I can actually see that thought sink in as he processes it; his self-conscious lip bite is replaced by a self-satisfied smile. He runs a hand through his hair.

There’s a blob in my peripheral vision. I turn to realize a customer is awkwardly hovering a few feet away from us, clutching two empty beer bottles.

“Uh, can I get the check?” he asks, swiveling his glance from Raj to me and back again.

“Oh, yeah, sorry, dude,” Raj says, grabbing the empty bottles and scrambling around the side of the bar. “Remind me of the name on your tab?”

I slide back onto the stool and spin around to lean my elbows on the bar. I feel loose and light and buzzing with good vibes. Since my breakup, I’ve felt like I was wading through molasses: sad, sluggish, stuck. Tonight, all of that has changed. I thrive on making shit happen.

Raj returns eventually. He has to work for another hour and asks if I’ll hang out with him. I say yes, of course, and he automatically pours me a drink. He’s not really supposed to drink on the job, but he pours himself one, too.

“What? We’re celebrating,” he says, clinking his glass toward mine.

In between him serving customers, we catch up on everything we’ve missed. He tells me about scaling down his shifts at Golden Years while taking on new clients. He’s coding two small projects in addition to Carmen’s now: a sleek calendar app and the fundraising site for a woman running for state senator next year. Thanks to the influx of cash, he’s considering taking some time off for a vacation soon—he’s thinking maybe Berlin, if he can get a group of friends together. I’m less psyched to fill him in on my life, considering it’s nothing but stories about wedding planning and impending professional and financial doom.

“Can I ask what happened with Blake?” he says, squinting like he’s not fully sure he wants to hear the answer.

“We’re over,” I say. “We weren’t ever right for each other. It was a mistake.”

“And the wedding? You called that off?” he asks.

I hesitate. “Not exactly,” I admit.

I can see the question forming on his lips. “Isn’t your wedding . . . soon?” he asks.

“Next Saturday,” I say.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Is that, like . . .” He pauses to count. “Nine days away?”

“Yep.”

After another pause, he asks, “So, what are you going to do?”

“I’m out of ideas,” I say, shaking my head sadly. “I don’t know.”

He screws up his mouth and looks at me strangely. His eyes twinkle.

“What?” I ask.

“I have an idea,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“I could pretend to marry you,” he says.

I laugh. He doesn’t.

“Dude, that is way too much,” I insist.