Richard Prescott, the firm’s founder and Andrew’s grandfather, died from pancreatic cancer last week. It was on the front page of The Oregonian.

I set his green matcha latte on the counter, and Andrew reaches for it, giving me a playful wink. “Greg, you wanted me to check on the electrical issue in the kitchen?”

Greg nods obsequiously, and Andrew follows him through a swinging door into the back office. As soon as they’re gone, Ari releases a knowing tut. I turn. “What?”

“As your best friend, I think you should date Andrew Kim-Prescott,” she announces.

“Why do you keep calling yourself my best friend?”

“Do you have other friends in Portland?”

“That’s—” a fair point.

Ari squints as if contemplating it further. “Yes, absolutely. I’ve decided. You should definitely date Andrew. Andrew would help you shake up your life. He’s charming and well-connected and fun, and you’re… well, you know.” The opposite of that.

I find myself thinking about last Christmas again—about the bridge and the snow, about thinking I could become a different version of myself, even if only for one day. “Andrew Kim-Prescott does not date people like me.”

“He winked at you.”

“He probably had something in his eye. Dust keeps gathering in these sprigs of holly, and I’m the only one who cleans them.”

“Come on. You know you’re adorable. You’re tall. You’ve got this thick, luscious hair going for you, and huge”—I self-consciously cross my arms over my ample chest—“blue eyes,” Ari finishes. I drop my arms. “You’re like if Zooey Deschanel stopped taking her Lexapro.”

I hold my hands in a prayer pose beneath my chin. “My kingdom for off-brand escitalopram.”

“See? That whole quirky vibe. Men love that shit.”

“I’m not quirky. I have generalized anxiety disorder, and trust me, there is nothing cute about it.” Unless you find chronic gastrointestinal distress, anxious vomiting, and shutting down at the first sign of conflict cute.

“Dude, this is Portland. We all have GAD. Get yourself a therapist already.”

“I have a therapist,” I mumble. Her name is Anna, I see her twice a month through an online service. Based on the fact that she told me I’m “thriving” at our last session, she’s obviously awful at her job.

“I think you should ask Andrew out,” Ari reiterates.

There is nothing worse than happily coupled people meddling in the romantic lives of the perpetually single. Though, I guess in Ari’s case, it’s happily throupled since she’s been dating a married lesbian couple for the past two years. They both come into Roastlandia sometimes, and the three of them are sickeningly cute together. “Ari. You’ve known me for nine months now. Do you really think I’ve ever asked someone out? Besides, Andrew isn’t really my type.”