“Why did you drink this much?” I ask.

“Thassagoodstory.” He stretches it into one long drunken word. “I was already buzzed after Mahoney’s. I had to drink away my misery after you told me a story about a fake dog so you wouldn’t have to hang out with me.”

“He’s real! His name is Steve! I have photos!” I rush to get out my phone again, but Dominic just holds up a hand, laughing.

“I know. I know. Then I got home, and you were in a sexy Gritty costume, and I guess I wasn’t done celebrating the show. And you know. Being young and sprightly and everything.” He waves a hand at this. “And then I started thinking about how there was no one I could ask to come out with me. I don’t even like going out that much. Not enough to get in the habit of doing it alone. But there I was. Drinking alone at a bar on a Monday night, and I figured drinking more would help me feel less like shit about it.”

At first, I can’t formulate words. This isn’t the Dominic who teased me about Puget Sounds or even the Dominic who fed me truffles in the dark, his teeth on the tips of my fingers. I try to picture a version of Dominic lying on a couch in his comfy sweats, idly scrolling through Netflix but not finding anything to watch, texting with me because he had no one else to text with. Going out alone because he had no one else to ask. He grew up here, so this makes me even more curious about his background. He said he’s the youngest of five kids, and I’m not sure where his siblings live or if they’re close. I don’t know which Dominic this is, and it makes me both hesitant and curious.

His confession turns me serious, drags out a secret of my own. “I feel lonely sometimes, too,” I say in a quiet voice. “I basically have one friend, and she might be getting a job on the other side of the country.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and it sounds like he means it. Then he brightens, straightening his posture. “I’ll be your friend!”

“That sounds like the alcohol talking.”

“We’re not friends?” There’s an odd vulnerability there. He seems hurt, maybe, that I wouldn’t consider us friends.

“No, no,” I hurry to say. Are we friends? “We can be friends. We’re friends.”

He drops his head to my shoulder again, and I make myself stay very, very still. “Good.”

The Lyft shows up then, relief of reliefs, and I manage not to sprain anything while helping this giant into a Prius.

Once we’re inside, the driver confirms the address before returning to an impassioned argument about soccer with whoever’s on the other end of his Bluetooth. The throbbing in my head has become a maddening, insistent tattoo. I let out a long breath as I relax against the seat, shutting my eyes for a moment.

“You smell good,” Dominic says, and my eyes fly open.

“Oh—I, uh, took a bath earlier. It’s probably the lavender bubble bath.”

“When we were texting?”

“Mm-hmm,” I manage. Yep, this will be what keeps me up tonight. “Just a typical wild Monday night. Right up there with drinking alone.”

“Have I said thank you yet?”

“Nope.”

“Thank you,” he says emphatically, seeming to come back to himself a bit more, at least, the part of him that’s genuine. The part of him that’s peeked through a few times since we started this whole charade. “I mean it. I know I could have found my own way home, but I’ll probably feel a lot less like death tomorrow, thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome. I was the one who encouraged you to go out, so. I felt bad.”

“Maybe, but I’m the one who decided to do J?gerbombs.”

When a streetlamp catches his face, the light hangs on the cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. It’s rude that he looks good even sloshed. Even with—especially with—his hair disheveled. I like messy Dominic, the Dominic who is literally less buttoned up than he is at work.

“I hope I didn’t get in the way of you trying to get someone’s number or anything.” Shit. I hate myself the moment I say it. Why why why why why.

He lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t. It’s been a very long drought.”

“Your last relationship ended about a year ago?” I ask, and he nods. “It’s been about the same amount of time for me, too.”

A very long drought. Does that mean he hasn’t slept with anyone since his relationship ended, or that he hasn’t dated? It’s not unrealistic, of course. Maybe he isn’t one for casual hookups. I tend to get too attached for them to be healthy for me, a lesson I learned in my early twenties. Which is where he still is.

“You haven’t dated at all?” he says.

“I’m on a dating app hiatus.” I stare down at the floor, realizing that in my haste to leave, I put on one black shoe and one brown shoe. Jesus, speaking of messy. “In the meantime . . . there’s always the fun drawer. Never lets me down and never wants to go to brunch in the morning.”

“There’s a whole drawer?”

I am never drinking again. Dominic is going to think my nightstand is overflowing with dildos.

I steal a glance up front, making sure the driver is still immersed in his phone call. “Well, half a drawer.” I am still tipsy, right? Or I have a contact drunk from him. That has to be the explanation for why I’m talking to him like this.