Dorsey nodded. She was half-right, he allowed. He had been thinking of how to make WCO independent from Pemberley Development. “I take your point.”

“Thusly, you will pack your spaceship back to Philly,” Liza added.

Dorsey could not keep the corners of his mouth down all night. A surge of boldness coursed through him. “I want to send you something,” he said, holding up his phone.

“Send it.” Liza shrugged.

“Um . . . on your phone.” Dorsey’s face burned.

Smooth, Datu. Real smooth.

“Oh.” Liza fumbled with her phone. It slipped out of her hand like a slippery bar of soap and landed neatly near his drink. Sounding somehow winded, she recited her number in small, halting syllables.

He sent her the meme of them at Netherfield Court. They had both probably seen it a thousand times, but the scene morphed into the fight scene with Aaliyah and Jet Li, and when Liza unfurled her napkin, the print read Romeo Must Die. Dorsey was curious about how she had taken the viral moment and wanted to ease into conversation with her about it.

“Oh my god, people have so much time on their hands! This is good.” Liza laughed, a big, gorgeous sound that bubbled up inside him as well.

“It’s a deep fake, but the best one I’ve seen,” Dorsey said. They relaxed into a comfortable conversation about being the center of a meme. He told her how it changed people’s perception of him at the company. He wasn’t overthinking their conversation. Was she making this easy, or was he trying harder? He didn’t feel himself searching for the exits or checking the time. He had even made her laugh.

The server came to settle their check, and Liza rubbed her palms together.

“I propose to you, Dorsey, a Hotel Washington Treaty. I was wrong about this place.” Liza smiled through her admission. “It is, in fact, a cool place to have drinks. This was a good idea. Seeing each other as people. So I decree on this day . . . Shit.” Her eyes shot to him.

“What?”

“Today’s your birthday,” she said, half-astonished.

“Oh!” He pretended to check his phone. “I guess it is.” His face must be on fire right now. How did she remember?

“Happy thirty-one?” she ventured.

“-Ish,” he said. “Do you have to get home?”

Stop torturing the girl and let her go.

“I don’t have a curfew, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wanted to grab a bite if you want to come,” Dorsey said. The invitation was out before he could think better of it.

“I had a big argument planned with my mom, but I guess I could reschedule it. Do you know any Filipino restaurants?”

He didn’t, and hot spikes of shame prickled at his chest. He would always feel this way. Like he should know more, speak better. He didn’t know any restaurants and it was a damned shame.