“You know, you showed up at my place last week. It’s my turn.”

“Oh, so we’re taking turns now,” I say, lifting my chin to look at him. It’s important that I understand his intentions so I can play this right.

His cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink. “I’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asks.

“Of course.” I lean my head onto the edge of his shoulder. It’s time to take a risk. I swallow and stare out at the sharp spikes of the Manhattan skyline to give me courage; I need to remember that I moved to New York to pursue my dreams for a reason, and that if I don’t try every goddamn trick in the book to secure my place in this city, it was pointless to come here at all. “You know, Blake, I like you.”

He grins. “Really,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.

“Like, like-like you,” I clarify.

“You like-like me,” he says. “I’m flattered.”

If he were a different person, it’d sound like he was mocking me. Isn’t this how third-graders talk about their crushes? But there’s a sweet note of pride in his voice that’s impossible to ignore. As much as I see him as a prize, he seems to see the same in me. It’s hard to wrap my head around—not just because Blake is such an obvious catch (look up “eligible bachelor” in the dictionary and you’ll literally see Blake’s face), but because for so long, dating in New York has felt like a series of men kicking me when I’m already down. Singledom in this city feels like an unfortunate game of bingo, and I’ve checked too many boxes for the game to be fun any longer: I’ve been stood up; I’ve suffered through dinners in total silence after it became clear that we shared radically incompatible political views; I’ve enjoyed four weeks of sweet, steady dates with a guy who seems like a gentleman—up until I get an angry Facebook message from his current girlfriend; I’ve had hookups that seem dangerously close to what some might call sexual assault.