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Brooklyn: Gross.

Me: Honest.

Brooklyn: Thank you for the warning. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Me: I’ll be here. I meant to ask you if you’d like to stay for dinner.

Brooklyn: Are you cooking?

Me: Define cooking.

Brooklyn: Is that your way of building my confidence?

Me: Nope.

Brooklyn: Will there be martinis?

Me: At my house? Always.

Brooklyn: It’s a date.

Here is my problem. It’s not a date. It’s a time for us to meet—yes. It’s a job. It’s an arrangement followed by dinner on a date. It is not a date.

“Hey.” Ali pokes her head into my office. “I let myself in.”

“So, I see.”

“Did you forget that we were having dinner tonight?”

“Shit.”

“You did forget. What gives?”

“Nothing. Trying to stay on pace to meet this deadline is all.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah. But with Brooklyn coming tomorrow, I’ll lose most of the day at the keyboard.”

“Tomorrow is doomsday, huh?”

“I hope not.” I really hope not.

“I was joking,” Ali says. “Do you want to skip tonight?”

“No.” I don’t. I think I need to get my mind off tomorrow. More specifically, I need a distraction from thoughts of Brooklyn. “Where do you want to go?”

“I thought we could order in,” Ali says. “I could use a couple of drinks.”

“Does that mean my guest room can expect company?”

“Good bet,” Ali says.

“Uh-oh. Bad day?” I ask.

“More like I don’t understand women day.”

“No offense, I think that’s every day.”