She pulls the black cord drawstring and tips the contents into her palm. I’ve given her a dainty, gold chain bracelet with a tiny chip of opal on it.

“Your birthstone, right?” I ask. I did my research.

She’s touched. “Yes, this is gorgeous. Thank you so much,” she gushes.

I help her clasp it on and we hug goodbye. From the photo shoot to the interview to the gift, I feel as if I’ve nailed today. For the first time in two hours, I exhale. I push through the revolving door of the grand lobby and exit onto bustling Eighth Avenue. I can see the expanse of Central Park two blocks to my left; the trees are newly green again. To my right, there’s a crowd of tourists streaming my way. I lean flat against the side of the building to catch up on my phone’s notifications: a busy mix of emails, Instagram likes, and texts—two from Carmen and one from Blake.

“Hey there, stranger. Found a plus-one for your friend’s wedding?”

I can’t help it—my lips curl into a pleased grin. Once upon a time, my impulse might have been to write back, “I did! How was your weekend? Didn’t you go on a trip? How was it? :)” But nearly a decade of dating in the city has taught me how to stretch out my interest like taffy: the less eager I appear up front, the longer I can capture a guy’s attention. I scale back my response.

“I did.”

“So the casting call worked?”

“Ha. I guess so.”

“Bummer—does that mean I can’t ask you out?”

I love my life.

“I never said that,” I type back.

It’s the first day of spring that hints at the summer to come. Sun beats down in steady golden rays on my bare legs. I hit Send on my message. And I watch his response bubble up.

• Chapter 5 •