The curtain between my side of the room and Flora’s is closed. I want to open it. I need to open it. And then what? Where would I even begin? Ask her why she kissed me? Tell her that everything I told my mom is true? Tell her that I don’t want Kelsey to visit—I don’t think?—even though I’ve had a crush on Kelsey for years and she’s coming all the way down to see me? The pre–spring break Oliver would think he’s died and gone to heaven.

But I’m not that Oliver anymore, and I don’t want to be that Oliver—the pre-Flora Oliver.

I have no clue what she thinks about me either. I do have a clue what she thinks about Joey, though. And I have more than a clue what he thinks about her. Not that I can blame him. But I can blame her. He’s a dolt, even if he’s supposedly in medical school.

I hop on Twitter again. People want to know about the other #quaranteen. I wonder if Flora wants people to know about her. She made the hashtag for me and now Kelsey is coming to visit me and I should repay her. If she wants. I should ask her.

Flora is rustling around on her side of the room. She’s video chatting with people, I think two girls, and I can tell they’re all close. They’re saying how much they miss her, how she’d better hurry home. They say they wish they could visit. I can tell Flora is disappointed, but I don’t think her friends realize it. They talk for a while longer, and there’s lots of giggling, though more of it seems to be coming from the other end of the call. Then I hear Flora walk around, showing them the bathroom, how her bed goes up and down, and then she comes to the curtain and says, “Knock, knock.”

“Um, come in?”

Flora opens my curtain. She’s standing in front of me, her cheeks red, holding the phone out in front of her. “Uh, this is Oliver,” she says to her phone, looking down.

She whips the phone around to face me, and I see she is indeed talking to two girls. They wave at me, and I say, “Hi.”

They look at me and there’s an awkward silence, then everyone starts talking at once.

“We should probably go,” from them.

“He’s a great roommate,” from Flora.

“Flora is the best,” from me.

Flora looks at me over the phone. Her friends are saying something to her, but she isn’t paying attention to them.

“FLORA!” they both finally yell in unison.

She jumps, looks down. “Right, sorry, what were you guys saying?”

“We were saying we have to go.”

“Of course. You guys are busy.” I hear the sarcasm in her voice, but they don’t.

“Let’s talk soon!”

“Yeah, sure, my schedule is pretty free.”

Flora ends the call, but she’s still standing on my side of the room.

We just look at each other. “You’re the other quaranteen!” I blurt out.

Flora looks at me, confused.

“The hashtag,” I say. “People want to know about you. People deserve to know about you!”

“Deserve?”

“Yeah, I mean, after all, you did think of it, and now Kelsey is coming, and people should know … should know you exist,” I finish lamely.

“Okay,” Flora says, smiling a little. “And how will that happen?”

“Um, let me take your picture, like you did for me.” I pull out my phone, and she smiles again. It’s a really sunny afternoon, and the light makes Flora’s red hair glow. Her entire body seems to glow.

I snap a few pictures. “So should I send them to you and you post them? Or, wait, is that dumb? Should I post them?”

“Oliver, I’m not the quaranteen manager.”

“You’re not?”

“No. I don’t think hashtags work that way.”

“Right.” I look at the pictures of her on my phone. I look up, at the real Flora with the glowing hair.

Flora kind of shakes her head. “So, anyway, Kelsey gets here tomorrow! Need any other tips from my girl handbook?”

“Sure, I guess. What do you have?”

“I mean, it’s a simple one. But figure out what she likes, if you haven’t already, and learn about it.”

“Learn about it?”

“Yeah. Like, if you find out she likes Indian food, you don’t have to enroll in culinary school, but learn the difference between tikka masala and palak paneer.”

Her eyes glaze over for a second and she licks her lips. I can almost smell the samosas at the Indian place down the street from my apartment.

“I miss takeout food so much,” she says.

“Me too.” I inhale sharply, but all I can smell now is the hospital room antiseptic smell.

“Oh, and another thing. Look into her eyes. Girls really like that. Trust me.”

I stare back into her eyes. “Like this?”

Flora laughs, and for the first time since I’ve met her, she seems nervous. “You’ve got this, Oliver,” she says softly.

And then our door opens, and Joey is there with our dinner trays, and I’ve never wanted Indian food so much in my life.