I have no plans. Three days ago, as I slathered peanut butter on a banana and slid out the side door to the garage, Mom and Dad suggested that we all watch the ball drop on TV, like we used to. That’s how I spent almost every New Year’s Eve as a teenager, back when I lived at home and had no social life outside of the gym. My new life mirrors my old one all too well. If I were still living in LA, I might try to slither into a sequined minidress, pulled down tight around my thighs, and dance while clutching an overfilled champagne flute as the clock struck midnight. I can’t do that here. I have no clue if Boston even has clubs, and if it does, there’s no way I want to brave the line outside with bare legs on a winter night.

“Uhhh…” I try to stretch out the word in order to buy myself time to generate a response that saves me from looking like a loser with no friends, but nothing comes to mind. “Well… not really?”

I’m grateful that his expression doesn’t flicker with pity.

“My friend is having a party tonight,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, exhaling and feeling my cheeks flushing pink. “You don’t have to invite me out just because I have nothing better to do.”

“No, no, I’m saying…” He chuckles and looks down. “I’m saying you could come? If you want to.”

The way his voice lilts, I get the sense that he’s not just being nice. He sounds nervous, like he’s actually hoping I say yes. I’ve never seen a hint of vulnerability from him before, but I like it. Part of me wants to spit out a reassuring answer quickly so he doesn’t have to feel flustered; part of me marvels at seeing him like this.

“Or, you know, if you’d rather do something else, that’s cool, too,” he rushes to add.

It’s funny, I guess, the way we’ve spent hundreds of hours together at this point, and yet we’re still not quite comfortable around each other. Our lunch two weeks ago was a good step forward, but we have a ways to go.

“That sounds like fun,” I say, aiming to sound cool and confident, instead of overly eager. I’m not sure I land the right effect. “I could swing by.”

“Sweet,” he says, knocking the side of the stereo with his fist. “I’ll text you the details.”

A million questions start to unfurl on my tongue: What should I wear? Should I bring drinks? Who’s your friend? Where’s the party?… Is this a date? But by the time I work up the courage to spit out even the most basic ones, Ryan is already straightening up and heading across the gym.