“See you tonight!” he calls, stretching up to slap the top of the door frame as he disappears into the lobby.

Once I’m sure he’s gone, I turn to face the mirror that runs along one edge of the floor. I’m bare-faced, with a lifeless ponytail that probably should’ve been washed yesterday. Chalk dust and foam pit particles cling to my clothes. I have no idea what kind of party I’m in for, but I can guarantee that this look isn’t going to cut it. I head home, checking my phone at each red light, waiting for Ryan’s text.

There’s a message on my phone when I step out of the shower. I wipe the fog from my screen against the blue terry cloth of my towel and read Ryan’s text: a Somerville address I don’t recognize, 10 p.m., BYOB. Many of my former classmates moved to Somerville after college, especially the ones who stayed local for school. From what I know of it, it’s the kind of place with fixed-gear bikes and all-organic markets, not far from Harvard. It’s just bustling enough to feel hip—I think. I’ve never actually been.

I clutch the towel to my chest, shivering a little at the shock of cold air outside the shower, and head into my bedroom to find something to wear. My flimsy clubbing dresses are gone, but any of them probably would’ve looked desperate and out of place, anyway. Instead, I find a pair of pleather leggings and a silky black cami. I hesitate, wondering if my black knit sweater would be more appropriate. I rummage through a dresser drawer until I find it. The fabric feels comfortably thick under my fingers. Ryan is my coworker. But arms are just arms, aren’t they? And it’s New Year’s Eve. I push the sweater back into the drawer.

I blow-dry my hair, put on a tasteful layer of makeup, grab a bottle of wine from the liquor cabinet downstairs—though I need to blow a coat of dust off of it first—to stash in my purse, and then… wait for time to pass. It’s barely after eight. There was a time in my life when going out before midnight seemed lame. Now, the prospect of even making it to midnight seems questionable. I pad into the kitchen to scrounge for leftovers.

“You’re going out?” Dad asks, looking up over his glasses. He’s eating a plate of pasta with one hand and reading a magazine in the other.

“Yeah, if that’s… okay?” I ask tentatively.

He tilts his head. “I guess I can see how sitting around with your parents tonight probably isn’t your idea of fun.”

“Oh, come on, Dad,” I say, trying to force a laugh.

He shrugs. “Pasta’s in the fridge,” he says.