As we walk together from the bars to the door, I try to pretend that everything is fine and normal, and that I haven’t spent the past two weeks wishing for another opportunity to spend time alone with him. When I duck into the changing room to pick up my parka and purse, I spend an extra thirty seconds fixing my ponytail and putting on a coat of mascara from the tube I find in the bottom of my bag. This is not a date, I remind myself as I lacquer up my eyelashes.

I find Ryan in the lobby, leaning against the wall and looking at his phone. There’s something casually intimate about the way he waits for me; it’s something Tyler did when I met him after football practice. But I can’t let myself think that way.

“Hey,” he says, straightening up when he sees me. “I was thinking I can follow you in my car?”

“Sure thing. Let’s go.”

He tails me across town, and I try not to look back at his reflection in my rearview mirror too often. I also refrain from turning on the radio, in case he gets an embarrassing glimpse of me bopping my head along to the music. I try to remember exactly how messy the apartment was when I left this morning. I don’t think there are any random bras tossed over the arm of the couch, but I could be wrong.

I meet him in my driveway, and we climb the stairs to my apartment together. This is not a date, I remind myself, as I unlock my front door and usher a handsome, funny gentleman inside. This is my first time inviting a guest over to my new apartment, and it’s a little nerve-wracking. I distract myself by babbling to Ryan about the tortellini soup recipe I was planning to try out tonight.

“So, it’s actually a good thing you’re here, because it was so much soup to make for just one person,” I explain.

“Glad to hear I’m good for something,” he says.

I sift through my fridge and cabinets, picking out the right ingredients to make the dinner. Cooking will keep me busy in front of Ryan, which is a relief because it’s jarring to see him sit on one of the yellow bar stools in my kitchen, watching me work.

“Hey, do you want some wine?” I ask.

I hope he’ll say yes, so I can have some, too. It’ll take the edge off.

“Yeah, I could do a glass,” he says.

I find a bottle of red wine in the cabinet and give us each a generous pour. The first sip is so flavorful, that alone calms me down a notch.

There’s a lull in the conversation as I start to peel and chop an onion. The apartment feels quiet without Sara here.