Before Holly turned to him, she started a polite grin. The grin never made it to her eyes—although Michael got the sense that she was trying very hard to make it do so. “Hiya,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze.
There was a long silence.
Michael said, “Sorry, um . . . you did want me to help you with something, right?”
“No. Yeah, I mean. Kind of.” Holly gave up her not-smile and shook her head in aggravation—at me? “Sorry I’m weird. Shit.” She didn’t say it with her usual self-deprecating jokiness, though: she was being mean to herself. “I saw that you were awake, and I was thinking I could change that dressing on your neck for you,” she said. And before Michael could respond, she opened a door across the hall into a small fancy-ish sort of break room.
Disappointment settled heavily in Michael’s chest. Well, what the hell did you expect her to want with you? He’d just been thinking of their possibly flirty conversation yesterday, how good it felt to experience a distraction from the horrors of the “paused” world.
“Over here, if you please,” Holly said, pointing to an overstuffed chair.
Michael stopped in the doorway. “You know, don’t worry about it.”
“No worries, won’t take two minutes.” She pulled a stool next to the chair, opening a first aid kit.
I don’t want to do something that’s “good for me” right now, Holly. I don’t want to “take care of myself.” I want to just be with you.
“Holly, I can do it myself, really—”
“I know you can,” she said, her voice shaky. “But I really would like to be able to do something useful right now.”
For the first time since leaving the Senate chambers, Holly’s gaze met his full on. What he saw there was sadness, confusion, fear about everything that had happened today.
He offered tentatively, “I guess I’m just a little nervous it’ll hurt.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, you might not be able to guess this, Holly,” Michael sighed, “but I am a man haunted by a tragic bikini-waxing incident.”
He watched her frown relax, warmed by the joke. “Oh no, I totally got that vibe from you. It felt like bad manners to bring it up, though.”
That slightly too-big smile momentarily spread over her face. That smile pierced Michael, somehow; there was something about it that was so open, so unguarded, that it let out a little of the heaviness in his chest.
He sat down in the chair. A window in front of him overlooked a dark alley; he watched Holly’s reflection in the black glass as she scooted closer to remove the square of tan tape holding the cotton to his neck. Just before she did, Michael thought, This is the first time a girl ever really touched me. Yeah, okay, maybe this getting-scratched thing isn’t so bad after all, ha-ha.
Except that Holly made what looked like a disturbed face. “How’s the war wound lookin’?” he asked, trying to sound light, though suddenly distinctly insecure about his neck’s physique.
“A little inflamed . . . ,” Holly murmured. “But it’s fine, I’m sure. I know you figured this out already, but scratches aren’t really a danger. The virus doesn’t transmit through anything except bites.
“Okay, mister, prepare to be zapped,” she whispered, and pulled, fast and hard, on the adhesive. Michael grunted. “You are welcome,” Holly said. She rooted through the first aid kit in her lap.
“So. You’re pretty good with the science-y stuff.”
“You’re pretty good with the flattery-y stuff,” Holly chuckled. “But I’m not so good. Mostly, I just repeat what my daddy taught me.”
Michael saw Holly’s reflection smile. In the dark glass, the expression was difficult to read, but something about it became strangely distant.
“He’s a doctor?” he said after a pause.
“Pharmacist,” Holly replied. “But, like, a fancy kind. This’ll be cold; that’s your warning.”
She gently circled a cool, sterile-smelling cotton ball over his neck. “But, yeah, the virus—do you mind if I geek out a second and tell you about it?”
Michael shook his head, happy to hear the eagerness, even excitement, in her voice.
“Rad! Oh Nerd Joy, you are one of the things I miss most about the world Before.”
I don’t miss anything from Before, Michael thought.
“So yeah, the dead-people virus: It’s a new virus, obviously; you don’t see the dead rising every flu season. Like Hank was saying yesterday, a lot of people think the virus is man-made—maybe in Iran, because of the war.”
How can people do that to each other? But after everything he’d seen