I struck a pose in my bathroom’s full-length mirror—one foot forward, hip angled, shoulders back, chin down—and took a picture. I quickly filtered it and was adding text reading First Date! when I paused. Did I really want to share this with the world? For the last several years, I had broadcast so much of my life that I no longer stopped to consider whether everything merited sharing. Maybe this was something that should remain private—if for no other reason than I had no idea how this date was going to go, and I didn’t want a flock of virtual onlookers watching and judging. I put my phone down. There would be plenty of time to recap the date tomorrow—by which time I would know how to spin it.

I returned to my laptop, open on my small desk, where I was streaming an eclectic Spotify playlist of some of my favorites from multiple genres. As I shut down the computer, my phone buzzed with a text message from Nick.

What time should I come over tonight?

I laughed. Of course Nick just assumed he was welcome whenever he wanted.

Tonight’s no good, I typed in response.

Why not? You have a date or something?

I sent him a kissy-face emoji.

Immediately, my phone rang. I rolled my eyes as I answered, “Hi, Nicky.”

“You’re kidding,” he said flatly. “You have a date?”

“It’s true. I’m being wined and dined.” I paused. “I think.”

“You think?”

“I’m not sure what our plans are yet.”

“Christ, Audrey. You can’t just go off with some stranger without knowing where you’re going, and telling someone where you’ll be. Don’t you ever watch Dateline?”

“I’m not going to get serial killed, Nick. Besides, this guy isn’t really a stranger. He’s friends with Cat.”

He laughed. “Oh. Oh. Well. I’m sure he’s a winner, then.”

“Don’t be a dick. Listen, as much as I would love to continue defending my choices with you, I’ve got to go.”

“Text me later so I know your head didn’t end up in this guy’s freezer.”

“Gross, Nick. I’m hanging up now.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I was stepping out of the Lyft in front of a four-story brick building—a four-story brick mansion, more accurately. We’d passed several embassies on the ride over to the address in Kalorama Heights, and, while I didn’t see a flagpole, I couldn’t help but wonder if this, too, was some sort of cultural destination. Maybe there was an event happening?

I rang the bell, all the while checking discreetly for plaques or other signage. I saw none, but was still surprised when Max, barefoot and wearing faded denim, answered the door. I stifled a smirk. The Vans were gone, but I wasn’t sure this was an improvement.

“Audrey,” he said, smiling warmly. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” I said, stepping onto the entry’s shiny wood floor. Beyond Max, I could see a sitting room and, beyond that, what looked like a kitchen. Was this his home? Even I, who had almost zero familiarity with DC real estate, could tell this was a pricey location. Max clearly wasn’t hurting for cash—despite his embarrassing shoe choice at the Rosalind preview, he must have been a donor to be there at all, and besides, he’d mentioned going to camp with Cat, and I knew Cat’s family was loaded.