I sit in my living room with my notebook and brainstorm.

I can ask him about the band, how he got started, why there’s only two of them . . . Wait, is that an offensive question? What if it’s because they suck and can’t get anyone else? I mean, they seemed good to me, but what do I know? I cross it out.

I can ask about his family, maybe? Is that boring?

I suck at this.

I definitely don’t want to talk about work. I tap my pen on the notebook, thinking.

Maybe I can ask if he has any other late-night hobbies? Oh wait, that might come across as sexual. Late-night hobbies, wink wink.

Just ask about hobbies, minus the late-night bit. Any hobbies other than playing guitar. I write it down. I could ask where he got his guitar, when he started playing guitar, how long he’s been playing guitar . . . I write those down and look over my list. He’s going to think I’m obsessed with guitars.

Okay, Jane, it’s not a big deal. You won’t be the only person there, he will be talking and asking questions too, right? I can’t be responsible for all aspects of interactions. I’ve had plenty of conversations with Alex, but we were also working together so there was always a fallback topic.

And that first night, he didn’t say anything either.

Maybe he was nervous too?

I chuckle. No way. Nervous? Why would he be nervous? It’s just me. Just plain ol’ Jane. And he’s Alex Chambers. The Alex Chambers.

Nervous crows turn into pterodactyls in my stomach and I have to focus on my breathing.

I can do this. I’m going to do this, every night, until I can have a normal conversation without panicking. No reason to fear. After all, there is literally no tomorrow.

I sit at the bar in the same spot as last time, sipping my drink, smiling at the music, and going over the list in my head.

When their set ends, he jumps off the stage, just like before. I avert my gaze from the leggy blondes.

A half a minute later, he’s next to my barstool. “Hey. You made it.”

“I did. Thank you for inviting me.” I smile through my nerves.

We go through the same motions from the night before as he orders our drinks.

When the bartender puts my drink down, I give a nod of thanks, take a long sip, and then force a few shaky breaths in and out. I can do this. I’m not running away. I am going to ask him questions. I am prepared. But as I’m opening my mouth, he speaks.

“I’m really glad you made it. I’m surprised you,” he glances around to confirm, “didn’t bring Mark with you? What did he think about you getting fired?”