“What was that movie we saw?” John asked, seeming to fumble at an answer. “Last time I visited, we went to that theater down the street, didn’t we? It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

“Zombies vs. Zombies!” Charlie said.

“Right, I knew it was about zombies,” John said thoughtfully.

“So, what have you been doing since then?” Charlie asked, attempting to shift the topic. “Are you still doing construction work?”

“Yeah,” John said, then cast his eyes down at the table. “Actually, maybe not. I just got fired.”

“Oh,” Charlie said. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I mean, it was my fault. I showed up late, and—there was some other stuff—but I really liked that job. Well … it was a job at least.”

“There have to be other building sites,” Charlie said.

“Yeah, I guess.” He looked at her searchingly, and she looked back, trying not to shrink under scrutiny. Believe me, she pleaded silently. What will it take for you to believe me?

“I’ve missed this,” she said instead.

He nodded, his eyes softening for a moment. “Me too,” he said quietly, though she knew it was only half true.

“You know I didn’t leave because of—it wasn’t because of you,” Charlie said. “I’m sorry if it seemed like it was; I just had to get away from everything and everyone. I—”

“Are you folks ready to order?” the waitress asked brightly. John straightened his posture and cleared his throat. Charlie looked down at the menu, glad of the interruption, but the pictures of food looked strange, as if she had heard food described, but never seen any. “Miss?” The waitress was looking at her expectantly.

“I’ll have the same,” Charlie said quickly, and shut the menu. The young woman frowned confusedly.

“Oh, uh, okay. I guess I should order then.” John laughed.

“Anything will be fine.” Charlie sat patiently. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.” She got up from the table hastily and headed for the bathroom, leaving John to take care of things.

Walking into the bathroom, she was struck with a jarring sense of déjà vu. I’ve been here before. Trapped in a box, I was trapped in a box—Charlie slammed the door shut and locked it. I’m not trapped. She ran her fingers through her hair, though it didn’t really need adjusting, and washed her hands; she was just killing time, stealing a moment away from John’s scrutiny. Every time he gave her that level, untrusting look, she felt exposed.