“Did you need help finding something?” she asks.
“Ah—um—no. Actually…” I swallow. “I was wondering if maybe you’d like to have dinner with me Saturday night.”
Silence settles between us, heavy as a cinder block. I shouldn’t even have asked.
“I would love to.”
“Okay, well maybe some other—” Wait. I look up, and she’s smiling at me.
“Miles, I said yes.”
“Oh. Great! Um. I’ll see you on Saturday.” I turn to walk away.
“Wait! Where and what time?”
“Right.” I spin back. “Seven. The Boat House.”
“Sounds great. I’ll see you then.”
“Yeah. See you then.”
She said yes. I did not prepare for that. I pull out my phone, add it to my calendar before my brain can sabotage me, and set an alarm. Then another one just to be safe.
When she returns, the server is already clearing our bowls, including her soup. I spring up to help with her chair, and she smiles at me as she eases back onto it. For one stupid, hopeful second, my brain tries to convince me she came back because she’s enjoying the date. Then reality settles in. She probably returned because she’s a decent person who doesn’t fake an emergency and sprint for the exit just because the guy across from her compared seafood soup to sea cucumber anatomy. Still, she came back.
She folds her napkin into her lap like she’s offering us a clean slate. Around us, the restaurant swells with noise—silverware clinking, low laughter, bursts of conversation—while our table sinks into silence. Not the comfortable kind. Not reflective. Just awkward.
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again, and still can’t find words that won’t send her running. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth like Velcro. My foot taps out a nervous Morse code beneath the table. I reach for my water because it doesn’t require speaking. The glass is cold and slick with condensation, ice rattling loudly as I lift it. Immediately, I realize this is a mistake. I set it down too fast and it bumps the table. Water sloshes over the rim and onto the wood. I yank the cloth napkin, sending silverware clattering loud enough to draw the attention of half the restaurant. Heat crawls up my neck as I blot at the spill, suddenly certain everyone here has clocked me as a complete dating fraud.
“I’m sorry. Usually I’m not—” Nervous would be the word, but it isn’t true.
“It’s okay, Miles.” She quietly raises her napkin and helps me clean up the mess.
When the table’s dry, we set our napkins aside. I offer what I hope is a reassuring smile, though it probably looks more like I’m in pain. She gives me one back. Maybe she’s decided to shove the last thirty minutes out of her mind and pretend they never happened. If that’s the case, this is my fresh start. No more weird facts. No digestive systems. Especially nothing that resembles her food. Easy. I can do that.
“So,” I say, far too brightly, “how was the restroom?” The words hang between us.
She shifts in her seat. “It was… functional.”
“Great,” I say, nodding far too hard, already wishing I could shove the words back into my mouth. “That’s really all you can ask of a restroom.”
Her lips press together.
“They keep them really clean here,” I add, panic creeping in. “Which is how you know it’s a good restaurant. Clean restrooms are… foundational.” I scramble for safer ground. Normal ground. Weather. Humans talk about weather. Weather is harmless. “So—uh—how’s the weather?”
She blinks. “In the bathroom?”
I close my eyes for half a second. Worst. Date. Ever. And entirely my fault. “No—sorry. I meant… just in general.” For one terrifying moment, it looks as if she might excuse herself again, but this time for good. Then the corner of her mouth curves. Just a little. Like she’s trying not to smile and failing.
She tilts her head, studying me with warmth in her eyes. “You’re really bad at small talk, aren’t you?”
My throat locks up like a seized gimbal, so I nod.
That earns me a quiet laugh. And then, like she’s reaching out and pulling me back onto solid ground, she asks softly, “So… you own a drone business?”
Relief hits fast, loosening my shoulders. Familiar territory. “Oh. Yeah.” I perk up. “I’ve loved aviation since I was a kid. I built my first RC plane out of balsa wood when I was eight.”
Her eyes soften. “That’s really cool.”
