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“Order me whatever you want to eat,” I tell him. “You clearly know what you’re doing.”

“I come here a lot. It’s close to home, quiet, and the people are great. And wait till you have the pasta, Norah. Just wait.”

I raise an eyebrow at him as I take another sip. “It didn’t sound like you bring many girls here.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t want to risk introducing someone to this magical place and then losing it in a breakup. There’s only six tables. That would be so uncomfortable. I always come here alone.”

“Until now.”

“Maybe I just found the person worth sharing the secret with.”

He holds my gaze long enough for me to feel it in the base of my spine.

Henry orders an obscene amount of food. A salad with oranges and fennel, perfectly crisp calamari, the best bread I’ve had in my entire life, that somehow remained warm at every stage of the meal. And then there was the pasta, all handmade and fresh. A deceptively simple spaghetti with tomato and basil. Tagliatelle with a beef and pork ragù. A squid ink pasta with clams, shrimp, tomato, and chili.

“This is one of the best meals I’ve had,” I tell him, mouth full of carbs, “but I gotta say, not ideal for pre-sexy-times.”

Henry just shakes his head, swirling his fork against the spoon to gather spaghetti. “How naive that you thought this was going to be the only stop on our date.”

We finish the bottle of wine but don’t come close to finishing the food. I’m so full I barely feel the alcohol. When I come back from the restroom, the bill has already been taken care of, and the table is cleared. He must read the disappointment on my face at the thought of missed leftovers, because Henry says, “We’re going to come back for them,” before grabbing my coat and escorting me back up the murder-stairs.

* * *

Henry leads me a few blocks farther, the cold air whipping against us. He takes my ungloved hand and folds it into his coat pocket as we walk. I feel like I’m in a dream, on a date planned by the producers of The Bachelor or something. This is not my real life. It’s not possible.

And he’s my boyfriend. We nearly breezed right past that part.

Henry Cole, the boy next door, is my boyfriend.

He stops walking as we land in front of what appears to be a 1950s-style diner.

“No more food,” I plead as we push past the neon lights and shiny silver archway at the entrance. Inside, I see the classic black-and-white checkerboard floor and bright red booths. But then I hear the opening chords of “Jumper,” and a balding man starts singing enthusiastically. I grab Henry’s arm. “No!” I exclaim with glee.

“You said you love karaoke.” He’s trying to brush it off, but I can tell he’s pleased with himself for eliciting such a reaction from me.

“I’ll grab drinks. You go sign us up,” I say, pushing him toward the binder. “Bourbon?”

Henry nods and says, “Rocks,” before making his way toward the binder.

I head to the bar and order him Maker’s on the rocks, mine mixed with ginger ale. We reconvene at a booth whose fabric squawks with every movement, but I don’t even care. The booth allows us the intimacy of proximity, our arms and thighs pressed closely together. My body hums at every place we touch, even through multiple layers of clothing, but the core vibrations are centered in my chest. You love him, my heart screams over the unfortunate rendition of a Taylor Swift song sung by two members of an absolutely wasted bachelorette party. You are stupid in love with him.

It’s not long before I’m called up, and I center myself, prepared to go all out for Madonna. I start to sing and begin my interpretive dance, acting out the song with conviction. I make full use of the stage, a black platform raised about eight inches off the ground, arms flailing wildly. I fly through the air, channeling a jeté from my childhood ballet class. I know I look ridiculous, but this is what karaoke is all about. My voice is decent enough to get away with it. I get down on my knees. I take the audience there. I look out at Henry, who has the absolute goofiest smile imaginable on his face. Heaven help me.

The bachelorette party joins in singing from their table, and I concede the microphone for the end of the song, sliding back into the booth with Henry, who grabs my face and kisses me so hard I nearly forget we’re in public.

“You are perfect,” he says when we finally break apart to the fading song.

“Not too weird?” I ask cautiously.

“The exact right amount of weird,” he replies, tucking a loose, sweaty curl behind my ear. “My dream girl.”

“You’re next, buddy,” I say, detaching myself from him to push him toward the stage.

Henry immediately grabs my hand and pulls me up with him. “It’s a duet,” he says low to my ear, and I raise an eyebrow at him but he doesn’t give me anything.

I hear the unmistakable bop and am immediately transported to a carnival, black leather, teased hair, shimmies. I purse my lips to stifle a laugh as Henry moves his shoulders to the beat, eyes fixed on me. I shake my head at him just in time for him to shriek out, “I got chills, they’re multiplying!” His voice is terrible—it can’t decide which octave to be in, but at the same time, I know this performance is meant for me and me alone, and this man is committed.

The September we were eight years old, Kristine had the flu, and Henry came to spend a few nights at our house. The most epic sleepover, we thought. Though now, eighteen years later, and heading into another potentially epic “sleepover,” I reason that we can probably beat it.