The literary artist doesn’t ask Vivian about her dish, but she tells him anyway. “Really? Strange, because the French toast is delicious.”

A loud ringtone rips through the quiet chattering of the restaurant. Windbag, unperturbed, takes his time wiping his mouth on his napkin before he retrieves the ringing phone from his jeans pocket.

“Apologies,” he says. “It’s my agent; I have to get this. It could be important news.”

Christopher gets up and leaves the main room to go talk somewhere more private. Medusa doesn’t appear heartbroken to be abandoned halfway through her date; on the contrary, she seems relieved.

I keep looking at her, but she pointedly avoids my gaze, downs the rest of her drink, and then orders another one.

Ignored by Medusa, I turn back to Sonia, and find her moving her wine glass around the table while taking several shots of it with the view of Central Park in the background. I politely wait a good five minutes until she’s done.

Photos taken, she looks up at me. “Thank you for picking this place for our date, it’s so photogenic. I’ll be able to post a great Insta story.”

“Sure,” I say, thinking my Dating Specialist and I will have to have a serious conversation on their selection process.

Sonia’s phone pings on the table. She checks it, and her eyes widen.

“Dude,” she says. “A friend just texted me about an Angelika Black flash sale happening two blocks away. Do you mind if I scram? My followers will go nuts for it, and lunch is over anyway.”

I sigh. I would’ve offered to pay the bill, but for the gesture to be taken for granted irks me a little. At least, with her swift departure, there won’t be any pretense of a second date happening.

“Not at all,” I say.

“You’re the best.” She collects her things and gets up.

I stand up as well. No matter that she’s being—quite frankly—rude, I won’t let my good manners be compromised.

Sonia circles the table and gives me a boisterous hug, saying, “Thanks, this has been amazing, can’t wait to do it again.”

The declaration leaves me a little speechless. This is her idea of a great date? What happens on bad ones, I wonder.

When I don’t reply, she looks at me with a weird intensity in her eyes and gives me a second, longer hug.

Another squeeze and she finally lets go. I look at her a bit baffled, asking, “Are you okay?”

“I am,” she says. “The question is, are you?”

I gape, unsure how to reply.

Sonia must take my silence as a sign I’m not okay, because she continues. “If you still have nightmares about what happened to you in prison, you should download my friend Audrey’s mental health app. I’ll send you the link.”