My ass has hardly met the fabric of my chair at the office when my boss materializes behind me, nearly scaring the shit out of me and delivering news nobody wants to hear on a Friday.

“Jessica, you’re here,” she says. “A last-minute thing came up, and I need you to stay until 5:00.”

I refrain from slumping my shoulders, but barely. Meghan is a no-bullshit kind of boss who, more often than not, wears her hair fixed in a tight bun on top of her head, a trait I consider to be an accurate reflection of her uptight nature. There are worse bosses in the world—I’ve had a few of them—but working for her is not my dream job by any means.

I should be more generous. It’s not Meghan’s fault that my job at Colton-Hayes, one of New York’s premier ad agencies—if you believe their own marketing message—isn’t what you would call low-stress.

“Okay,” I say, keeping my tone neutral as I watch my afternoon plans disappear like a panhandler when the police make their rounds. Poof. There they go. “What’s up?” I ask, shifting my attention back to my boss.

Meghan launches into a long-winded spiel about the so-called emergency that landed in her inbox late last night. The client is a major fast-food chain that can’t be ignored, otherwise—I see a flicker of irritation in her eyes when she says it—”they might go with another agency.” She doesn’t have to say that both my job and hers are on the line with this one.

As soon as she left my office, the day devolved into an endless cycle of emails and phone calls as I tried frantically to wrestle last-minute creative concepts out of various designers, copywriters and graphic artists.

Even while I called in every last favor from my colleagues and pleaded with them to please do one more thing instead of heading out at noon—summer Fridays could be so good when we actually got to use them—my mind strayed miles away.

Maybe I need a break from more than my ritzy social circle…

That’s the thought pulsing against my skull as I make my way through the sultry summer air to the nearest subway entrance, two long-ass blocks away from the Colton-Hayes headquarters, my black high heels tucked into a Gucci purse my roommate Carolyn got tired of and passed off to me. I wouldn’t have bought it for myself, but I love how it’s so big I could carry a full set of extra clothes and still have room for my lunch and the buttery texture of its leather on my fingers.

I run my thumb over the strap as I walk, the heat settling on my shoulders as the sun beats down, the heavy humid air slipping through the layers of my clothes, and consider the uptick in impatience I’ve been experiencing.

If I’m being truthful, I’ve been feeling restless, filled with wanderlust even though I can’t afford it. I’m not sure I even want to travel. All I know is that my routine is becoming stale. Whenever that happens, my first instinct is to move on, which is probably why I changed my major four times and universities twice.

I could do it. I could sell some of my things and pack up and store whatever was left. I could use some of my savings to buy a used car and drive until I ended up someplace that felt right. I have friends from boarding school and college scattered around the country.

As I descend into the subway, the rush hour crowd pressed in tight around me, fleeing by car seems more appealing than ever.

Then again, there’s a lot I’d miss about New York City. The city that never sleeps drew me in with its constant motion, the way its energy and excitement continually ebbs and flows.

“Hey, gorgeous,” a slimeball standing at my elbow says, slipping a hand around my waist. “Where you goin’? There’s room at my place for a piece like you.”

Without sparing him a glance, I slap sharply at the intrusion. “Fuck off.”

On the other hand, maybe I wouldn’t miss a thing.

* * *

I’m buzzing with energy when I reach the apartment I share with Carolyn, a friend I’ve roomed with since boarding school days. She and I and Christian made up our original little triad, and the three of us stayed close even as others joined our group. For Carolyn, working in New York is more of a lark—she has a trust fund and will never worry about money—but the fact that she foots the bill allows me to live in a decently swanky place without selling body parts to afford it.

When I push open the door, the air is cool and still. I toss my bag on the table in our entryway, listening, while I kick off my shoes.

Carolyn isn’t home.

There’s a note on the fridge, the words spelled out in her perfect looped handwriting: Date tonight!!!

I was hoping to convince her to go out with me. Drinks. Dancing. Cutting loose. Push this longing to leave town out of my mind for another day so I can think about it rationally like an adult.

Roommate or no, I’ve got to do something. My usual routine simply will not do this time. I need something exciting. Something hot.

I pad back to the entryway and dig through my purse for my phone. A couple of swipes and I’ve pulled up a seldom-used dating app. More of a hookup app, really.

For a couple of years in college, I was a regular haunt on these kinds of apps. That’s when I developed one of the only hard-and-fast rules of my life: one date only, unless you’re sure that he’s going to be worth your time.

Though I guess technically the one-date-only rule came about because of…

Never mind. I shake my head to clear the bad memory from my mind quickly while I update my profile picture with a more recent one, and then swipe over to the list of men who might be my ticket away from this day of stress and boredom.

There he is.

Mr. Tonight stares out at me from the very top of the list, his green eyes piercing even in the profile photo. My heart thuds in my chest.

I click to open his profile, biting my lip as I scan the words. Typical, run-of-the-mill stuff…but that picture.

I send him a quick message through the app, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Go out with me tonight

After “tonight,” I type a period, but that seems too harsh. I replace it with a question mark. No, too timid. I settle on an exclamation point.

I go back to the endless stream of profile pictures, but before I’ve even found Mr. Second Runner-Up, the app pings.

It’s him.

Name the place!