Chapter 17: PRE-DATE PANIC
The closet door stood open like an accusation.
I stared at the rows of button-down shirts and khaki pants—the original Nathan's wardrobe, practical and academic and utterly uninspiring. This was what I had to work with. This was my arsenal for impressing Leslie Winkle.
This is fine. This is absolutely fine.
[RECOMMENDATION: NAVY BLUE BUTTON-DOWN. STUDIES INDICATE BLUE INCREASES PERCEIVED TRUSTWORTHINESS BY 12%. ALTERNATIVE: GRAY, SUGGESTING INTELLECTUAL COMPETENCE.]
"I didn't ask for your input."
[INPUT PROVIDED REGARDLESS. YOU'RE WELCOME.]
I pulled out the navy shirt. Held it against my chest. Looked in the mirror.
Not my face. Still not my face, even after all these weeks. But maybe... acceptable? The previous Nathan had decent features—nothing remarkable, but nothing offensive either. Average height, average build, brown hair that did what it was told.
Leslie already knows what I look like. She asked me out anyway. Stop overthinking.
I tried on three different shirt combinations, rejected all of them, and ended up back with the navy button-down. The System had been right. I hated when the System was right.
The afternoon stretched ahead, empty and nerve-wracking. I couldn't just sit here waiting. I'd go insane.
Research. I could do research.
I pulled up Leslie's published papers on my laptop. Seven articles in the last five years, covering quantum mechanics, experimental physics, and some interdisciplinary work that touched on my field. I'd already read most of them during our collaboration, but reviewing couldn't hurt.
[OBSERVATION: HOST IS TREATING ROMANTIC PREPARATION LIKE ACADEMIC EXAMINATION. THIS APPROACH HAS MIXED HISTORICAL SUCCESS RATES.]
"It's not treating it like an exam. It's being prepared."
[NOTED. DISTINCTION UNCLEAR.]
I read through her most recent paper—the one where my protein folding insight had helped solve her anomaly problem. Her acknowledgments section thanked "Dr. N. Cole for biochemistry consultation." My name, in her publication. Something warm flickered in my chest at that.
She respects my work. That's something. That's real.
By 4 PM, I'd read everything she'd ever published. I knew her research history, her theoretical positions, her methodological preferences. I could probably discuss any aspect of her work in detail.
This was either excellent date preparation or the behavior of a stalker. The line felt uncomfortably thin.
I texted Leonard: Need a bar recommendation. Somewhere decent but not pretentious.
His response came in three minutes: The Rusty Nail on Colorado is good. Not too loud, good beer selection. The Black Cat is fancier if you want to impress someone. Or there's Murphy's if you want casual.
She'd already picked The Rusty Nail. Good choice. Leonard's recommendation confirmed I wasn't walking into some kind of dive.
I texted back: Thanks. She picked Rusty Nail actually.
Leonard: Smart woman. You'll do fine.
Howard's text arrived moments later, uninvited: Leonard told me. Here are my tips: 1) Maintain eye contact but not TOO much. 2) Laugh at her jokes even if not funny. 3) Compliment her appearance within first 5 minutes. 4) Don't talk about yourself too much but also don't seem evasive. 5) The check—
I stopped reading.
Raj's message was simpler: a GIF of someone giving a thumbs up, followed by a second GIF of champagne popping.
I have friends, I realized. Actual friends who want me to succeed.
The thought was strange and warming and slightly terrifying. In my old life, I'd had friends too—casual acquaintances, really, people I'd lost touch with easily enough when death intervened. These felt different. These people texted me unsolicited advice and celebrated my potential romantic success like it mattered to them.
When did this happen?
I showered. Shaved. Debated cologne, decided against it—too try-hard, and I didn't know what the original Nathan usually wore anyway. Clean was enough. Clean and reasonably put-together.
The mirror showed someone who might be ready for a date. Maybe. Possibly.
"You can do this," I told my reflection. "She already said yes. The hard part is done."
[SELF-AFFIRMATION DETECTED. CORTISOL LEVELS DECREASING BY 8%. RECOMMENDATION: MAINTAIN THIS PSYCHOLOGICAL STATE.]
"Stop monitoring my stress hormones."
[MONITORING IS PASSIVE FUNCTION. CANNOT BE DISABLED.]
I set my alarm for 5 PM—plenty of time to get ready, drive to the bar, and arrive ten minutes early. Then I set a backup alarm for 5:15. And another for 5:30.
[PROBABILITY OF SLEEPING THROUGH THREE ALARMS: LESS THAN 0.1%. ADDITIONAL ALARMS WOULD BE REDUNDANT.]
I set a fourth alarm anyway.
The evening crawled by. I ate dinner without tasting it. Watched half of a documentary without absorbing any information. Checked my phone every few minutes to make sure Leslie hadn't canceled.
She hadn't canceled.
She wants to go out with me. Leslie Winkle, experimental physicist, brilliant scientist, Sheldon's nemesis—she wants to have drinks with me.
I thought about the collision in the hallway. The scattered papers. Her annoyance transforming to interest when she realized who I was. The coffee that turned into collaboration. The collaboration that turned into... this.
Be genuine, Leonard had said. She'll see through any game.
I wasn't planning to play games. I was planning to show up, drink beer, and hope I didn't say anything catastrophically stupid.
That was the whole plan.
[ANALYSIS: PLAN IS MINIMALLY STRUCTURED. SUGGEST PREPARING CONVERSATION TOPICS, EXIT STRATEGIES, AND CONTINGENCY PROTOCOLS.]
"No. We're doing this Leonard's way, not the System's way."
[NOTED. PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: INCALCULABLE DUE TO ROMANTIC UNPREDICTABILITY.]
Finally, blessedly, it was time to leave.
I checked my reflection one last time. Navy shirt, dark jeans, decent shoes. Hair doing approximately what it was supposed to do. Breath adequately freshened.
This is as good as it gets.
The drive to The Rusty Nail took fifteen minutes. I arrived twelve minutes early, which meant I had to sit in my car and practice not looking nervous.
Through the window, I could see the bar's interior—dim lighting, wooden booths, a crowd that looked like professionals unwinding rather than college kids getting wasted. Respectable. Adult. The kind of place where two scientists might have a civilized drink.
At 6:58, I got out of the car.
At 6:59, I walked through the door.
And there she was.
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