The waitress finishes to a rousing round of applause, then moves seamlessly back through the throng of seats to take more drink orders. I drain what’s left of my glass and order a second. The pianist has taken over with a rendition of Prince’s “Purple Rain,” followed by a highly meta version of Billy Joel’s “Piano Man.” By the time the waitress is back for another turn at the mic, I feel loosened up and ready to join in on her cover of Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know.” A woman at the table across from ours thrusts her arms into the air and squeezes her eyes tight while shouting the lyrics.

“I like this place!” I yell over the music to Blake.

He kisses my cheek between songs.

A bartender jumps up to the mic to perform the most flirtatious version of Hamilton’s “You’ll Be Back” I’ve ever heard, crooking his finger at a squealing audience member and singing directly at her. Blake moves his hand from my thigh to around my waist, pulling me closer to him. His body is warm and smells like leathery cologne. I lean my head on his shoulder when the music turns to slow ballads.

Tonight is easy, affectionate, and more comfortable than we’ve ever been before. True, I might feel that way because of the drinks and the atmosphere and the thrill of discovering a delightful hole-in-the-wall spot. But maybe part of it is that something real is beginning to blossom between me and Blake. If this is what our life would be like together, I can picture it. I’d like it. I could do this—not just for the wedding, but for real. If my feelings for him become real, the guilt that gnaws at my stomach will fade away. For the first time since I dug myself into this hole, I feel true hope.

When the show’s over, we take slow, easy steps back to his apartment, savoring the warm, starry evening. The rhythm of our footsteps echoes in my head—it sounds like, do I love him? do I love him? do I love him? I wish I could fall fully for him. I like him a lot, but I want more than that. I want to feel authentically smitten.

I remember something I read online once that described the psychological effects of smiling. Even if you’re having a bad day, the act of smiling can genuinely lift your mood. When it comes to your emotions, faking it till you make it apparently works for real. I can’t help but think about that as I follow Blake into his building’s lobby. I slip my hand into his and remind myself how good it feels to be one half of a couple with him. As we ride the elevator upstairs, I appreciate how much fun it was to sing along with him tonight.