I order myself a ginger ale and then sit in uncomfortable silence while the others quickly pound their first glass of cheap beer. I’m not sure if it’s because Dylan is in love with Andrew, who’s engaged to me, or if it’s because I’m secretly in love with my fake fiancé’s sister, or if it’s because I kissed my fiancé’s sister last night beneath the mistletoe, but everything feels extremely awkward in our booth as the others attempt mindless small-talk. No one seems keen to address the trapezoidal elephant in the bar.

Finally, Jack says something interesting enough to distract us from our suffering. “Dyl, why don’t we work on your dating profile?”

And then everything gets exponentially more awkward. “Oh, uh, nah,” Dylan sputters, scratching the back of their neck and deliberately not looking at Andrew. “I really don’t want to think about online dating right now.”

“Come on.” Jack holds out a hand to demand Dylan’s phone. “There’s no time like the present.”

Andrew, who has consumed his second glass of beer in the last ninety seconds, belches. “I thought you were seeing someone. Allie or Amy or—”

“Alice,” Dylan grumbles. “And we broke up.”

“They weren’t good enough for you,” Jack says fiercely, a hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “And they were an idiot for ending things.”

“Alice wasn’t an idiot. They just weren’t interested in commitment. So, you know…” Dylan takes a drink of their beer and shoots Andrew a look over the rim of the cup. “My type.”

Jack, somehow completely oblivious to the Andrew-Dylan dynamics, continues. “Your type is serial monogamists who will carry your beets at the farmer’s market, and I have it on good authority that you meet those people on Hinge.”

I briefly contemplate the possibility that Jack is on Hinge, finding hot women to carry her beets, and frantically reach for my drink at the thought. Except it’s ginger ale, and taking a swig doesn’t have the same effect.

Dylan glares at Jack. “I hate dating apps.”

“Unfortunately, that’s how you meet people these days. You’re not going to have a meet-cute in Cathedral Park.”

Or in Powell’s Books. I take another swig of ginger ale.

“Being bisexual on the dating apps is hard enough, but add to that being overtly not white, nonbinary, and monogamous? In Portland? Do you know how white and poly the Portland queer dating scene is?”

“I hated being bisexual on the apps, too.” I attempt to commiserate.

Under the table, Jack presses her knee closer against mine, denim against denim. I’m not sure if this is accidental or on purpose, but I accidentally-on-purpose rub my knee against hers. Soberness is a weak shield, apparently, when Jack’s knees are involved.

“Hinge profile,” Jack orders. “Now.”