The bar is easy to spot from the street: a slightly faded red façade shouts its name, and two adjacent windows are painted with cheerful yellow letters that read GOOD TIME SALOON and SAME OLD BRANDY’S. Inside, the bar feels like the belly of an old ship: the floors and bar are made of the same dark, weathered, creaking wood; the patrons are mostly pairs of graying, older men leaning over glasses that don’t look entirely clean. Half the room has small tables oriented toward a piano with a plastic tip jar on top.

Blake is seated at one of the tables, and he stands when I enter. His face lights up in a way that makes him look like a golden retriever.

“Hey!” he says, wrapping one arm around my shoulders and giving me a kiss.

“This is quite a place,” I say, as I settle in next to him.

He laughs. “Do you like it?”

“I’m just . . . surprised? It doesn’t seem like your scene.”

“This is my favorite spot in the city, hands down,” he says. He casts a pleased glance around the bar and shrugs. “It’s easy to let go here. It reminds me of driving around with my dad. He used to sing a lot. Loudly. And not particularly well.”

A waitress, a forty-something blonde with birdlike features, takes our drink orders. Blake runs his fingers over my thigh as he asks for a gin and tonic; I don’t know if he even realizes what he’s doing, but the gesture makes me smile. He tells me about his day—he led a post-mortem meeting on last quarter’s revenue, an old business school colleague hit him up for a job, there weren’t nearly enough croutons in his salad—and asks about mine. I briefly freeze. What am I supposed to tell him? That I spent the afternoon calculating how our wedding will save my business?

“Super boring,” I lie, running a finger nervously around the edge of my glass. “Accounting stuff. All day long.”

Soon enough, a broad-shouldered, dark-haired guy in a tight T-shirt takes a seat behind the piano and taps the microphone. The seats are mostly filled by now. The blond waitress sidles up to a mic stand and belts out “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.” The energy in the room ratchets up; people around us are swaying and singing along (not well, either). Blake taps out the song’s rhythm on my thigh. He seems so into it. I’m tempted to sing along, but I wouldn’t be caught dead doing karaoke sober. I’m not a gifted singer. I want to match Blake’s enthusiasm, but I need a little more liquid courage first.