I try not to worry about where he just got home from. A date? I wait precisely three minutes before typing a response so I don’t appear too eager. It’s important that I play this right. I get one shot at Blake.

“Can I come over? There’s something I need to say to you,” I text.

He writes back faster this time. “Sure,” he says. He gives me his address.

The rest of the subway ride is a blur: I pop an Altoid, check my reflection in my phone, use the tweezers in my purse to remove a stray eyebrow hair, take my birth control when my regular alarm goes off at 9 p.m. I try not to dwell on the nerves sprawling across my gut.

When the train stops at Eighty-Sixth Street, I exit the station. I have to map Blake’s cross streets on my phone; I’m not used to the Upper East Side, this neighborhood full of stately cream-colored granite buildings and designer flagship stores and foreign embassies proudly draped with colorful flags. When I see a liquor store, I dart in to pick up a bottle of wine; I figure it’s the least I can offer Blake. Because the thing is, my plan isn’t much of an actual plan at this point. I can seduce him over wine first and figure out what to say next.

Blake’s building has a uniformed doorman to preside over the gleaming lobby. He asks for my name and calls Blake for approval before he waves me toward the elevator. The phone call embarrasses me, somehow, as if the doorman can see just how undignified I am by imposing on Blake like this. In the mirrored elevator, I press fourteen for his floor—not the penthouse, but certainly not cheap, either—and flip my head over to fluff up my hair at the roots. It’s a trick that Mom taught me before my first boy/girl party in middle school; she says she learned it when she was my age, from Farrah Fawcett in a magazine. I catch my reflection: a little wild-eyed, a little frizzy, in black pants with a tote bag—not exactly Farrah Fawcett. The doors ding open. It’s time to go.

I find Blake’s door toward the end of the hall and knock. He opens it right away. I’m struck all over again by how handsome he is. He’s in charcoal gray dress pants and his tie is loosened at the collar. At first glance, I’m utterly stunned that I rebuffed his kiss on Saturday. He hesitates ever so slightly before leaning across the threshold to give me a one-armed hug. And then, there, the awkwardness between us hits me. Something about our conversation, our connection, our chemistry is stilted.

I’m going to fix this.