“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”

The man, who’s named Jake according to his name tag, applies my wristband in about two seconds flat, smiles, and says, “Let’s talk more inside” before sealing the quick interaction with a wink. I forgot that every philanthropic action tonight isn’t about being nice; it’s about potentially getting laid. It’s like night one of The Bachelorette here and that was this guy’s staged limo exit. In which case, I wish I just gave my molars a chance to help adhere the damn thing to my wrist instead of letting the a-little-too-smiley “Jake” think I actually care to talk to him more inside.

Once appropriately tagged and banded, I look up and realize that Casey has already beelined it onto the ship without me. Although she’s probably at the bar, I don’t want to risk waltzing into the lion’s den solo, so I take out my phone to shoot her a text—there’s too much noise for my Apple Watch to pick up my voice. In doing so, I see that I have one sitting in my inbox from Brian. I must have been too busy fidgeting with my wristband to have noticed it come in.

Did you decide about the plot? it says.

Crap. The truth is, I—

Haven’t even thought about it? his next text says.

Sry, I say back before further questioning.

It’s fine.

I imagine the sinking look on his face once he realized I hadn’t thought about the plot on Gower Street yet. I know he has to get back to the crypt broker (god, that sounds so weird) tomorrow, but I just can’t tell my mind to process this any faster.

Casey grabs my shoulder with one hand and holds a piña colada with the other. “Thought I lost you,” she says as I cut my phone to black. “Let’s get inside before I get yelled at for taking my drink off the ship.”

She escorts me onto the boat and I soak it all in. The inside of it is like a casino meets hotel lobby meets man cave.

“So I signed us up for the first round of all-inclusive speed dating,” Casey says. “It starts in ten minutes.”

“No, thanks. I’m good,” I say. She gives me a look like my answer isn’t the hall pass I think it is.

“What part of ‘I signed us up’ didn’t you understand? We’re doing it,” she dictates.

“I don’t even know what it is. All-inclusive speed dating? Does that mean my nausea comes with an actual vomit bag? Because it would be great if that was the case.”

Just then, I feel the boat jerk forward. We have officially set sail on the open water. I flag a circling cocktail waitress who looks like she’s been plucked straight out of The Flamingo in Las Vegas to work the event tonight and order a bourbon and ginger. If anything, the ginger ale will quell my stomach nerves while the bourbon numbs the mounting fact that I don’t want to be here. Why couldn’t our first hang sesh as roommates have been a 3-D movie or one of those BYOB wine painting classes?