I could go straight upstairs and go to bed, but I feel restless. I walk across the street to Golden Years, the bar where I discovered that Holden was engaged. (I cannot get over that.) There’s nothing particularly special about Golden Years—it looks like any beloved local watering hole: glossy dark wood floors, lights strung up over the bar, well-worn booths with black-and-white posters hung above each one. But it’s my go-to bar because it’s nearby and reliably chill—I never have to shout over loud music or dodge heinous crowds. In this neighborhood, that’s a feat. The cheap but perfect mozzarella sticks are simply an added bonus.

When I push open the door and feel the sweet rush of air-conditioning, I glance at the booths, but take a seat at the bar. I don’t bother grabbing a drink menu—this isn’t the place for a froufrou cocktail or a glass of wine, unless you’re okay with up-charged screw-top bottles of Chateau Diana. I have a usual beer order here. I scroll through Instagram on my phone until a bartender comes by.

“Hey, what can I get you?” he asks.

He looks vaguely familiar: a mop of dark hair; sweet, brown eyes; a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up. It takes me a moment to place him, but of course, I know him from here. He was the bartender who served me and that awful date. His name is Raj.

“Hi, one Brooklyn Bel Air Sour, please,” I order.

He nods and goes to retrieve it. When he returns, he pours the bottle into a glass for me and keeps steady eye contact with the drink while he asks, “What, no whiskey this time?”

So I’m not the only one who remembers that night. Raj slides the bottle and the glass across the bar to me and finally looks up, giving me a small, tight smile.

“I think you were my bartender last time,” I say.

“You were here with that short, drunk, angry dude who left you with the whole bill, right?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

I take a heavy sip of my beer. The fruity, sour notes make today’s stress fizz away. “That’s me,” I say.

He shakes his head slightly, like he’s holding in a laugh. “How’d that go for you?”

“Oh, we’re very much in love,” I deadpan.

“So, what, you’re meeting a date here tonight?” he asks.

I slurp down a healthy amount of beer so I don’t snort. “Uh, no.”

“Meeting a friend?”

“Nope. I just wanted to chill with a beer. And maybe talk to someone?”

“Chill as long as you’d like,” he offers. “I like when customers hang out. Keeps things interesting.”