I make myself a plate and pop it into the microwave, trying to figure out what to say to him as the appliance hums in the background.

“Ryan invited me to his friend’s place in Somerville,” I explain. “I’ll take an Uber there.”

Dad reaches for his wallet and fishes out two twenties.

“No, Dad,” I say, laughing. “Uber doesn’t take cash. But I got it. I’m good. I’m making money now, you know.”

After Dad and I finish our pasta, we join Mom in the living room to watch TV. The crowd packed into Times Square looks miserable in tonight’s frigid, slushy weather. Their “2020” glasses are a jarring reminder that the Olympics are just months away. Between the countdown clock in the corner of the TV screen, ticking away the minutes to midnight, and the uncomfortable sensation of my pleather waistband digging into my stomach when I normally sit here in sweats, it’s impossible to forget that I have somewhere to go. I’m anxious to leave; I’m nervous about the prospect of heading into a party where I only know Ryan, and I’m curious to see how the night will unfold. The year ahead feels like a fresh start, and I want it to hurry up and arrive already.

Mom and Dad encourage me to leave at nine thirty, but I force myself to wait at least another twenty minutes before I dare call the Uber. I don’t want to show up embarrassingly early. When my driver arrives, he grumbles about traffic but plays a comforting mix of pop hits from the ’80s and ’90s as the car whisks me through the suburbs and into the city. If I were meeting Tyler at a party, I’d text him a heads-up: On my way. But I don’t know Ryan that well. My finger hovers over his name in my phone. I do my best to resist the urge.

Finally, at ten thirty, the car stops in front of a three-story house with a strip of a snowy front lawn. A group of people cluster in the wide bay window of the first-floor apartment; that must be it. I scurry up the front walk, climb the short set of stairs to the porch, and take a deep breath before ringing the buzzer.

A trim, dark-haired guy comes to the door a few seconds later. His mouth parts halfway, and he gives me a quizzical expression. “Hi?”

I glance past his shoulder to see if I can spot Ryan, but I’m not tall enough to see beyond this guy’s bulky frame. “Hi, uh, Ryan invited me?”

“Oh, hey, c’mon inside,” he says, stepping back to welcome me into the apartment. His expression softens. “I’m Goose. This is my place.”

“Goose?” I ask.

“Mike Guzowski, but everyone calls me Goose,” he explains, gesturing to the group of people gathered in his living room.