Cleo replied with a row of thumbs-up emojis, and I clicked back over to my Instagram feed. I scrolled past pictures of a newly adopted puppy, someone’s meticulously drawn bullet journal, and a slideshow of a home renovation with way too many sliding barn doors. Nothing about this mindless parade of images was soothing tonight. How did I know so many people in loving relationships, with enough money to buy gorgeous houses, who also happened to look impossibly good in wide-brimmed hats?

I swiped over to the Search page and typed the name Hayes Montgomery. A private account popped up. It was probably better that I couldn’t get a firsthand glimpse into his perfect, gorgeous life. It would only make me feel worse. And besides, why was I still fixating on Hot Suit, anyway? I needed to get this guy out of my brain.

My skin crawled with the temptation of insecurity, the urge to listen to that voice in my head that liked to tell me I couldn’t carve out the career I wanted, couldn’t make it in New York, could never look good in impossibly wide-brimmed hats. I knew deep down that that voice was lying—though maybe not about the hat—and that it did me no good to believe it. But sometimes self-doubt was an easier path to take than blind confidence.

As I was staring at my phone, a text from my mom popped up: Thought you might like to know that Jeremy and his wife are expecting their first baby! A girl. Saw his mom at Stop & Shop. Love Mom.

But I did not, in fact, want to know that my high school boyfriend and his wife were having a kid while I was sitting alone, unemployed, eating the only meal out that I could realistically afford. I didn’t respond.

Slices finished, root beer guzzled, Instagram accounts muted, bathroom visited, I mapped out on my phone the bar where Lola was and realized it was even closer than I’d thought. I’d walked by it a million times when I used to work in SoHo at the Anthropologie store on West Broadway, right after college. Five sweaty blocks later, and I was standing out front. No windows for me to peek through. Crap.

From the outside, it seemed like a regular old bar, but opening the door revealed it to be one of those spots tailor-made for first dates. Red velvet lined the booths and barstools. The shelves behind the dark wooden bar sparkled with bottles of liquor. It looked cozy, and romantic, and dark. There was no way you could hang out in this place without making out with someone.