“I’ll eat a Bloomin’ Onion with you,” I say, shifting in my seat. Snow begins to fall harder, thicker, as he turns toward me. “We can stand under the stars on a balcony.”

“Really?” A luminous grin spreads across his handsome face.

“Sure, why not?” Even though the thought of it makes me jittery for some reason, makes my foot apply more pressure to the gas pedal. Whoa there, I tell myself, slowing down.

“We probably won’t have time for real magic camp,” he says quietly after a while, mostly to himself. What a picture he makes. Honestly. I am sitting next to a magic man with the most devastating cheekbones the world has ever known, soulful hazel eyes that I really don’t think have always been hazel, lips that can only be described as “pillowy,” and cute, floppy hair. He’s cologne advertisement handsome. And he is visibly destroyed by the thought of missing out on learning fake magic, because he has seen all that humanity has to offer, and assigns the most importance to what he views as the very best parts of humanity. It’s a perspective that can only arise from observing the world for thousands and thousands of years and evaluating for himself what matters most in life.

“Maybe we can find some magic trick tutorials to watch on YouTube?” I offer him a smile and catch myself imagining that this is my real life. How nice would it be to share a Bloomin’ Onion with somebody . . . nice?

My focus cuts to the ring on my left hand, a veritable disco ball, and I slip sideways into wondering if anyone will ever love me enough to offer me a real one. Aside from the three men who have proposed, of course. Among my social set, people get engaged just to get engaged. It’s a whimsical flight of fancy that dies before it can become real. We celebrate our engagements with parties, demanding congratulations from people we haven’t spoken to in years, but when someone asks When’s the big day we only have a vague Oh, probably springtime . . . a year or two from now. Or three. We’re really not in a rush.

None of my engagements have been real engagements. My engagement to Hall is the least real of them all, and yet, he’s the best person I’ve ever been with. He pores over his list of hopes and dreams, his features serene, and I have to remind myself I’m not with a man like that. When I visualize Hall’s perfect match, she looks like a woman from a Hallmark Christmas movie: She loves baking cupcakes for her many friends, has loosely curled blond hair, and never stops smiling. She organizes toy drives for orphans and is incapable of being mean. Her name is probably Tess.

I have plenty of good attributes, of course—I’m always down for a fun time, I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue, and I have a knack for finding hidden gems when traveling. But I’ll admit I’m probably a tad more self-involved than is decent and am fond of revenge schemes. I have never baked a cupcake for a loved one. I glance sideways at Hall and twist my lips. Men like him don’t want women like me.