Oh. Huh. I side-eye him across the center console. The Burberry coat is starting to look an awful lot like a snapback and a pair of Adidas sliders with socks.

“Like, he has floor seats to the Blazers,” Andrew starts, “but did he ever let anyone use his tickets when he was in Europe? Never. The seats would just sit there, empty. And he banned me from the vacation home in France because of one incident involving absinthe, even though what happened to the head on that fountain sculpture wasn’t even my fault. And nothing I did could ever live up to his impossible expectations.”

I try to recalibrate for this new frat-bro version of Andrew that has materialized in the seat next to me. “I know a thing or two about bastard family members,” I say.

I suppose if your primary method of communication is seductive arches of the eyebrow, this passes as emotional vulnerability, because Andrew’s face softens as he reaches over and puts a hand on my knee next to my backpack. “Thanks.”

I stare at his hand, hanging out on my knee uninvited. I’m not sure if this is an old-man-in-a-bathtub situation or simply how allosexual people express gratitude, but I cross my legs so his hand has to fall away. Out the window, I see the Burnside Bridge in the distance as we cross the Willamette. “So. Where are we going, exactly?”

It turns out our destination is a laughably upscale bar in the Pearl District packed with working professionals, blue mood lighting, and kitschy Christmas decorations. My Moscow mule costs fifteen dollars, but Andrew whips out his black AmEx like a knight in shining Tom Ford. While he charms the surly Portland bartender, I snap a discreet picture and send it to both Ari and Meredith.

Caption: My evening plans.

Their responses range from romantically hopeful (Ari) to mildly perverted (Meredith). Andrew grabs our drinks and cuts through the crowd of people around the bar. He confidently seizes a cramped table in a corner from a couple who is getting ready to leave, and I can’t imagine moving through the world like that. He’s so fucking sure of where he belongs.

I wish I could be like that, but I’m overwhelmed by the newness of everything. The newness of this bar, where I don’t know the protocol for finding a table. The newness of this man, who put his hand on my knee and keeps smiling at me. The newness of leaving my apartment for anywhere other than work for the first time in weeks. New sounds, new smells, new social rules. Before we even reach the table, I take three giant sips of my Moscow mule to calm my nerves.

“Is this a date?” I blurt before he’s finished stripping off his jacket.

He raises one black eyebrow at me and smirks. “Is that… relevant to the enjoyment of your mule?”