking softly behind him.
The silence he leaves behind hums in the air, and I stare at the pale ring around my finger, still feeling the warmth where he must’ve touched my skin to wrap it there.
It fits perfectly.
The quiet is too loud.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, the room changes.
It’s like the air grows heavier—too still, too clean, humming with the white noise of the wall-mounted AC.
I should use the silence productively: inventory the med kit, double-check the CDC’s guidelines, text Penelope with a status update.
But instead, I just sit there, staring at the strip of tape around my finger.
The longer I look, the more absurd it becomes.
It’s just athletic tape. It’ll fray by morning.
But somehow, I don’t take it off.
I try to distract myself by unpacking the basics—scrubs, travel toiletries, the medical forms I’ll need when this is over—but it’s impossible not to imagine the worst. What if the man on the plane did have something viral? What if the fever starts tonight? What if Aleksi was exposed because of me?
I rub at my temple, forcing my brain to focus on rational probabilities instead of spiraling into panic. The odds are low. The CDC would’ve seen symptoms by now. I repeat it like a mantra.
Five minutes stretch into twenty. Then thirty. The clock ticks louder. The desert wind rattles the thin windowpanes, and I wonder if Aleksi got himself kicked out of quarantine for raiding the vending machine.
When the lock finally rattles, I jump.
The door swings open, and there he is—hair damp from washing, hoodie unzipped, mask hanging from one ear—arms overflowing with plastic bags, bottles, and an alarming number of snack wrappers.
“Delivery for Mrs. M?kelin,” he announces, dropping everything onto the dresser in one loud rustle.
“You were gone forever.”
“Had to negotiate,” he says, completely unbothered. “The vending machine only took quarters, and the front desk guy said he’d trade me for autographs.”
“You bribed someone in the middle of a CDC lockdown?”
“I bartered,” he corrects. “Economy of survival.”
He starts unloading the haul: six bottles of water, an army of candy bars, trail mix, a pack of gummy worms, two bags of chips, and—because of course—three tiny hotel bottles of wine that he must’ve charmed off someone.
“Where did you even get those?” I ask, pointing to the wine.
“Don’t worry about it. We’re celebrating survival. Day One.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, but I can’t help the small laugh that slips out. “You realize this is probably how zombie movies start, right? Someone breaks quarantine for a bag of Doritos.”
“Then I’ll die happy. Want to know a fun fact about Ebola that I just learned?”
“A fun fact about Ebola?” I ask, and then I realize this is Aleksi and of course he researched it and has fun facts. “Okay, hit me with them.”
“First thing, you’re not contagious until you start showing symptoms so you haven’t give me anything.
Second, it doesn't spread through the air so it’s unlikely that the entire plane caught it.
It’s direct contact with bodily fluids so unless Steve sneezed on you or something, your probably safe. Want to know the best one though?”
His fun facts are helping… a little. I already knew that contracting it wasn’t a huge likelihood but the CDC still found it necessary to quarantine us overnight so if they are taking precautions, that means something to me.
“Okay, what's the best one?” I ask, because now I am curious that there is a ‘best one’.
“If we contract it and don’t have symptoms we could carry antibodies for the next ten years that will keep us from getting it again. We’ll be invincible, with super human abilities.”
“We didn’t get bit by a radioactive spider. We’re not Spiderman.”
He just shrugs and then digs into one of the bags and tosses me a water. I catch it just in time.
“If you could have a superpower, Doc, what would it be?” he asks.
“I think teleportation would be cool. What’s yours?”
He stares at me for a moment and then says. “I would have given anything to have read your mind on that bench earlier today when you were taping me up.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, twisting off the cap.
“Anytime, wife.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Can’t. You’re wearing my ring.”
I glance down—and then blink.
Among the vending machine loot on the dresser are at least a dozen condoms in bright foil wrappers, gleaming under the lamp.
“You got condoms from the vending machine? What exactly is your plan here?”
He takes a sip of soda, completely unfazed. “Oh, I ran into some of the guys from the flight. We’re talking about having a water balloon fight on the second story.”
“With condoms?”
“Have you ever been hit with a condom water balloon?” he asks, dead serious. “They don’t break easy and they hurt like hell.”
I stare at him, both horrified and amused. “Do they leave dick-shaped welts all over your body?”
“Something like that. It should be fun.” His grin is pure mischief. “They also invited us down to the hot tub in a couple of minutes.”
“Oh God. Do they realize we’re quarantining?”
He shrugs. “I told you, no one’s contagious until first symptoms and we’d have to share bodily fluids.
Besides, chlorine kills the virus… I looked it up.
We’re practically sanitizing while getting a deep tissue water jet massage.
And you need to get out of this room. You look like you’re about to get cabin fever.
And even if this is our last night before the symptoms start, we might as well make it a good one. ”
I hate how reasonable he’s being about this with all his ‘fun facts’ when all I can think to do is take the CDC’s rules dead serious.
He’s the optimistic one, the guy who finds light in chaos—but the truth beneath his last words hit deep.
If this is the last night, what’s the point of dying alone in a motel room?
And I can’t argue that chlorine kills the virus. He makes a valid point there.
“Want to come down with me?” he asks, turning to dig through his duffel. He pulls out a pair of dark swim trunks.
I shake my head automatically… then remember the bikini I’ve never actually used. It’s been shoved in my suitcase through every away game, every “maybe next time.”
Maybe tonight deserves an outing.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll get dressed in the bathroom.”
I tug my bag inside with me, close the door, and catch my reflection in the mirror. For a long moment, I just stare.
I can’t believe this night is happening.
“Want me to wait for you?” he calls through the door.
“No, go ahead,” I answer. “I’ll be down in a bit.”
“Will you grab towels for both of us?”
“Yeah.” I spot the white ones stacked on the shelf and grab two.
A moment later, the door clicks behind him. Silence rushes in—my first minute alone all day.
It’s almost too much.
I pull out my phone, thumbs flying over the screen.
A group text to the girls:
Alive. Quarantined in the middle of nowhere. Possible Ebola exposure (long story). Rooming with Aleksi because of a paperwork ‘mistake.’ Will explain later.
Some of them might still be in the air, others already home. I don’t know who’ll see it, but at least someone will know where I am.
Then I hesitate, hovering over my contacts.
Is there anyone else I should tell?
Would my mother even remember she has a daughter if I texted her? Would she care—or just ask if she’s listed on my life insurance policy?
I decide to skip it.
And then I see them.
Unread messages from Tarron.
My stomach turns.
When you’re faced with the possibility of dying, everything looks different. I hate what he did to me, but he was the first man I ever truly loved. The kind of love that carves deep even when it ends ugly.
I open the thread.
Tarron: I’ll be in Seattle for a while. Trying out with the Sentinels.
Tarron: Would be good to catch up. We might be living in the same city again.
Then two more, from today:
Tarron: Saw you on the Denver game. You’re good at what you do. You always were.
Tarron: Dinner… just give me an hour. That’s all I’m asking.
For a heartbeat, I just stare at the screen.
Then my gaze drifts to my hand—to Aleksi’s ring.
A strip of tape, carefully drawn with Finnish symbols I don’t understand, made by a man who has shown me more care in twenty-four hours than Tarron did in four years of marriage.
If I have one last night on this earth, I’m not spending it reliving a past that nearly destroyed me.
I lock my phone, toss it on the counter, and let the decision settle.
I pull on my bikini—the one that’s never seen daylight—and grab our towels. The mirror catches me as I pass: hair messy, eyes tired, athletic tape glinting faintly on my finger.
I look like a woman who’s finally decided to stop running from what’s right in front of her.
And with that, I open the bathroom door and step out into the hallway, determined to make the most of whatever tonight has left to offer.