“Who is this mysterious aunt of yours?” he asks, when we get outside. “I thought you said she passed?”

“She did. Kind of,” I wince, and spent the short cab ride filling him in on my apartment shenanigans.

“Isn’t that going kind of far?” he asks, laughing. “How long do you think you can keep her cruising the world?”

“As long as it takes!” I groan.

“No wonder you were a natural with Zelda,” he says, teasing. “You’re an actress, through and through.”

“Uh, nope,” I say. “Honestly, I get faintly nauseous every time I have to fib.”

“As lies go, this is definitely on the ‘teeny-tiny’ side of things,” Dash reassures me. “And you’re paying penance with Brando.”

“Good point.”

The cab pulls over, and we get out in front of the restaurant. It’s a cute little bistro in the West Village, and as Dash leads me inside, I realize that it’s basically the most romantic date spot in the city: Candlelight casting a warm glow, fresh roses on every table, and a whole disheveled Parisian look that makes my heart melt.

A man with a goatee and a French accent comes over to greet us. “Just like clockwork,” he says, doing that manly back-slap thing with Dash. “Your usual table?”

“Thanks, Giovanni.” Dash grins. “You have to taste his bread,” he tells me, “The guy is a master baker.”

“And you should hear him try and say that drunk,” Giovanni cracks, leading us to a cozy little table that’s tucked into the back corner, chatting with Dash about a new dish they just added to the menu along the way. “You’ll see, I’ll bring you some.”

He disappears to the kitchen, and a waitress shows up with a bottle of wine. “On the house.”

Dash gives me a smile as she fills our glasses. “I keep saying that giving me freebies every time I show up is a terrible business model, but he keeps doing it.”

“Seems like you’re here often,” I remark, looking around.

“Every other week. Best steak in town,” Dash nods, and I have to wonder…

Is this where he brings all his dates?

I reach for my wine down a hefty gulp. So much for going into this date with determination and bravery. My nerves are already tangled, and part of me is tempted to push off the Big Talk. I mean, there’s no real reason to rush, right? No reason we can’t define the relationship at some later date, like, say, 2050? Our robot overlords will probably have conquered us by then anyway and turned humans into the opposable thumb version of dogs, which means that I’d be off the hook.

Right. Because putting off a scary conversation based on a farfetched future doomsday scenario where androids leash people is totally normal and not at all absurd.

After another swallow of wine—which is delicious, by the way—I steel my shoulders and grab the last ounce of my courage before it abandons me completely. “So…”