His eyes flinch as confusion flashes across his face. “You can’t go to the airport.”
“LikehellI can’t go to the airport.” I pull my arm out of his grasp and step behind the bar to grab my purse, immediately fishing out my phone. “God damn it.Ofcourseit’s fuckingdead.” Patrick is at my side again, and I look up at him. “I’m staying long enough to charge this thing, andthenI’m going to the airport.”
He cuts his eyes to my phone and back to my face. “You haven’t looked at your phone at all today?”
I wag it at him. “Obviously not.”
“Ava.” His throat pulses with a swallow, and there’s something out of place in his expression; like whateverwrongthing circulating in the big room is much more of a problem than the drunken debauchery of last night. “There’s no flights.”
I squint at him.
It’s late March, and this is New Orleans. I’m suddenly wondering if this city is in the middle of hurricane season and I had no idea a major storm was approaching.
“Why not?”
He hesitates. “Everything started shutting down this morning. Like across the country. Everywhere, everyone has been ordered to shelter in place. Nobody can go anywhere.”
My mouth goes dry, and my stomach curdles again. I’ve heard of shelter-in-place orders before, but it’s for when there’s an active shooter in the area or maybe severe weather or something similar. One glance at the bright, sunny sky through the open French doors tells me it’s not the weather, and obviously the whole country can’t possibly be at risk of an active shooter.
“Shelter in place?” I repeat. “What happened?” I rack my brain for anything I’ve heard in the news recently that might indicate some kind of international threat. My mind replays images from my childhood of the Twin Towers in New York City collapsing onto their own footprints after jets flew into them. “Are we under attack?”
“No,” he says gravely, pressing his hand to my back, nudging me to the French doors, and onto the balcony.
The streets of the French Quarter areempty. At this time yesterday, I was just arriving here, and there were hundreds of people milling about with drinks and souvenir bags. There were street corner musicians. There were cars and mule carriages.
Now there’s nothing but silence and a warm, humid breeze.
It’s like a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie.
“What the hell is going on?” I murmur, more to the empty streets than to Patrick.
“That virus. It’s just…surging. It’s impossible to tell who’s got it until after they’ve been contagious for like two weeks, so everyone just has to stay where they are and stay away from anyone who’s not already with them. Then everyone just has to wait to see if they’re sick. But nobody’s allowed to go anywhere in case they’re contagious.”
My lips part in shock, and my eyes widen. “I can’t even gohome?”
“You probably could if you had your own car.” He pauses and shrugs. “But the flights have all been cancelled. Trains, too. Buses, cabs, none of them are operating for at least two weeks or something like that.” He looks at me with sympathetic eyes. “Stephen, the other contest guy, decided to chance it early this morning with a couple members of the band, and they carpooled out of town. They have families and stuff.”
The anxiety induced by my hangover surges to a level that might actually be a problem. My chest is tight, and my heart rate skyrockets.
My eyes are still zeroed-in on his. “Do you have a car?”
Patrick swallows again and offers only a small shake of his head. “Never needed one in New York. Haven’t needed one here yet either.”
A fog settles over my vision, and I suddenly can’t focus. I’m staring at the space in front of my eyes, and the silence of the French Quarter is suddenly deafening.
“I don’t think you want to chance it trying to leave, Ava,” his voice cuts through the thick silence. He jerks his chin sideways in a gesture toward the inside of the house. “We know a guy in New York that’s been in the hospital with it for a couple weeks. He probably won’t make it.”
He lifts his hand to cup my cheek, stroking my skin with his thumb. “I’m sorry about last night. I know you’re having all kinds of regret, and that’s why you want to leave. I should’ve left you alone when I found you. I’m sorry.”
His words shake my vision into clarity again, but I can’t think of anything to say.
“Hey, Donnelly, go limber up.”
Patrick and I both snap our heads sideways. Lucky’s standing on the edge of the big room, cradling his silver cigarette case in his palm while he slips one out. He stares at us with a mischievous smirk for a second before he snaps the case shut and places the cigarette between his lips as he strolls onto the balcony. Patrick slowly retracts his hand from my face.
Flicking a lighter to life, Lucky cups the cigarette, lighting it, and then looks at Patrick. “We’re gonna play to get everyone’s mind off all this shit,” he says, snapping the lighter shut.
They have a brief, hard staring contest, similar to the one they shared yesterday. And just like yesterday, Patrick folds first, slipping his hands into his pockets and stepping away without saying anything.
