Soon enough, it’s time to board the train. I consider telling him that I need to sit in the quiet car so I can get some work done ahead of the weekend, but the excuse feels wrong. I know he’s looking forward to spending time together; I can tell from the sweet way he keeps bringing up stories and jokes and snaking his hand around my hips to fit it into my back pocket. Quarantining myself in silence in the quiet car would only drive a wedge between us now, even if the idea of four hours of peace to think about my true intentions honestly sounds like heaven. So I follow him to sit wherever he’d like. After the conductor comes to scan our tickets, Blake pulls a screw-top bottle of white wine and two Styrofoam Dunkin’ Donuts cups out of his bag.

“This is the best way to do the Amtrak,” he says, handing me one. “Trust me, I’ve got years of practice.”

“Cheers,” I say, maybe a little too forcefully.

Honestly, the wine does help calm my nerves. I try to relax and enjoy the fact that I’ve miraculously landed exactly where so many girls want to be: heading home to meet my charming, hot, successful boyfriend’s family, likely with a ring burning a hole somewhere in his luggage.

Four hours later, we’ve drained the bottle and we’re pulling into Boston’s South Station. Blake takes my hand and weaves us through the crowd, holding the orchid aloft above our heads. He looks like he belongs here, even more so than he does in New York. He’s one of a dozen guys streaming off the train like salmon in Nantucket red shorts, clutching L.L.Bean bags and Dunkin’ Donuts cups. I flash back to visiting Holden’s family in LA. Even if he claimed he didn’t fit in there, that trip filled in all the blank details about him: I suddenly understood why he whined for tacos when he was drunk, and why he scoffed at the frigid summer ocean that kissed the Maine shoreline. I can only imagine the same will happen this weekend with Blake.

Outside the station, his mom rises from a navy sedan dressed head to toe in plum Lululemon Lycra and gives us a big wave. Blake makes quick strides to meet her and envelops her in a hug.

“Gosh, you brought me flowers!” his mom crows, ruffling his hair. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.”

I stand off to the side, waiting to be introduced.

“Mom, these are actually from Eliza. Mom, Eliza. Eliza, Mom,” he says.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Barrett,” I say, extending my hand.