What does one wear to a not-date? Because, regardless of what Ryan had been clearly brooding over for the entirety of our meeting with Anastasios, this is absolutely not a date. And, I tell myself, even though Charles is objectively good looking, he’s not my type.

It’s just a casual dinner between two writers, talking about writerly things.

But I still don’t know what to wear.

There’s no way I can call Trina and ask her, either, because I won’t get past the first sentence without her needling me about dating, and this is not a date. I’ll leave the conversation late to dinner without any answers at all.

God, I miss my friends.

I had tried to call my best friend, Mandy, shortly after everything happened. Since we had gone to the same grad program, we were the closest of the four women in our first apartment in Chicago. She’s a writer, too, so I had kind of expected that she’d understand the pressure I had been under. The problem at the time was that it took her a while to get a publishing deal. She had just signed with a small press when I walked away from JMP, and on top of thinking it toxic to be associated with me, she was so jealous of the money I had been offered. She couldn’t believe I had left that offer on the table. She called me names, shouted, and told me never to contact her again.

Ultimately, that interaction with her led me to block Ryan’s number. She preyed on my vulnerabilities and burnout. She convinced me that I had cursed myself when it came to publishing and, in such a small industry, it was best for him that I disappear.

I shake myself out of the memory as I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my closet. I’ve settled on dark jeans, a green blouse, and black flats. Simple, understated, casual but not too casual. Good enough.

The restaurant is within walking distance of my apartment, and it’s a nice evening. I opt to walk the ten minutes, leaving with plenty of time to stroll. I arrive early, but to my surprise, Charles is already sitting at the bar when I walk in. His golden hair is cast in a yellow glow from the overhead lighting, and he kind of blends well with the deep reds and browns of the restaurant. He’s tapping furiously on his phone with an almost-full glass of beer at his elbow, and he doesn’t notice me approach.

“Is this seat taken?” I flash a cheesy smile as I stand behind the empty seat next to him.

He looks up, sighing heavily and his hand clenching on his phone, but his expression clears when he sees me. Well, this is off to a great start.