“I think that was a line he gave girls so he never had to be Instagram-official with any of them, but yes,” I say. “Like he works for a really private hedge fund, or the FBI, or he’s a billionaire who thinks he’s above it all.”

“Right, because there are so many of those floating around,” she says, deadpan.

“What if he was a victim of a house fire and is recovering from debilitating injuries and isn’t ready to show his face yet?” I ask. “Or maybe that’s a little dark. What if he’s one of those off-the-grid types?”

Carmen rolls her eyes.

“Okay, okay, but seriously, what if I just find some aspiring actor to pose as my fake fiancé?” I ask. “I can throw a stick on Broadway and hit a dozen potential candidates.”

“Eh,” Carmen says, squinting. “Actors are flaky. And besides, do you really want to pay some rando off the street?”

I shrug. “Do you have a better plan?” I ask.

“I do,” she says. Her eyes sparkle dangerously. “I thought of it at work today, inspired by The Bachelorette.”

“Excuse me?”

“We get a dozen, two dozen, whatever, eligible dudes in one place, and you get to choose from all of them.”

“That sounds unreal. How are you expecting to pull that off?”

She grins. “It’s more real than paying someone off.”

The plan, I gather, goes like this: Carmen grabs my phone, pulls up Tinder, and tweaks my profile so I look like bait for future Stepford husbands, catnip to guys whose grandparents’ names adorn hospitals and who refer to the Hamptons vaguely as “out east.” I’m glad she explains this as she goes, or else I would’ve been offended when she deletes nearly every single photo from my existing profile. When she swipes, she’s like a NASCAR driver—making life-changing decisions at lightning speed as she careens around bachelors. She’s judicious, not generous. I trust she knows what she’s doing. She must know tricks I don’t, because by the time we order and finish a cheese plate, she’s amassed a pool of suitors who I’m sure consider themselves worthy of making the Forbes 30 Under 30 and Town & Country’s Top 50 Bachelors lists. I’m not so convinced. She launches into high flirt. She hides the phone from me, but I can see her type fiendishly fast, then press the phone to her chest to throw back her head and cackle. She signals for the check.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Dorrian’s. Two blocks from here.”

I can’t help but make a face.

“That’s why I didn’t tell you!” she says. She’s already fishing twenties out of her purse and gathering up her things. “We have two guys confirmed already to meet us there, and if they suck, I bet we can snag a bunch more once we’re on their home turf.”