The next Friday at around eight p.m., I enter through the doors of the Irishman’s Jig, an Irish pub in San Francisco that my friends and I usually go to for St. Patrick’s Day. Because I don’t regularly frequent Irish pubs, I have no idea what they even do on normal weekdays, but it’s the least romantic spot I could think of for Celeste and me to meet. And it’s a fun enough place that I can’t imagine myself crying in here if things go wrong. Or at least, I hope I won’t.

Since it’s the first week of December, the Irishman’s Jig is decked out with Christmas lights, bright tinsel, and nutcracker statues. A handful of college students in red Santa suits and green elf costumes tune their fiddles and flutes on the stage. I watch them for a moment before looking around for Celeste.

When we were in college, Celeste was always perpetually early for everything, so I’m not surprised to see her already sitting in the back corner of the pub like she’s a regular. Maybe she is. Just thinking about how we’ve been in the same state for all these years, possibly frequenting the same places but at different times, makes my heart race. That’s one piece of knowledge I wish I never found out about.

Today, Celeste looks gorgeous, even though she’s just wearing a black leather jacket over a simple white shirt and jeans. I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t think I can survive another encounter with those ridiculously sexy tattoos of hers. I barely resisted the urge to run my fingers across her skin the last time I saw her.

When she sees me, Celeste holds up a hand in the air. I can’t even meet her gaze without blushing. Which is an absolutely fan-fucking-tastic start. Eight years later and she still has that effect on me. I’m almost thirty and yet, around her, I’m a shy college kid again, my cheeks turning red whenever I accidentally make eye contact with my beautiful roommate.

“The Irishman’s Jig, huh?” Celeste asks when I sit down across the table from her.

“A proud and historic establishment of the city, first opened in 1972.” I point at the sign above the door that says just that.

“Ah, yes. The seventies. How historic,” she says dryly, before nodding her head at the musicians behind me. “They’re going to have a live performance soon. Are you okay with that?”

I purse my lips. The truth is, I hadn’t even considered the possibility of there being a performance on a normal weekday night. But it is a Friday, so maybe I should have known better. I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. “Sure, why not? We can take breaks from talking to watch, I guess. And go somewhere else if it gets too bad.”