Page 8 of Doomsdate

Her head tilts to the side. “No. Why?”

Why? She’s dressed like Lara Croft, winter edition, that’s why. Add a pair of aviators, and she’d be the next Top Gun. Still, relief pulses through me. I come from a long, unforgiving line of career military officers, but somehow, the gene that allows you to click your heels together as you salute your commanding officer skipped me altogether. Thanks to my parents, military people turn me off as a rule.

“Just a guess.” I try to smile, but she looks away before I can manage it.

“It’s my jumpsuit, isn’t it,” she says, dismay lining her words.

“It does give a G.I. Jane vibe.” I offer the outdated reference lamely, like a soggy, room-temperature hors d’oeuvre on a platter. Jesus. This is solid proof I’m not ready to date. I can’t even speak to a beautiful woman.

“G.I. Jane.” She frowns. “Who’s that?”

“Demi Moore with a buzz cut?” I wave a hand at her confused expression, like oh, don’t mind me, I’m unable to emotionally connect with people, so I just make TV and film references nonstop. “Old movie, never mind.”

“I wore earrings,” Maisie mumbles, her hand fluttering to one ear, where a minuscule gold hoop twinkles. The tops of her cheekbones are the color of sun-ripened peaches, and I realize belatedly that she’s embarrassed. This gorgeous Star Wars rebel commander sitting across from weird, out-of-touch me is embarrassed.

And it’s my fault.

“They look…lovely.” The compliment comes out awkward and halting. I place my stupidly big hand over hers for a quick second, seriously when did my hands get so large, then retract it just as fast. “You look lovely, I mean. Also very prepared.”

I mean the last part as a bit of a joke, but for the first time since she arrived, Maisie looks pleased and strangely hopeful. “Thanks. It’s kind of a…hobby of mine.”

“Being lovely?”

She laughs, the melodic, twinkling sound seeming to surprise us both. Immediately, I want to make her do it again.

Could Sandeep be right? After the amount of shit I gave him for catfishing this poor woman, that would be awkward. But maybe meeting new people is what I need at this point. It’s been so long since I’ve had anything to give anyone, it’s felt wrong to impose the weight of my existence on others. But there’s something about the way Maisie’s winter-blue eyes lock on to mine that feels like a hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently awake. Startling, and a little scary, but undeniably arousing. Not in a sexual way, of course. Or romantic. She’s just interesting.

“No.” She smiles shyly. “Being prepared is, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” I ask, a bit distracted by the zing of all my systems coming online for the first time in years. “For what?”

Excited, she starts to say something, but then flinches back like her hand was slapped. The easy smile disappears, and her blush has traveled all the way to the small, pale V of her exposed chest. Dammit, what did I do wrong now?

“Can we start over?” Her voice is tentative. This lovely, strange, anxious bird of a woman, like if I made one quick move right now, tiny invisible wings would lift her away in a blur. My heart does that strange thing again, that squeezing thing, as our server takes our orders. Of course Maisie’s nervous—the new virus has everyone spooked—and yet, here she is, in her cargo pants filled with god knows what, attempting small talk with a stranger. I feel sorry for her. That’s what this is. Sympathy from one lonely person to another. An unexpected urge comes over me to wrap her in my arms and give her a long, comforting hug.

God. I could use one, too.

“Sure, starting over now.” I sit up straighter, and this time when I try to smile, it works. “Hi, Maisie. I’m Everett.” I reach for my glass of water.

“Hi, Everett,” she recites, as if from a card. “Tell me about your trauma.”

The sip of water I just took tries to exit my mouth like a fountain, and I choke it back.

“Trauma?” I croak. My brain fizzes over the exchange of messages between Sandeep and Maisie, but he never mentioned Louise, that I’d been married, or anything like that. Can she just…tell?

“It’s very brave that I’m asking this,” Maisie informs me, frowning while my coughing fit continues. “You should feel very safe.”

Sitting here, hacking up the spoonful of water intent on killing me while diners start to stare, facing strange questions from a—okay, I’m calling it—strange woman as two of the black-shirted staff narrow their eyes at me?

No. I don’t feel very safe. I feel like I want to escape this conversation, this attempted date, really the last three years.

“I’ll go first,” Maisie says, lifting her chin. “Someone I cared about died, and I felt bad about it.”

She looks at me expectantly until I finally manage to wheeze out, “Um. Me, too?”

At this, she leans over the table to touch my arm. It’s an awkward plop of the hand, right on my wrist.

We both look at it.