London, United Kingdom
Day 231
You need more friends,” George says over lunch, as Amaya determinedly looks into her sandwich.
“George! I have lots of friends,” I say, a bit defensively. This isn’t technically true. I have a lot of acquaintances here in London now. I like to smile at people and say hello, so sue me. The first time I went into the lab I think some of my colleagues thought I was deranged. I was determined to add some cheer into the office. The whole world has been burning, so I figured we should make our workplace a little less depressing. Over months and months I managed to chip away at the hardened, English, often grief-stricken exteriors of people in the lab. Small things like movie nights on Fridays that are well attended by people living alone. We rewatched a season of The Great British Bake Off together and each week someone re-created one of the recipes as best they could from the ingredients they could scrounge up.
“I’m friends with you two,” I say, almost accusingly daring George and Amaya to disagree.
“And a fine friend you are indeed,” Amaya says, her brown eyes crinkling in kindness.
“You work too hard, you need to get out of the lab,” George says.
“You work the same hours I do, if not longer,” I reply. “Besides, we’re nearly there on a chemical test for immunity.”
“Yes, and then I go home and spend time with my family. You go back to that awful hotel and do extra research. Besides, Amaya and her team are finishing up their piece. We’ll look over the numbers tomorrow. It’ll come together soon enough. There’s still room to live our lives, you know.”
Amaya nods in agreement and I feel like sulking. It feels wrong having my boss tell me that I need to relax more. It’s true that I miss having my friends close to me. In high school I was a science nerd, saved from bullying by my blond hair and vaguely pretty-ish (on a good day with makeup) looks. I left with a few friends I had eaten lunch with but we didn’t really keep in touch. All my friends from Stanford scattered across the country after graduation, to different graduate schools. We Skype but it’s not the same. They’re not here. I’ve managed to re-create some of the community I crave here at work, but if I’m being honest with myself, fine, it’s true. Besides George and Amaya, I don’t have friends.
As George and Amaya chat about their daughters; I go through my phone. I haven’t been on Facebook in years. I don’t need to see what anyone else’s life looks like right now. It’s so odd seeing the number of women on my page. Girls I know from grad school who never posted pictures without their boyfriends or husbands now in profile photos, alone. Among my hundreds of Facebook friends’ recent posts there’s one announcement of a baby and one wedding of a couple who have been together for years and have dodged the bullet of the Plague. I’m scrolling, trying to tamp down jealous feelings of wanting a husband and a baby and a life of my own when I see a picture of Simon Maitland. Wow, he’s alive, which isn’t a given anymore. One of the lucky, elite remaining men: the immune. I last saw him in person when I was twenty-one and spent a semester in London, at Imperial College, on an exchange program. Then he was a lanky, redheaded engineering major who used to eat lunch with me most days thanks to his friendship with my “exchange buddy.” The last eight years have been kind to Simon, Jesus Christ. He’s gorgeous.
Swallowing any doubt before it can hover into my mind, I click on Simon’s profile. What does George always say? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I click on the Message icon.
Hi Simon,
Not sure if you remember me—we met years ago when I was an exchange student from Stanford. Anyway, I’m in London now working in the Vaccine Development Task Force. It might be nice to catch up—show me some of London! Let me know if you’d like to grab a drink. Elizabeth xx
I hit Enter and send the message before I can think about it again. I’ve just asked someone out for a drink for the first time. I think I might be sick. Two x’s? TWO? What was I thinking? My stomach is roiling in anxiety and I consider deleting my Facebook presence and committing myself to a slow slide into single cat-lady status. It’s fine, I love cats and besides the numbers aren’t in my favor anymore so—
The reply flashes onto my screen so quickly I drop my phone. George asks if I’m okay. I squeak in response.
Elizabeth! Amazing to hear from you. I would love to take you out for a drink. Does this evening work? Simon x
I’m going on a date. I’m going on a date! It all feels so improbable and exciting I decide to lean into this brave new romantic world I’m creating for myself.
Tonight works great. Let me know where we should meet—I live near Euston. Elizabeth P.S. This is a date, right?
I’ll have a think and let you know where to meet. Simon x P.S. Yes, I’d really like it to be a date.
A few hours later, I walk to the bar Simon suggested, a beautiful cocktail bar with live music in Smithfield. When I woke up this morning I didn’t think I’d be on a date and I’m a bit nervous that my simple green dress and brogues aren’t smart enough but here I am. As I see Simon turning the corner and walking toward me, I realize that seeing photos of someone and seeing their transformation in person are entirely different things. Somewhere between the shock of asking him on a date and him accepting, I forgot that eight years is a very long time. The man standing in front of me, with auburn hair and a beautifully cut coat, six feet tall and broad shouldered, is unrecognizable from the gawky undergrad I remember.
He kisses me on the cheek, smelling of something citrusy and fresh, and my brain keeps short-circuiting. I’m on a date, I’m on a date. A date with the kind of guy I never really imagined being sat across from. My previous boyfriends have been geeky scientists who couldn’t bench-press a watermelon and have never seemed to like me all that much. Small talk used to involve complaints about Atlanta traffic and wondering what our table would be like. Now it involves broaching the topic of immunity and the looming question above Simon’s head: How are you alive?
The bar feels so familiar—I’ve spent evenings in cocktail bars before—and yet so different, it’s discombobulating. The musicians are all women—the double bass player, the drummer, the saxophonist—and it’s only as I look at them that I realize the bands have always been male. The menu is entirely British-made drinks—sloe gin, cider, English sparkling wine—and due to shortages everyone is restricted to one drink. Other women in the bar eye us enviously and sadly, which I might be imagining but I don’t think I am. It’s as though I can hear them wondering what a man like that is doing with a woman like me. I’m talking about my old life but I feel like I’m floating, untethered from the room.
“Are you okay?” Simon asks softly, about thirty minutes in. Part of me wants to scream, “Never been better!” and I would sort of mean it. Part of me wants to burst into tears at how gloriously normal all of this is and how awful it’s going to be to go back to my tiny room, in this cold city where I only have two friends and God I just want my old life back when my dad was alive and going on dates was normal.
“It’s just a lot,” I eventually say. “I’m having a really nice time though. Sorry, that sounds weird. I honestly am. It’s just this is the first date I’ve gone on in a long time and life is really different now, you know?”
Simon’s face breaks into a smile that I swear could light up this whole room and he says the perfect words. “I know exactly what you mean.” He looks around the bar. “I don’t go out that much anymore. Everything feels so different.”
“You don’t get asked out on dates all the time then? I would have thought you’d be out a lot,” I ask, testing the waters and preparing myself for the inevitable shrug that means yes.
Simon smiles and reaches over, takes my hand. “I do get asked out, yes. But I’ve never been asked out before by the American girl I remember from eight years ago, who was so funny and friendly and bright that we all desperately wanted to hang out with her at lunch every day. And beautiful,” he says, quietly into his drink as though he’s used up his bravado in a rush of words.
A smile overwhelms my face and I have to contain myself from reaching across the table and kissing him, right then and there. And then I remember that the world is falling apart and nothing is like it used to be and I haven’t been on a date in a long, long time. So I reach across, kiss him and it’s the best first kiss of my life.