I walk past him with a sarcastic smile and head for the curb. I’m scanning the street for available taxis when I sense him standing next to me. His arm touches mine and, this time, I know it’s intentional.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is so gentle that I consider it alarming. “I didn’t mean to say it like that. Would you please share a cab with me, Kara?”

Fifteen minutes later, Ryan and I step out of the taxi in front of his hotel. I’d rather walk than have the driver take me the few extra blocks.

“Here we are,” I say, glancing up at the maroon hotel awning. The nearby doorman keeps an eye on us, trying to gauge whether we’re about to walk in or not. Ryan leans back on his heels and looks at the double glass doors.

“How far are we from your apartment?”

“Not far at all. About a ten-minute walk.”

He stays quiet, his eyes still trained on the doors. I’m fully anticipating that we’re about to go our separate ways when he blurts out, “You want to go for a drink?”

I don’t try to hide my perplexed expression. “Why are you asking me to go for a drink? You just told me a couple of hours ago that you’re mad at me and we should keep our distance.”

“I know I did. I still think we should.”

“Then I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I.”

This is asking for trouble. I consider answering with a definitive no when I think back to my conversation with Sam. I swore to seize every opportunity I had with Ryan, spend time with him no matter what it takes—or how much it hurts.

“Fine,” I say, doubting but not stopping myself. “Let’s get a drink.”

4

We end up walking five blocks to The Wharf, my favorite dive bar. Narrowly tucked in along 3rd Avenue, The Wharf is deceivingly huge. Once you navigate through the crowded bar area up front, there’s a small flight of stairs in the back that leads to a covered patio filled with little dining tables. The patio only has two TVs, so the roaring sports fans tend to stay downstairs, leaving the upstairs relaxed but lively by extension.

But the hands down, best, take-your-breath-away part of the upstairs area is the old wooden shelving unit pushed along the far wall that is filled to the brim with board games. I’m talking Jenga, Connect 4, Scrabble, checkers, Battleship—they even have Dream Phone! (Dream Phone being the most thrilling and quasi-salacious electronic board game my ten-year-old self ever played, where Carlos in the neon 80’s tracksuit was, and always will be, my one true love.)

“This is awesome,” Ryan says solemnly, looking up at the stacks of vintage games.