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February 14 – New York City

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SABRINA

SABRINA: This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.

JONATHAN: You gotta believe. Believe this is the man for you.

SABRINA: Who flies to another city for a blind date? My perfect sister is a moron with terrible taste. Why did I think she could choose a mate for me?

TRISTAN: I’m up as well. Was on a video chat with an American colleague. Bree, perhaps stop using the word ‘mate’.

SABRINA: I don’t trust romance and Valentine’s Day. What if he tries to kill me? There’s that. It could happen.

JONATHAN: Quit bitching. Go fall in love. Some of us love Valentine’s Day. You’re only in Manhattan for one more night. Enjoy it. If you’ll excuse me, I have a fiancée to woo. Flowers, candy, music.

TABI: Good fucking night, that’s schmaltzy. Tris, go to bed. Bree, get your rocks off and fuck the stranger. Fucking strangers is almost always a good idea. I miss fucking strangers.

SABRINA: Really?

TABITHA: Nah. I fucking love fucking my husband. Never grows old. But having been with my fair share of strangers—long story—there’s a magic in that too. It’s just a date. Go. RORY! What do you think? Rory, I know you’re looking. Come on, you cranky tartan wearing tart. Let’s go, you grouchy Scotsman. Answer us. Give us a little kiss.

RORY: Why the fuck am I on this chat?

SABRINA: Sorry to bother you, Rory, but you’re a part of this now.

RORY: Is there one of those emoji things for sighing? I’ll be a silent observer, if Tabitha leaves me the fuck alone.

JONATHAN: You don’t need luck, just heart—open it up. Did you wear the blue dress?

SABRINA: [picture of sapphire blue dress with sheer sparkly thigh highs and strappy high heels].

TRISTAN: Bloody hell, you look lush. Your hair looks like a blonde waterfall.

TABI: What does ‘lush’ mean? She’s not a fucking rainforest.

SABRINA: I’d rather be in a rainforest. I’m comfortable with just me right now. Love has to wait.

RORY: Famous last words.

I smile as I put my phone away. I know these random people will fade with time, but we’re bonded from being stuck at the airport for now. They’re funny, and all my real friends are tired of hearing about my dating life, or lack of one. Chicago seems to be a revolving door of the same men over and over. I’m exhausted from trying not to date the same guy I met on Bumble a year ago. Or running into the same work colleague I mistakenly slept with two years ago at some after-work dive.

I sit at the bar and am surrounded by all the lovey-dovey faces. I take faith that nothing ever works out for me. It’s familiar, and I’ve become the master of the pivot in life. I gesture to the adorable bartender. It’s a shame he’s not my date. He’s not wearing a red striped tie. And his name tag doesn’t say Ricky. Ricky Schlong. My sister made a point of telling me it’s pronounced Schlein. But it’s still Schlong, and I hope he’s not one. There’s no silent g. Come on, it’s Schlong. And she informed me he’s shorter than me. I’m not tall. I tried to clarify, mailbox short or Tom Cruise short? She didn’t answer.

In forty-seven minutes, I have an Uber coming. I’ve already planned my escape from the Schlong. My car will take me back to the romantic hotel my other sister booked. Her husband had points or something, and apparently my whole family is rooting for the Schlong because it’s a suite at the Plaza. After a good night’s sleep, I’ll hop on my very early flight and be home to Chicago by lunch.

I smile at the insanely handsome, not Ricky, bartender. “Martini, please.”

“Chocolate?”

“Hell, no. Because I’m a woman?” Maybe my back is a tiny bit up.

He smirks and pushes a placard to me. It’s the drink special of the night.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m a bit keyed up. Gin, up, dry with a twist. Please.”