Page 83 of Ezra
My entire train of thought comes to a screeching halt. “Now what do you mean by that?”
“This isn’t your typical first date, Kitty Kat. Stop worrying about your clothes and start worrying about the barbecue. These are people he works with. Every day. You gotta make sure you make the right impression. Based on what you told me, he’s gonna drop you like a hot potato if you get this wrong.”
“Right, but—I don't know, should I be that worried? I wouldn’t embarrass him.”
“You wouldn’t, no,” she agrees. “But I’m your friend, and I gotta tell you, nobody’s more relieved you’re being honest with yourself about androids. I knew it, deep down. You’ve never said that crazy ‘shut them down’ stuff, and you always handle debates well without getting emotional or saying mean things. You’re way too sweet to be a hardcore anti-android nut.”
“I still feel like I should’ve spoken up more than I did,” I admit.
“Don’t worry about that! Hey, you know I love you. But you’re going into enemy territory now. You’ve got to show them all you’re not the fighting-words Katrina they’re used to seeing on TV.”
I sigh. “Seriously, thank you, Zo.”
“You’re welcome,” she says in her singsong voice. “Have fun.”
After she’s gone, all I can think about are her words. She’s right; these aren’t strangers in a restaurant I can just ignore. I can’t cling to Ezra’s side or act the wallflower either. I never even considered just how political this date could get. I’ve got to impress Detective Washington, his wife, his kids, and Ezra’s coworkers. Some may have heard or watched me speak at different rallies, debates, interviews. These are all people who are going to know who I am, who my family is. They’re going to remember everything I’ve said, the points I’ve made. They might see me as the biggest hypocrite in New Carnegie.
As I pull on my shirt, it really hits me. With Ezra, I’ve skipped over one entire dating phase. Early stages of dating for people my age mean dinner, hanging out, and sex to make sure we’re compatible.
Going over to the Washingtons for a barbecue, meeting everyone? That’s for girlfriends, people who’ve gone steady for a few months. Despite my own internal fantasies and curiosities of what it might be like, Ezra and I have given into temptation only once, stolen kisses a handful of times. We haven’t even gone all the way.
Is Ezra testing me?
He mentioned previous women haven’t worked out. I run through every possibility, but not being serious enough is definitely one of the reasons why. Ezra’s not the type to play the casual game for long. Which means eventual commitment.
If Humanity First finds out before I’ve taken appropriate action to speak to Dad’s followers, the organization might implode on itself, or worse. The small but extremely vocal numbers calling for violence might set their sights on me, my family, or even Ezra himself, after branding me a traitor to the cause.
What are you doing, Kat?
I do my best to fight those nerves. I’m not going to be scared away by what’s probably a simple crew potluck, even if they are a bunch of sharp-as-knives detectives.
That’s enough of that.I won’t stay here, determined to be afraid of things I don’t fully understand, and I’m getting so far ahead of myself I can practically see my wedding dress on the horizon. He invited me to a barbecue, not to eternity.
“Woman up, Carson,” I mutter to myself, reminiscent of the old days when I played lacrosse in school and got that fresh dose of jitters right before a game. “You’ve survived two bombings. A barbecue is nothing.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket impatiently. I peer at the message from Ezra on my screen.
Are you a romantic?he asks.
Well, he certainly doesn’t beat around the bush, does he? I can’t help but give him a hard time.Define romantic.
That’s difficult,he replies.I suppose romance can be subjective.
That it can,I tease him.But if you mean, am I a girl who likes candlelit dinners, walks on the beach, rose bouquets? Yes. I’m a bit of a romantic, deep down.
A knock on my door tells me he’s here. I steady myself, go to open it, and find Ezra standing there in entirely different attire: a black V-neck T-shirt and jeans.
My eyes dart to the luscious bouquet of yellow roses with crimson tips, pearly snapdragons, and scarlet mums in his hand,and my breath is immediately taken away. The thought never occurred to me before. I’ve never been on the receiving end of a flower bouquet. Not a romantic one, anyway.
Ezra studies me intently, his white eyes contrasting with the colorful arrangement he holds. “Rashelle likes candles to the point of obsession, so there will be candles displayed everywhere tonight. But I’m afraid walks on the beach are impossible in New Carnegie, unless you’d like to wade through trash by the river.”
“Oh my god.” I laugh as I carefully take the flowers and step aside to let him in. I shut the door behind him. “What would you have done if I said I wasn’t a romantic?”
Ezra smirks. “Calculated risk.”
“Let me put these in water.” I take the bouquet into my kitchen, looking around wildly for something to put them in. I’m not even sure how to take care of flowers. I tried to have a cactus once; it died. That was the end of my green-thumb experiments. I search my cabinets for a vase, a cup, anything, and finally discover an ancient triple-tall coffee mug withDon’t Talk To Me, I’m Not Caffeinatedpainted in colorful letters on the side.
Fortunately, Ezra doesn’t let me fumble through the process for long. I sense him behind me and turn.
