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Meredith: I really did have a headache. Maybe *I* owe *you* a second date.
I tap my fingernail against the empty bottle of prosecco, suddenly flush with giddiness. I’m excited to talk to him. Too excited. I force myself to take a deep breath and consider that—consider why. If I were my therapist, what would I think?
That I’m lonely, probably.
Maybe that it’s good for me to be talking to anyone besides Gabriel.
Robert: Maybe.
My heart does a funny thing—maybe. Like maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me. To see me again. But the three dots pop up, indicating he’s still typing.
Robert: It’s late. Unless you’re in, say, London. In which case it’s early. Are you in London?
My chest squeezes with joy. He’s teasing me. Flirting.
Meredith: I wish. Maybe we should go.
Robert: Sure. Right now?
For a second I imagine it—meeting him at the airport, hopping on the first flight to London. Taking a vacation with a handsome near-stranger. The exhilaration of doing whatever I want in that moment. I could do it. I could. My passport is in the safe. An Uber is five minutes away. I start to type back—Yes, let’s do it! But he replies before I can.
Robert: Ahh, to be young again. To be able to leave at a moment’s notice. I’ll have to take a rain check on globe-trotting, but maybe international cuisine is the next-best thing? Tomorrow night?
And here I was going to tell Sarah to move my appointments. I was going to do it. Take off, abandon my life on a whim. I was excited about it, too. Or maybe I’m just drunk.
Meredith: Perfect!
* * *
Morning comes late for me, the sun well above the horizon when I open my eyes and find myself staring at the living room ceiling. A throw is half over me, like I dragged it down when I got cold in the middle of the night. My neck aches as I sit up, reminding me I’m not in my twenties anymore. I can’t just pass out wherever.
Speaking of passing out. I squint at the nearby coffee table. A big bottle of Riesling. A tiny bottle of prosecco.
Jesus. I must have drunk them by myself, because I sure as hell didn’t have company. I search the couch cushions for my phone and check the time—11:08 a.m. It’s the day I work late, so my appointments don’t start until noon, but I’ll have to hurry. I’m already in the shower, voice-messaging Sarah that I’ll be a few minutes late, when I see I have a text waiting. I send the message to Sarah and set my phone down to hurry the shower along.
But when I’m out and wrapped in a towel, I have to check it—it might be important.
It’s a message from Robert, the guy I went on the date with and ghosted. I clear the fog on the mirror and find myself frowning. It’s been weeks. Why would he message now? Isn’t it obvious I’m not feeling it?
But then I see his message.
Robert: Looking forward to it!
Looking forward to what?
I nearly drop my phone as I adjust my towel and lean in, scrolling as fast as I can. There are a dozen texts back and forth between us. Texts I have no memory of. I drank a lot, but surely not enough to completely black out, right?
Oh God.
Shit.
And I initiated the texts. After midnight.
Another text comes in just then, from Jake.
Jake: Are you okay? I still haven’t heard from you.
I study his words, try to figure out what he means. Coming up empty, I check my call log, and sure enough—I called him. We spoke for three minutes and forty-two seconds.
