“I’m glad we got high together,” she says. “But I’m even more glad it wore off, so I could experience this for real, like you said. Things like this—the surprise of it, the beauty of it—don’t need enhancements and I think sometimes I need to be reminded of that. Of what’s out there.”

“Leaving your emotions up to fate, was that how you put it?”

“Yeah. Exactly.” She pauses. “And I’m also glad we sobered up so that I could tell you the truth. So it’s really for real. Being here with you.”

I smile at her. In front of us, a couple starts to kiss, which reminds me of something I read recently. “You know, the Promenade was listed in an article: ‘The Top Ten Places to Kiss in Brooklyn.’ ”

Zoey cuts her head to me. “Is that an invitation?”

“Absofuckinglutely,” I reply as I place my hands around her waist, dip her back, and bring my lips to hers. We could be in our own postcard right now, especially when it starts to drizzle. Sure, in real life, it’s kind of annoying to be pelted with cold rain, but in the picture postcard version, it would only enshroud us in a light mist and add a sheen to the concrete to make it that much more romantic.

I guess I’m not the only one to think so. The other kissing couple in front of us breaks apart. The guy laughs and says, “I guess I better make this quick.” And then he’s down on one knee.

Rain or not, everyone surrounding them pauses for a moment to stop and stare and smile, maybe something like Zoey’s Hollywood sign. There’s applause when the girl squeals and says yes. Someone even hands them an umbrella as it’s clear they came unprepared. Someone else offers to take their photo.

Zoey looks up at me. “Don’t worry. I’m not expecting you to copy everything they do,” she says wryly.

I smile. What I don’t tell her is that I considered proposing to Jordan here too before I ultimately chose the Mexican restaurant. For a split second, I get a flash of the sliding door version of my life, the one where Jordan and I are still together, reminiscing about our own romantic moment here. The version of my life in which I’m about to be a dad.

A rumble of thunder saves me from my own treacherous brain, and then the rain starts pouring down in earnest. “Should we go home?” Zoey asks.

I nod and we start running toward the subway.

* * *

Is it a little strange that we’re going to the same “home,” despite having only gotten together the night before? A little. It’s also convenient.

Best. Walk of Shame. Ever.