I wandered up to the bar, where a tattooed woman with a short black pixie cut was slowly twisting a cork out of a bottle. Next to me, a couple leaned in close to each other, knees touching, and it took me a second to recall the last time I’d been on a date. It had been over four months ago, with a guy I met at a trivia night at a bar downtown with some work friends. We’d gotten drinks in the East Village, made out on a bench in Tompkins Square Park, and set up plans to meet for dinner the next week. He texted me three days later to cancel, because he was moving back in with his ex-girlfriend.

“Just a club soda with lime,” I said, and the bartender nodded, expressionless. I left ten dollars on the bar and scanned the booths but didn’t see Lola anywhere. The front lounge area extended back into what looked like an even more intimate space, the walls lined with flickering candles. I grabbed my drink and walked into the darkness, past the bathrooms, as Morrissey’s wail drifted from a speaker somewhere. I stood there for a second, letting my eyes adjust.

Soon, the shapes of people turned into actual humans, and I spotted her, tucked into a corner, all sparkling and blond against the bloodred velvet booth. Her hand was gently resting on the thigh of a dark-haired woman with a long ponytail, whose dimples were bright enough to spot even in the murky, low light. She was leaning into Lola, her lips dancing dangerously close to her neck, at that spot where even a breath feels like an invitation for more.

My eyes rested on them for only a few seconds, but it was long enough for an odd pang to split my chest. Their intimacy was erotic, electric, and something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Lola was in trouble all right—just not the kind that called for a best-friend intervention. I turned to walk back toward the bar, grabbing my phone out of my bag to text Cleo, but I had no signal. Stupid sexy dungeon of wine and hot people and romance.

I stepped toward the hallway, drink at my lips, the hint of melancholy toying at my stomach. And then—slam. I walked straight into the side of someone’s body, my soda splashing up onto both of us.

“Oh my god, I’m so—” I looked up to apologize, and the eyes looking back at me were familiar.

I was too surprised to make it to the word sorry. There was Hot Suit Hayes Montgomery the Third, standing right in front of me. What kind of cruel joke was the universe playing on me tonight?

He blinked once. I opened my mouth to say something—like “Hi” or “Hey” or “What the hell are you doing here?”—but instead, I just laughed.