These dates often subjected me to a litany of reasons I should feel honored to be in their presence, and then gave me the opportunity to marvel at their wealth, intelligence, and interests—yet their eyes would glaze over when I tried to tell them anything about me. I was nearly always ready to leave before the entrées arrived, but it was obvious they believed they were charming me. Almost without fail, they would casually ask “So where to next?” as they picked up the check. (It was always, always while they picked up the check, the subtext being that I owed them.) Eventually, I had mostly given up on dates. It wasn’t like I was really missing anything in my life, especially not since I had Nick.

But my perspective had started to shift since moving to DC. Without Izzy in the next room and my coterie of New York friends, I often found myself alone, binge-watching Netflix and drinking wine. I kept up appearances on my Instagram—sometimes stretching pictures from nights out over several days—but the truth was that I was lonely. I had Cat, sure, but if she was busy—as she often was with work—I had no one to fall back on other than Nick. And maybe Cat was right; maybe the thing with Nick had run its course. Now that we were seeing each other more frequently, I was starting to remember why we had broken up in the first place. Nick could make my body quiver with a single glance, but he was selfish and jealous and could be self-absorbed to the point of being boring. Maybe it was time to consider finding someone else to share those lonely nights, someone with whom I could actually envision a future.

STILL, I HAD SURPRISED MYSELF by giving my phone number to Cat’s friend Max. Based on looks alone, he wasn’t the type of guy I was usually attracted to. That type of guy was—well, Nick. Genetically blessed gym rats with Kanye West–sized egos and possible drinking problems. Max wasn’t bad-looking—far from it, actually—but he wasn’t as glaringly handsome as Nick. He also didn’t have Nick’s sense of style—the shirt and pants he wore to the Rosalind preview were fine, although they could have used a good pressing, but he had paired them with beat-up Vans. Vans. Like some sort of mid-90s skater. But I’d felt like he was really listening to me during our brief chat at the museum, and when he called the day after the preview to ask me out, I found myself smiling at the sound of his voice.

And now, as I finished dusting highlighter on my cheekbones—using my favorite splurgy Guerlain Météorites rather than the free highlighter stick I’d been sent by a brand hoping to partner with me—I realized I was looking forward to the date. If nothing else, I knew it wouldn’t be another boring restaurant date. Max didn’t seem the sort to parade me to a high-end restaurant in order to show off an encyclopedic knowledge of wine—Vans, hello—and when I had specifically asked if we would be going out to dinner, he said he had something else in mind. His vagueness made selecting an outfit somewhat difficult, but I had gone with my favorite black jumpsuit, a piece that could read as dressy or casual depending on the situation.