I scurry across the street and up the stairs to my apartment. In my bathroom mirror, it’s clear that the past few weeks have been tough on me: my hair is greasy, my skin looks lifeless, and the bags under my eyes are a sad shade of blue. I jump into the fastest shower of my life so I can shampoo myself into something resembling a human again. When it’s time to towel off and start getting ready, it hits me: I have no idea what I’m getting ready for. Ninety percent of my time spent with Raj thus far has involved distracting him from bartending at Golden Years. I couldn’t even tell you if his go-to first date spot is a cocktail lounge, a dive bar, or a coffee shop—or if he even has a go-to first date spot.

“You said you had plans in mind?” I text Raj, clutching a towel to my chest and shivering. “What are they?”

He texts me a link and I open it. It’s an event at the House of Yes, the legendarily outrageous club in Bushwick, Brooklyn. I’ve been there for a few events before: the bar, performance space, and dance floor look like what would happen if Studio 54 had a baby with a circus. It appears that tonight’s event is something called the Poetry Brothel: a mash-up of poetry performance; burlesque; and campy, gothic theater. It’s a far cry from the American Heart Association Gala.

“. . . too much?” he texts.

“It’s perfect,” I write back.

This is my cue to go overboard: the next half hour is a blur of sea salt spray, purple eyeliner, and the perfume Carmen gave me for my birthday last year. I pause before selecting an outfit. What screams “I’m sorry, I’m glad we made up, thanks for offering to pretend to marry me?” I consider a few outfits before selecting something that feels simple and sexy: an off-the-shoulder black dress that’s understated enough that I can load up on fun costume jewelry. I put on color-blocked Lucite hoops and a rainbow channel-set band. I leave the engagement ring on my dresser; it feels off, somehow, to wave it in his face right now. I’m about to leave when the rumpled sheets and duvet on my bed catch my eye. I can’t say for sure what will happen with Raj tonight, but I’d feel better not leaving this one particular element up to chance. I take a minute to carefully make my bed. Then I grab my leather jacket from the hook by the door and head back to Golden Years. Adrenaline rushes through my body again. After years of forgettably mediocre dates, tonight could be the outing that changes everything. It could be monumental. If tonight goes well, our lives won’t ever be the same again. But, like, no pressure or anything.