The Expansion of the Universe

Six | "Woof."

"Would you like to continue talking to him?"

Liza passed Milo a look. The dog was watching her intently, reading her emotions in case he needed to intervene again, and she reassurance in those kind brown eyes.

Eyes that, if they were a shade lighter, would match the color of Elijah's.

"Yes."

Dr. Whitney smiled, her teeth showing and everything. "I think you're off to an excellent start with this friendship, Liza. Is there anything else you'd like to discuss today?"

Unwittingly, Liza's gaze drifted to the clock on the wall, which told her there were less than five minutes till one o'clock.

If Elijah was coming, he would be there shortly.

"No."

"I'll talk to you next week if not sooner then, alright?"

"Alright." She fiddled with her hoodie, looked back up at Whitney, and muttered, "Thank you."

The older woman's grin turned into something smaller and gentler. "You're welcome, Liza. I'm glad to help."

Liza ended the call, her gaze shifting to the door slowly.

"What do I do?" She asked Milo. The dog snuffled at her hand, letting her know that the decision was her own, but he would stick by her regardless.

Staring at the door, Liza began to have an internal debate.

She liked Elijah, really. He was nice and his laughter made her toes curl with a sort of unexplained giddiness. He told funny stories and he provided her with the first real form of human company she'd had in at least a year (Dr. Whitney didn't count, since she was a paid form of interaction).

But he was a pilot. Pilots were rude and loud and could end the lives of over a hundred people in less than a second.

No one knew that truth better than Liza.

Still, Dr. Whitney's attempts at rationalization resided near the front of her mind.

Elijah was not like the pilots Liza had met. He wasn't laughing at her expense or trying to bother her incessantly. He struck her as someone who enjoyed having fun, but he had also shown her a more mature, serious side that made itself known when needed.

Three knocks on the door startled her out of her reverie, and she was sitting in front of the dark oak door before she could continue to second-guess herself and him.

"Hey, window-girl," his tone was uncharacteristically solemn, and she grimaced, knowing it was likely her fault. Sure enough, he continued, "I realize I must have said something yesterday that made you a little upset with me. I'm going to be honest and say that I'm not sure what I did wrong, even though Austin says that's never a good thing to tell a woman," he chuckled, but the usual humor was absent from the sound, and Liza hated it. "Anyway, I am sorry, and I hope this doesn't ruin our friendship." The thud signaling that he had settled against the door echoed, and Liza raised her hand, scooting closer to where his voice stemmed from, until she could trace the grain of the oak and pretend she was actually touching him.

Was he frowning? She wondered what he looked like when he frowned. Or when he laughed. Or when he chuckled. Or when he looked at her—especially when he looked at her. Would he look at her the way those doctors and nurses had after the accident, with pity and sorrow? Or would it be like Whitney, who gazed upon her like one did a jigsaw puzzle that was proving difficult to solve? Or perhaps he would look at her the way her mother did in Liza's nightmares, as though she was the greatest disappointment to ever exist.