“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.