“You do not know that.”
Al’s expression softens again. “Oh, son.”
The pity irritates me less than it should because it is not pity for my scars or my history. It is pity for the very specific catastrophe of wanting someone and being afraid hope will kill you.
“I cannot ask her,” I say.
“You can dismantle a gang hideout but not ask a woman to dinner?”
“Yes.”
“That is pathetic.”
“I am aware.”
“Good. Awareness is the first step toward not dying stupid.”
I stand, suddenly restless again. “What location is appropriate?”
“Somewhere public enough she feels safe, private enough you can talk, and casual enough you don’t look like you’re proposing a military alliance.”
“I would never propose an alliance in public.”
Al closes his eyes. “We have so much work to do.”
“I know restaurants.”
“Do you?”
“I know which have exits, sightlines, poor security, and rear approaches.”
“Romance is not an extraction plan.”
“It should include one.”
“Honestly, in Halo, fair.” He points at me. “But don’t say that to her first.”
“What should I say?”
“Dinner. Maybe drinks. Maybe that sports bar near downtown with the old grav-ball machines. She’s sunshine, right? Let her play. Let her laugh. Buy her something with bubbles in it and try not to look like you’re evaluating sniper positions.”
“I always evaluate sniper positions.”
“Quietly, then.”
I begin walking again, not away this time, but in a short, useless line near the heater. “What if she thinks I am asking as repayment?”
“Say you’re not.”
“What if she thinks I am asking because you told me?”
“Don’t mention me.”
“What if she laughs?”
“She will.”
I turn on him.
