One
Sea Cucumbers
Miles
Across from me sits a woman with a bowl of soup, and I’m no longer certain I know my own name.
“Did you know sea cucumbers use evisceration as a defense mechanism?” I ask around a bite of minestrone, because apparently my brain has decided to sabotage me. “They expel their internal organs through their—uh—anus to scare predators. Then they regenerate everything in a few weeks. It’s actually kind of amazing.”
Maggie, the woman I’ve had a crush on for the past eighteen months, pauses with her spoon halfway to her mouth. One eyebrow lifts in slow, deliberate disbelief. “Is that so?”
“It is,” I say quickly. “And the texture is sort of similar to the angel-hair pasta in your zuppa di pesce.”
I internally groan. This is what always happens. New people, group settings, or—worse—a combination of both, and I panic, filling the silence with whatever stray fact my brain can drag up. Octopuses have three hearts. An ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain. I once tried to shake someone’s hand while they were holding a drink and high-fived their cup.
After finally working up the nerve to ask Maggie out again—thanks in no small part to my parents turning the first date into a public spectacle—tonight was supposed to be my redemption. Somehow, it’s worse.
Her hand stills. Then her gaze drops from my face to her soup.
Heat floods my cheeks. “No—no, obviously not the same,” I rush. “You’re eating shrimp. Not sea cucumbers. And it’s tomato-based. Not… you know. Sea cucumber excrement-based.”
She lowers her spoon into the bowl. I wish I could be that spoon and disappear. “Got it. I’m just going to—uh—use the restroom.” She slides her half-full bowl aside and stands, leaving me alone with my minestrone, my regret, and the undeniable truth that my mouth is my own worst enemy.
I doubt she’s going to finish her soup—or ever order zuppa di pesce again. As she pushes her chair back, I half rise from mine, even though I know no polite gesture can salvage this date. “Sure,” I mutter. “Take your time. I’ll just be here…”
She gives me a polite smile and slips away from the table. I sink back into my seat, and stare into my soup like it’s a Magic 8 Ball, half-expecting a white triangle to pop up spelling out YOU’RE AN IDIOT in bold, judgmental letters. There’s a very strong chance she took a detour to the restroom and went straight out the front door. I wouldn’t blame her. I glance over my shoulder to check, but she’s already out of sight.
Why am I like this? I can talk about flight mechanics for hours without breaking a sweat, but the moment romance enters the equation, my brain panics and starts flinging random trivia from the darkest corners of my memory. I could’ve talked about the weather. Everyone talks about the weather. No one has ever fled a date because of cumulus clouds.
It wasn’t this difficult when I first asked her out.
I glance up from the book I’m not actually reading. She’s a few shelves down, reshelving books. A cream-colored sweater hangs off her shoulders, at least two sizes too big—or maybe that’s just how it’s meant to fit. Her deep red hair catches the fluorescent light, sleek where it’s pulled into a low ponytail.
I’ve talked to her a dozen times. Not conversation conversation—library conversation. Where can I find a certain book? When do the new magazines come in? Did anyone catch the squirrel trying to steal Karl’s lunch?
She moves closer as she finishes a row, the faint scent of her floral perfume drifting into my space like the first bloom of spring—warm and inviting. I pretend to be deeply invested in the open book in my hands.
“Oh—hi, Maggie,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to awkward. “Didn’t see you there.”
She smiles. “Hi, Miles. How are you today?”
“I’m good. Just… looking for some books.”
“The library has an excellent selection.” She flashes me a half smile.
Was that flirting? Teasing? I swallow. “Yeah. It’s my favorite place to find books.”
“Are you getting chickens?”
“Um. No?”
“Oh.” She nods toward the book in my hands. “Because the book you’re reading says otherwise.”
I glance down at a few paragraphs accompanied by pictures of chickens. Turning it over, I stare at the cover. Keep Your Girls Happy! Backyard Fun with Chickens. I quickly shove it back onto the shelf. “Did you know chickens share a common ancestor with the Tyrannosaurus rex?”
She blinks. “So you could have a flock of mini T-rexes in your backyard?”
“Oh. Um. Yes. I suppose.” I fixate on a speck of dust on the bookshelf, working up the courage to ask her to dinner. The thump of my heartbeat syncs with the dull thud of the books she slides back into place.
