I am just about to flee back to Carmen when she returns, this time flanked by two guys in Nantucket red shorts. They introduce themselves as Jordan and Kyle. Soon, I’m fielding three offers to buy me drinks, and trying desperately to remember which nearly identical jawline matches up with which guy’s name. It’s not the worst way I’ve ever spent a Thursday night.

“You’re beautiful,” Jordan says, leaning in two inches closer than a stranger ever should. “You know, I know a thing or two about beauty. My grandfather was a pretty serious art collector back in the day.”

Kyle wilts ever so slightly by his side, as if he’s heard this line before. He dips his head and fiddles with the straw in his gin and tonic.

“Like, he was really tight with Jackson Pollock before anyone looked at his stuff,” Jordan continues, not waiting for me to respond or nod or react in any way. “I could take you over to the Met sometime, show you some of my family’s contributions.”

“Mmm,” I say noncommittally.

There’s something very sad about a dude who believes his best chance to land a date is to brag about his grandfather’s accomplishments more than a half century earlier.

Kyle works up the courage to jump in. “When did you say this wedding was?”

“Uh . . . Saturday? Saturday night,” I say.

“In the city?” he asks.

“Greenpoint,” I say, just to test how they’d respond to the suggestion of visiting Brooklyn.

To get there from here, you’d have to transfer from the 6 train to the L to the G—it’s basically impossible.

Jordan wrinkles his nose. “Far.”

“We’ll be out east by Saturday,” Kyle adds.

“We could always double back in your uncle’s jet,” Jordan counters.

“Not if it’s raining,” Kyle says.

At this, Jordan and Kyle both nod their heads heavily and sip their gin and tonics in silence.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to . . .” I trail off. They don’t seem to notice that I don’t complete the sentence. Carmen is talking to two guys by the door, and I pull her away from them.

“Excuse us for one sec, gentlemen,” she says.

“Okay, Chris Harrison, let’s talk. These dudes are duds, and you know it.”

“They’re all suuuuper eligible bachelors who would look amazing on Instagram and are dumb enough to not question whatever scheme you’re cooking up,” she counters. “Isn’t that what you’re looking for?”

“They’re just so . . . boring,” I whine. “Keith, Jordan, and Kyle do not get roses.”

“Right, because your whole ‘tortured artist who hasn’t showered in three days’ thing has been working out really well for you.” She raises one smug eyebrow.