Harry and I are meeting outside of L’Artusi on West Tenth Street.

When I get there, Harry looks worried. “Are you okay?” he says, after giving me a hug. “Did something happen?”

I shake my head. “Everything is fine,” I lie.

I look him over. In his fitted pants and orange gingham button-down shirt, he could be in a Burberry catalog. He checks his watch and gives me a puzzled look—one he usually only makes when he’s crunching numbers. “But you’re late. You’re never late.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

He opens the door. “It’s just not like you,” he mutters as we step into the restaurant. “You’re predictable. That’s one of the things I like about you.” He gently pulls off my light spring jacket. He kisses my cheek. “You look beautiful, Lottie. I hope I didn’t upset you by leaving this morning.”

I shake my head again. The hostess steps in, thankfully, interrupting our moment. She leads us to the upstairs of the restaurant, a quaint Italian place in the Village that can only be described as romantic. It’s the type of place I have always wanted men to take me for dates. It fits all my requirements for restaurants: quiet and well-rated, with white tablecloths and pleasant lighting. But tonight, I wish for the noise of a bar, the distraction of a loud diner—anything that would make this dinner feel less intimate.

I’ve broken up with men before. But it’s always because they weren’t exactly what I wanted. I could always explain precisely why it wasn’t working. They weren’t ambitious enough. They wanted to go out all the time. They didn’t put the toilet seat down. I could always say exactly what boxes they failed to check. But tonight, I have to tell Harry that he’s everything that I’ve been looking for, but that I have been wrong about that everything.

Harry pulls out my chair and I sit down reluctantly. I wish I could be the type of person to ghost a guy. To disappear without a message, leaving behind only a pair of underwear or a tube of lipstick. But I’m not that woman.

“So about this morning,” he says, after the waiter fills our water glasses.

I dismiss him with a wave of my hand. “No, really. Work is work. You can’t control it.”

Harry clears his throat. He even does that in the most gentlemanly of ways. “That’s not what I’m referring to, Lottie. I’m talking about what happened before my boss called. I wanted to know how you felt about that.”

I try to subtly swallow the lump in my throat. “You mean the falling in love part?”

He nods. “Of course that’s what I mean. I don’t say those things lightly. Maybe men in America do that. But not me.”

I begin to tear a piece of Italian bread into tiny little pieces. It’s totally unbecoming, but if I don’t put my nervous energy somewhere, I’ll scream.

“I was hurt very badly before,” I say. “We’ve only briefly talked about my ex-boyfriend Rock, but the truth is that I thought he and I were going to get engaged.” I blush. “I had a wedding date picked out and I even knew what type of ring I wanted, down to the weight of the carat. But then he broke up with me. I was completely blindsided.”

“I’m sorry, Lottie,” he says. “What a total idiot.”

I pull my hair to one side. “No. I was the fool. I realize only now—two years later—that I wasn’t in love with him. I was in love with the idea of him.”

I bravely look into Harry’s eyes. They are as stunning as the day I met him, but they don’t make me feel anything. “Here’s the thing. I know now that I don’t have any idea of what love is. I keep searching for this idea of a person, instead of a feeling. I understand now that’s a terrible way to find happiness.”

Harry slumps a bit in his chair. It’s the only time I’ve seen him exhibit less than king of England posture. I think he knows what is coming.

“One of the saddest parts of looking back was that I didn’t miss Rock, the person. Rather, I was mourning the life I had planned for us to live. You see, I’ve convinced myself my whole life that love was finding the person who had everything I was looking for,” I say. “But now I realize that’s not love. I’m sorry, Harry. I can’t do this anymore.”

Harry looks at me. “Are you sure you’re okay? Did something else happen today? It’s like you’re a different person now.”

“I have to go.” I stand up and lean down. “I think you’re wonderful. Truly,” I say in almost a whisper.

Harry stands too. He lowers his voice into an angry hiss. “I can’t believe this. My friends told me American women were flighty, but I said, ‘Not my Lottie.’ But here we are, doing the whole it’s-not-you-it’s-me routine, like the way it always plays out in all those stupid American rom-coms.”

I nod. “The whole reason that it’s a cliché is there’s a lot of truth in it.” I look at him. “It really is me, and I do actually wish you the best, Harry.” Then I turn and leave. I don’t look back to see what I’ve left in my wake.

* * *

I head over to Mia and Jane’s apartment.

I scold myself for not calling or texting when no one answers the door right away. When I’m halfway down the hallway, it squeaks open. Jane peers out.

“Lottie?” she calls out.

I turn and run to her. I resist the urge to throw my arms around her like a little girl seeing her mother. “Jane,” I say.

A young guy steps into the hallway next to Jane. Wearing khakis and a polo, he looks vaguely familiar.

Jane looks at me and smiles. “Lottie, do you remember Scott from my bachelorette party?” She uses air quotes when she says “bachelorette.”

“Your student?” I ask cautiously.

Scott shakes his head. “Not anymore. I dropped her class,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m her former student. Semantics, but still they matter, especially when dating someone like Jane.”

Then it happens. I laugh, and they join in laughing along with me. The three of us are cracking up in the middle of the hallway. This bachelorette party thing has turned all of our lives into The Twilight Zone.

“How long have you two been dating?” I ask.

Jane looks over her shoulder. “Officially, a few weeks.” Then she lowers her voice. “Unofficially, three months.”

Which would take us exactly back to the bachelorette party.

“Jane, I don’t remember this part of the article,” I joke.

“I know,” she says. “Not the most honest article I’ve ever written. This whole thing is only against all of my rules.”

Scott beams at her, and she smiles back. It’s like she’s living out a story from one of her romance novels.

“I’m happy for you,” I say. “And rules might be overrated,” I whisper.

Mia appears in the doorway. She cups her hand around her ear. She whispers, “Say that again, Lottie, but this time louder. Rules are overrated?”

I shake my head. “You heard me the first time.” I look at her. “I like the magenta hair. I think it’s my favorite.”

She flips her hair like a Valley girl. “It’s good for now. No need to make a commitment.”

Mia walks out into the hallway and puts her arm around me. “Lottie and I are going to Trinity Jewels. That gives you two at least an hour. But remember, sock on the door. Please.”

Jane turns scarlet, Scott gives a boyish grin, and we all crack up again.

* * *

Since it’s still a nice spring night, we decide to walk all the way to the store. We say it’s because of the weather, but I think it’s really because we both know that we need to talk.

“I can’t believe Jane and Scott!” I say. “What a totally weird pair, but it looks like they fit.”

“After you left that night,” Mia says, and I blush.

“About that . . .” I say. “I’m sorry for storming out.”

Mia takes my hand gently and kisses it. “You are forgiven. You always have been. I’ve been giving you time and space, and waiting for you to come back.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Mia puts her hand to her mouth. “Now, let me finish. So after you left that night, Jane drank, like, all the champagne in the Boom Boom Room, even the reserve bottles. And then she confessed to Scott that the whole bachelorette thing was fake. And they made out on the couch. I had to literally pull them apart. I thought she would lose her job. Plus, Elsa May was screaming about how Jane was breaking all the major rules.” She sighs. “It was a shitshow. But an awesome one, like reality TV–worthy.”

I laugh because I can totally imagine this scene. I’m sorry I missed it.

“So anyway, we both had hangovers for two days. Jane was so scared to go back to work that she was talking about quitting. But then she got an email from the university registrar that Scott had dropped her class.”

I put my hand to my mouth. “No.”

“And then she freaked out more,” she says. “But then he called her up and asked her out on, like, a real grown-up date and that’s been that.”

“Insane,” I say. I look across the street at the awning for Trinity Jewels.

“You ready?” she asks.

“Wait,” I say. “What about you and camera boy Ralph?”

She shakes her head. “He’s in Afghanistan on assignment and has been for two months.”

I frown. “I’m sorry, Mia.”

She waves her hand. “It’s okay.” Her eyes glow. “We’re writing letters. Actual letters on paper, written in pen.”

“Who are you, a star of The Notebook?” I look at her and she’s blushing the color of her hair. “That’s so romantic.”

She laughs. “It sure beats swiping right and left.” She pauses. “Who knows where it’ll go, but after a bunch of letters, this is the first time—in a long time—I feel like I’m truly getting to know someone in a real way.” She smiles her real-Mia smile. One that can’t be found on the internet in any of her pictures.

“I can’t believe we haven’t talked in three months.” She shakes her head. “Let’s never do that again. And what about you?” she asks as we cross the street. “Are you seeing someone?

“I was seeing someone,” I say, not wanting to get into all the details. “But it turned out I was only into the idea of him.” I roll my eyes. “I know. I know. I’ve done that exact thing before,” I say with shrug. “I’m a slow learner, but I figured out I’m looking for more than that. Finally. It only took me thirty years to figure it out.”

She nudges me. “Well,” she says, pointing to the store. “Are you ready to try on your ring?”

I hesitate on the curb. What if it actually fits?

What if Tyler knows Lottie better than the real Lottie?

* * *

Mia flags down a salesgirl. “Andrea, can my friend try on that new Lottie ring by Tyler King?”

I whisper, “I thought you believed it was pathetic for a single woman to try on rings.”

“I’ve changed my mind about a lot of things,” she says. “Maybe I had more rules than I realized too. Maybe they kept too much out.”

Andrea goes into a case and pulls out the ring. The Lottie ring. My ring.

In person, it’s even more intricate and stunning than it was online. I examine it with new eyes. In one way, it’s totally an engagement ring. In another way, it’s nothing like one.

I slip it on.

“That’s it,” Mia says. “That’s totally it.” She lowers her voice. “He so made that for you.”

I shake my head. “It’s just my name. It’s not my ring,” I argue, even though I don’t want that to be true. I might not say it out loud, but there’s a big part of me that hopes he did make it for me. Like the whole part of me.

I hold out my hand. I don’t need to say this. Mia can also see how much it resembles my dream ring in a deconstructed way. “I like it,” I admit. “I would never, ever have tried this on otherwise, but I love it.”

Mia raises her eyebrows and watches me admire each of its intricate details.

I sigh, pull off the ring, and hand it back to Andrea. “It’s gorgeous,” I say.

I look down at the case in front of me. There’s my fake engagement ring, still shooting Star Wars–size light beams. I can’t imagine how I ever liked it at all. The setting is all wrong.

“Hey, Mia,” I say, turning to her. “I need your help for an idea I have for next Friday night.”

“Anything,” Mia says.