A common misconception is that the just be me philosophy works in all situations.

Not true.

Yes, it’s wrong to project a false idea of who you are, but a blind date is not the time to let all the skeletons out of the closet. The goal is to present the best version of yourself.

Right?

With that in mind, I stand tall and stare at the golden doors to a club that was once like my oldest brother’s second home. Pushing away the memories of him, both good and bad, I suck in a breath and walk inside.

I can do this.

The Griffin is beyond filled to capacity. Wall-to-wall people. Anyone that is anyone in the city is here because this is the place to be. To party. Have fun. Who knows, maybe even hook up with an A-lister looking to have a good time—if that’s your thing.

Glass chandeliers sparkle as I make my way through the crowd.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

After my last debacle of a blind date with the creepy guy who wanted to suck my toes, I told myself never again.

And yet, here I am. My stomach a-flutter with nerves and my heart filled with a little more hope than I should have in a situation like this.

Mr. Right has to be out here somewhere.

After all, there is someone for everyone in this world, or that’s what I keep telling myself every time Mr. Right turns out to be Mr. Oh-So-Wrong.

It might sound like I’m always looking for a man, but I’m not. It’s just at twenty-five I don’t want to waste any more time with someone who doesn’t get me, or that I don’t get. I want to find, and yes I’m going to say it, the one who completes me.

Noisemakers and party hats poke me with each step I take. I glance around, over, and through the people. The velvet benches are occupied by couples shoving their tongues down each other’s throats, girls chatting animatedly while smoothing their hair into place, and men high-fiving each other as women walk past them with a suggestive sway to their hips.

I forgot how entertaining places like this can be, and I slow a little to pay more attention.

A woman pushes her breasts into a man’s hard chest and looks up at him with fluttering lashes. A guy squeezes a girl’s ass, and she whirls around and slaps him in the face. A couple bump and grind like porn stars in a booth.

A tap on my shoulder has me whirling around, wondering if I need to slap someone or rather if my blind date has found me before I could find him.

“Aren’t you Brandon Waters little sister?” the stranger asks.

The stranger standing in front of me is a tall guy. Very tall. He has jet-black hair and blue eyes. Just by looking at him I know he’s not my date. With his earring, his designer jeans, and his ultra-expensive leather jacket, there’s no denying, though, that he must have been one of my older brother’s friends. “Yes, I am,” I answer.

He sniffs, and his blue eyes start to glaze over as his pupils swallow up their color. A look I know all too well. “I thought so. I wanted to say hi. Brandon and I used to have a great time together. I miss him. He was one of the best guys I ever knew.”

I find myself smiling. That was Brandon. Just a giant ball of fun. Everyone loved my oldest brother.

“Sucks about what happened to him,” the guy tacks on.

Just like that, my smile fades, and I have to curl my hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

The memory of Brandon’s overdose is still so raw, even though it has been almost three years since I found him unconscious on his bed, needle at his side, dressed in his suit as if he’d needed a hit before going to work. I called 911. He was dead before he arrived at the hospital. DOA. Three letters never hurt so much.

That day changed my life.

My brother Camden couldn’t forgive him for the longest time, but now seems to have let his anger go.

Me, on the other hand, I can’t seem to let anything go. Everything in this city reminds me of him, which is why I can’t stop thinking about him and the if onlys.

If only I’d gotten there a little earlier.

If only I’d known.

If only he had confided about his addiction to me.

If only.

If only.

If only.

Then again, how had I never seen how bad his addiction was? Too caught up in living my own life, I hadn’t paid enough attention. College had meant freedom for me, and freedom had wrung its bell—loud and bold.

Dazed, I force the smile back on my face at the guy standing in front of me. “Yeah, it sucks, that’s for sure.”

That might have come across snarky. It wasn’t meant to. It’s just that words meant to ease heartache don’t always do it.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he responds with a bite of his own in his tone.

Taking hold of his arm, I look into his eyes. “No, I get it. I miss him too.”

The guy shakes his head as if I’ve disappointed him in some small way. Like I’m a bitch who doesn’t understand. I get it, okay? I get it.

“Well, anyway, it was good running into you,” he tells me uncomfortably, and then walks away, more than likely to join a group of others I am certain also loved Brandon.

I watch him for a moment.

Wistful.

Full of memories that I don’t want to spill over into tonight.

Brandon’s sticky note on my bedroom door that read, “I needed to borrow your laptop. I’ll have it back to you first thing in the morning.”

The laptop had my paper on it.

I needed it.

The next morning, and surprise, surprise, no Brandon.

My anger.

The phone call I made—how mad I was when he hadn’t answered.

The fact that I stormed over to his apartment at nine in the morning, yelling how irresponsible he was as I walked through the door, angrily grabbing my MacBook off his couch, almost leaving, but taking a minute to peek into his bedroom…and finding him.

So still.

So cold.

Lifeless.

Sucking in a deep breath, I look around and let it out, along with the memories. The memories of the three Waters children. The ABCs is what we called ourselves. Amelia, Brandon, and Camden.

This was Brandon’s favorite club. See, everything in this city has Brandon’s imprint on it. He’d been sneaking in since he was seventeen. I wasn’t even fourteen the first time I overheard him talking about the place. I used to listen and think about how much fun it would be to go with him.

I asked.

I begged.

He never let me.

In fact, he and Camden never even let me go to a bar. Said they’d tell our father if I did. So I didn’t, not until the day I turned twenty-one.

Drinking wasn’t the only thing my two older brothers curtailed.

Dating in high school was also a challenge.

Each of them in his own was so protective of me, but the two of them together were enough to send any potential suitors away.

Looking around at this scene, I’m sort of glad they were the way they were.

I kind of miss it.

Shoving aside my sadness, I grab my camera—I use the real thing, not a smart-phone app—and focus on the neon lights before I start to take photos.

Snap.

Click.

Scan.

Behind the lens, I can lose myself. Forget who I am. Forget what happened to Brandon. Forget the fact that Camden left New York. Even push aside who I wish I could be. In another life, I tell myself, like I always do.

Shrieking has me lowering my camera and looking around. I think that might be Justin Bieber over in the corner. Yes, by the horde of girls flocking to him and screaming out his name, it definitely is. They have stars in their eyes and hearts to be broken, and they don’t even know it.

It sounds cynical, but it isn’t.

Reality is not cynical.

Reality isn’t defined as thinking you are going to meet the love of your life in a bar, either.

So what am I doing here, you ask?

I’ll tell you—I felt this little thing called hope in my belly and couldn’t ignore it. It happened when Carter Kincaid, my best friend, uttered that dreaded phrase: “I have the perfect person to set you up with.”

Yes, I rolled my eyes. Like we haven’t heard those words a million times. Still, I thought, what if I say no and this one frog finally turns out to be a prince? The guy I’m searching for to spend my life with.

The one.

My unicorn.

The pessimist in me didn’t jump at the opportunity. It took some convincing, a little bribery on Carter’s part, but finally I relented and said yes.

Clean cut. Wavy brown hair. Nice build. Above average height. That’s how my best friend described the guy I am meeting tonight.

Seriously, could the depiction be any more generic?

Eyes searching, I hope to locate Carter and perhaps wring his neck before finding my date, because this is a mob scene that I could have done without. There is no way I’m going to find anyone I know tonight, let alone someone I’ve never met before.

Click.

Snap.

Scan.

I take a few more photos.

Looking through the shutter of my lens, I search for the up-and-coming Yankees baseball player who is to be my date.

With a description as generic as tall, dark, and handsome, my chances of finding him were close to zero.

Luckily I searched him out on social media, so I have an idea of what he looks like.

Click.

Snap.

Scan.

I’ll give myself five minutes to locate him; if I don’t find him by then, I’m out of here.

Pushing my way through the crowd, I stop at the staircase and look down. Much to my surprise, I spot the Yankees pitcher in the sea of black tuxes and silver-sequined dresses at the bar. Then again, who wouldn’t be able to spot him? His Bahama-blue bow tie is bright enough to light up all of Manhattan.

Totally cute, by the way.

Feeling a little nervous, I let my camera drop and slowly walk toward him.

Wearing a shorter-than-normal dress and a pair of higher-than-usual heels, I attempt to gracefully descend the steps.

Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip.

Carter told his new boyfriend’s brother’s newer roommate that I’d be the one wearing the pink mod dress with the gold braiding around the neck, a big gold bangle up high above my elbow, and that I’d be further accessorized with a large camera around my neck.

Now, that is a much better description for locating a blind date. And kudos to myself for finding the Twiggy-replicated dress in a vintage store in the Village.

It is fantastic.

Not to my surprise, I catch the soon-to-be star baseball player’s eye just as my gold vintage heels hit the marble floor.

It’s the camera.

To be expected, he’s sitting with his head twisted over his shoulder, looking around. Even after halting his search, he looks uncertain. To assure him it’s me, I tap my camera. Right away his face breaks into a grin.

Okay, this is a good sign.

As I get closer, he stands up from the stool and heads in my direction to greet me.

Nice manners.

Big brown eyes focus on me. I smile at him with a nervous, “Landon Reese?” to which he cutely replies, “Guilty.”

This is going so well.

“Amelia Waters?” he asks as if still questioning I’m his date for the night.

“Guilty,” I repeat with a smirk that makes me feel more than a little spunky right now.

His grin grows wider.

Mesmerized by it, I stare at his handsome face. With his square jaw, chiseled nose, and strands of curly hair that dip over his brows in the sexiest way, I have only one thought—he’s no frog.