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Old AF Doug huffs so hard his cardigan shifts. “Clubs,” he mutters.

I smile at Dancing Doug. “I love dancing. Haven’t been clubbing in forever, though. Life gets in the way when your best friends are either fully packed-up or studying like every test is a final.”

Dancing Doug lights up. “You should come out with me sometime! I’m also huge into games. You ever play Dominion? Or maybe Twilight Imperium?”

I blink. “I play poker.”

He looks vaguely disappointed. Even so, I have to admit, this is already better than the Albright Pack. At least these guys are telling me who they actually are instead of trying to sell me diversified portfolios. They seem interested. Mostly.

“What about you?” I ask, turning to Big Doug. He looks almost surprised that I’m talking directly to him, which is weird. He’s easily the second most interesting and attractive Doug in the pack.

“I’m a paramedic, but when I’m off-duty I help the East Rock High team with baseball.”

I look him up and down slowly so he realizes that he’s attractive, even though his pack, as a whole, is ridiculous. “I bet you can hit the ball a zillion feet.”

His sky-blue eyes crinkle. “I was a pitcher, actually. But yeah, I could always hit, too.”

I turn to Buttoned-up Doug, who has been quietly sipping his wine. “What about you?”

He adjusts his bow tie with precise fingers. “I’m an accountant.”

And we’re back, folks. Not that there’s anything wrong with accountants, per se, but damn. This guy ticks every accountant box that ever accountanted.

He at least has the manners to ask, “And you?”

“Marketing,” I say, and then stop. I’m not giving anyone the OmegaBox elevator pitch tonight.

I swivel toward the final Doug. Old AF Doug is watching me with watery eyes and the expression of a man who has Thoughts. Capital T.

“What about you?” I ask, mostly to be polite.

He clears his throat. “I read. Watch my programs.” Then, without any warning, he adds, “You’re not really my type.”

The table goes pin-drop silent. I stare at him. My brain actually stalls out like the old-ass Chevy I drove in high school.

He keeps going, gesturing at me with one spotted hand. “That dress is too bright and too tight. Makeup’s loud. And I know you young girls like this these days, but your ass is just too big.”

For once in my goddamn life, nothing comes out of my mouth. Not a single word. I just sit there, stunned.

Tall Doug looks mortified. “Doug—”

Big Doug shifts beside me like he wants to melt into the booth. Buttoned-up Doug adjusts his bow tie again, eyes on the table. Dancing Doug has finally stopped moving.

Old AF Doug takes another sip of his wine, supremely satisfied with his public service announcement.

The waitress appears and sets my drink down. I pick it up, take one slow sip, and set it back on the table with a soft click.

“Well,” I say, voice sugar-sweet and ice-cold. “This has been… interesting. Thank you for the drink, Dougs.”

Tall Doug and Dancing Doug stand. I slide out behind them with as much dignity as a girl in a tight pink leopard print dress can manage. Nobody stops me.

Outside, the cool night air hits my legs. I glance up at the glowing sign above the door. A bottle of wine and a half-full glass.

“Tinto’s,” I murmur. “Red wine in Spanish. Cute.”

Three steps later, my brain finally reboots and delivers the comeback I wish I’d used inside. “Don’t worry, Grandpa. Your dick stopped working during the Carter administration anyway. Have fun with your programs.”

I laugh once, then walk toward the Uber pickup spot.