“I just showed my last apartment,” I say into my cell as I’m climbing down the stairs to the 1 train’s platform. “Okay, I’m going to lose service, but I’ll be over at Mia’s as soon as I can. Promise.”

It’s Friday night, and Elsa May and Mia are waiting at Mia’s Flatiron apartment for me to go out. Thankfully, Elsa May hasn’t mentioned that whole ridiculous bachelorette idea again. (Pretty sure that was a drunk email anyway.) Last weekend, it took me half the day to recover from her visit. Of course, it was worth it to see her, but still, I’m hoping she has more mellow plans for tonight. Otherwise, I worry this new - mommy - by - day, super - party - girl - by - night is going to be my kryptonite.

While I wait on the platform for the uptown train, I check out all the guys in suits. It’s 6 p.m. on Friday, and we’re right near Wall Street. This platform is packed with good-looking, clean-cut guys in sharply tailored dark-colored suits, which is completely my type. To be perfectly honest, I orchestrated this moment: I always try to ride from downtown to uptown on the subway around this time. I do it partly because I hate wasting money on cabs when the subway is nearly always faster, even if it’s often hot, crowded, and sticky. But I mostly do it because I’m placing myself smack-dab in the middle of a mob of my kind of guys. Meeting someone on the subway might seem very old-fashioned and out of a black-and-white romantic film where people spontaneously burst into tap dancing, but it’s a statistical thing for me. These gainfully employed, dapper men are just what I’m looking for—and I’m putting myself in a spot where they can find me.

So really, if anything, it’s smart.

It’s exactly where I met my last boyfriend, Rock, who I originally thought was The One. He was in commercial real estate and worked crazy hours too. We both liked watching Jeopardy, reading the Sunday newspaper (the actual paper printed with ink), and visiting open houses just for fun. Everyone was always saying, “You two fit,” which we did. So when he dumped me after over a year together, it more than just hurt. He even had the nerve to say, “Of course, I think we work well together, Lottie, but this isn’t a business merger. It needs to make more than just sense.” As if that’s logical at all. If something makes total sense, how can it be wrong?

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a young guy in a cheap tan suit (read: new intern) says to me, “Is this going uptown?”

I smile at him and nod, but I don’t try to continue the conversation. While he’s cute enough, he doesn’t fit my criteria. And being called “ma’am” isn’t exactly how I want to start my weekend.

I’ve never been one for wasting time with the wrong type of guy. At twenty-nine, I’m especially not going to do that now.

It’s funny how even in our jaded, high-divorce-rate society, everyone believes that love is this cosmic thing, and you have no idea what type of person you’re going to end up with. That’s how people get into trouble. I believe you have to be as calculated when it comes to relationships as you are with everything else in life. You have to know what you want before you find it. And never compromise.

As I ride the subway uptown, I admire all the handsome men and hope that I meet The One soon. I also try not to imagine what would happen if I ran into Rock again.

* * *

Mia answers her door after I buzz three times. “Surprise!” she cries out, holding up an inflatable penis. Then she taps the disgusting thing on my head before I can bat it away.

I look at her blankly, and she snaps a photo with her gold, jewel-bedazzled iPhone. And then another.

“Okay, cool it, paparazzi,” I say.

“Mia, that’s firmly against Rule Four,” Elsa May scolds from another room. She uses a tone usually reserved for Birdie. It is still funny to hear Elsa May sound like a mom, even though, of course, I know she technically is one.

“What are you guys talking about?” I ask. I call out to the other room. “You weren’t actually serious about the bachelorette thing, Elsa May? Please say no.”

Mia laughs. “Serious doesn’t begin to explain it.” She hands me a laminated piece of pink paper. It reads “The Faux Bachelorette Rules.” “Rules,” she says with a sneer. “Lottie, can you read these for me? You’ve always been better with that kind of stuff.”

“Elsa May, what is going on?” I call out again.

“Read it out loud,” Mia demands, and I’m wondering if she’s already tipsy. She gets off work at 5 p.m. from Trinity Jewels, which is nearly unheard of in Manhattan, where it’s not uncommon to work way past dinnertime.

“Okay,” I say with a sigh. It seems that Elsa May did not forget about her hoaxy idea. “ ‘Rule One, every girl will have a chance to be the faux bachelorette for the night.’ ”

I clear my throat and call into other room, “Elsa May, I’m opting out.”

“Keep reading,” Mia demands as she fixes her cat-eye eyeliner in the entryway mirror.

“ ‘Rule Two, the faux bachelorette must pick out her dream ring and make up an ideal fiancé, love story, and fantasy wedding—and stick to them like peanut butter and jelly throughout the night,’ ” I read.

Elsa May joins us in the entryway hall and I shake my head at her. “You need to go back to work,” I say. “Your brain is atrophying. This sounds like it’s out of a bad Lifetime movie.”

“Continue,” Elsa May says, giving me a quick hug. “And for your information, Lifetime movies are mostly about true crime, and dead or washed-up celebrities. Trust me—they are not all that awful.”

I sigh and decide to play along for a little while, since it’s obvious Elsa May needs to get out of the suburbs. “ ‘Rule Three, the faux bachelorette may not—under any circumstances—hook up with anyone. (Keeping it classy, girls. The sanctity of fake marriage and all that). And Rule Four, absolutely no social media.’ ”

Elsa May snatches the paper from me. “And ‘Rule Five,’ ” she proudly reads, “ ‘Have fun. You’re only a bachelorette once, right?’ ” And then she winks.

“Is this an early April Fool’s joke?” I ask. “We’re not literally parading around the city and pretending to be bachelorettes, are we? We’re almost thirty.”

And then Elsa May gets a sneaky look in her eyes, and the next thing I know, Mia is on a bended knee facing me and holding out a small black jewelry box.

“Lottie Langerman,” she says in a fake low-octave guy voice. “Will you marry me?” She opens the box, revealing the most stunning diamond ring I’ve ever seen. It’s an enormous princess cut, probably nearly three carats, with a simple yellow gold band. It’s exactly what I want when I get married. It’s the same style ring I found photographs of in bridal magazines and not-so-subtly left lying open for Rock to see. Not that it worked out as I had planned.

While I stand there stunned, Elsa May slides the beauty on my left ring finger. It fits perfectly. I hold my hand up and it shimmers and sparkles, even in Mia’s dimly lit entryway.

This is not how I imagined this moment. But the ring is stunning—like I knew it would be.

“Bring her into the living room,” Mia says, sounding like a sugar-overdosed kid at a sleepover. Elsa May and Mia practically drag me into the next room.

On the coffee table, there’s a neon yellow T-shirt perfectly laid out. It reads, in giant block letters, “Lottie’s Last Fling before the Ring.”

“Put it on,” Mia says. She grabs a matching shirt from a stack and throws it over her tank top and skinny jeans.

“Very cute, guys,” I say, half laughing and half admiring my dream ring. “This is all hysterical, but I’m not playing along anymore.”

If I can convince my latest client that a basement apartment is charming, I can definitely persuade my friends out of this ridiculous idea. I start to plot my argument carefully, because after all those law classes, Elsa May can also be extremely persuasive.

“It’s a cute idea,” I say, checking out the ring in the corner of my eye. “But I highly doubt we’ll all have more fun than a normal night. Maybe we can go see a play. There’s always those last-minute tickets we can grab.”

Elsa May shakes her head. “Tonight,” she says. “You’re the show, Lottie. Take your spot at center stage.”

She snaps a neon pink fanny pack around my waist and fastens a bachelorette crown on my head before I can stop her.

“It’s all happening.” She pouts when I raise my eyebrows at her. “C’mon, Lottie,” she pleads. “When’s the last time we’ve had a great night out? You’re always working, I’m always mothering, and Mia’s always interneting—or is it social media-ing?”

“This isn’t a court of law, Elsa May,” I say. “You don’t have a jury of twelve to convince. Only me.” I motion to myself. “And I think this is absurd.”

Elsa May ignores me and points at all the neon. “Pinterest is all about the themed bachelorettes. We’re doing late eighties/early nineties. Think Saved by the Bell meets Beverly Hills 90210, the early years. I have the whole night mapped out.” She beams the way she did when she made law review. “I worked really hard on this.” I realize that Elsa May is winning, because how can I dare to say no to that?

This is why I like my job. I get to be the one to convince other people and make money while doing it.

I hold up the customized T-shirt. “But why does it have to be me? Why not one of you ladies? I don’t even like bachelorette parties. As a rule.”

“Because you’re the hardest one to persuade,” Mia says. “If you do it, we’ll all do it. Maybe it’ll even be more fun than you think.” She points at me. “You’re in a rut.” She points at herself. “I’m in a rut. Let’s forget our last two unmentionable guys and go get ourselves some attention.”

“I’m over Rock,” I lie. “And I like my life. Plus, you know drunken attention at bars isn’t my kind of thing.” I shake my head. No one argues.

“Also, I’m not in a rut,” I say clearly.

Neither Mia nor Elsa May replies to that.

“And this ring?” I ask, holding it up under Mia’s white Ikea chandelier.

“That’s been your dream ring since you saw it in Tiffany’s window at eighteen,” Elsa May says. “And you can wear it all night long . . . but only if you go along with this.”

“Did you arrange this?” I ask, turning to face Mia.

Mia nods. “It’s a perfect fit, size seven.” She leans in. “I know my married boss is sleeping with not one but two of the floor salesgirls, so he decided it would behoove him to lend it to me for the night. Just don’t freaking lose it.”

I shake my head and whisper. “I feel like I need some security guards to follow me like they do with celebrities.” I hold up my hand again.

The tiniest part of me wonders what it would be like to have people see me as engaged—taken—off the market. Finding my other person is the part of my life that’s missing, even if I’ll never admit that out loud to Mia and Elsa May. But it’s not worth this gimmick just to see what it feels like to be betrothed. I don’t need attention that badly.

“This is totally silly,” I say just as Mia’s roommate Jane comes into the apartment.

Jane moved in after Mia’s ex-boyfriend moved out. Mia found her the way she finds most things: online, Craigslist to be specific. Jane is a few years older and she works as an associate professor at New York University in Women’s Studies. She’s a good roommate in the technical sense. She doesn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink, spends most of her time reading in her room, and pays the rent on time. However, Jane’s even more of a buzzkill than I am. Her favorite cocktail conversation-starter is to ask which wave of feminism you identify with. She’s third wave with hints of first wave, in case you were wondering.

“What’s silly?” Jane asks as she sets down a stack of papers. She eyes our neon T-shirts. “Other than, of course, gendered toy aisles and T-shirts that say ‘Daddy’s Princess.’ ”

“What’s silly—other than those things—is that Mia and Elsa May want to have a faux bachelorette party,” I explain, knowing that reasonable, feminist Jane will also agree that this is ridiculous, and possibly sexist. “Elsa May thinks that bachelorettes have more fun.” I flop my left wrist out in front of her dramatically. “And somehow, I’ve been cast as tonight’s lucky bride-to-be.”

Jane ponders this all for a few seconds before finally saying, “Did you know I’ve never been to a bachelorette party? I guess that’s what happens when you work in gender studies.” She nervously laughs and shuffles her papers. “A fake bachelorette sounds fascinating. Of course, that is, only if you think of it as a social experiment.”

“Yes, a social experiment,” Elsa May parrots. “Brilliant.”

Jane smiles broadly. Mia gets a knowing look in her eyes and shakes her head at Elsa May just as Jane asks, “Can I join in?”

Elsa May throws her hands up in victory. “Of course!” She pours out four glasses of champagne. Mia glares at Elsa May in disapproval; she likes to keep her relationship with Jane on a strictly roommate level.

Elsa May shrugs and tosses Jane a shirt. “I had to get ten printed. That’s the minimum. The more the merrier, right?” Jane takes off her black blazer and eagerly slips the T-shirt on over her camisole.

Elsa May holds up two ancient-looking hair crimpers and explains, “We’re going to pregame and go totally eighties on everyone’s hair.” Then she hands me another piece of pink paper, labeled “Lottie’s Dream Man and Dream Wedding.” “You’re going to fill this out. After all, Rule Two says you need a story and you need to stick to it. People are going to ask you about the lucky guy and the big day, and we all need to be consistent with the stories.” She gives me a pen. “Get to work and make up a guy and a life as fabulous as that ring.”

I lift my hand and stare at my dream rock again. It’s heavier than I would’ve guessed, but I’ll admit it looks perfect, even against my neon yellow T-shirt.

“First of all, we’re too old to use words like ‘pregame.’ Second of all, I’m doing this for you, Elsa May,” I say. “And you’re going to owe me big.”

I drain half of my glass of champagne and sit down with the questionnaire.

My new plan: go along with this for tonight. The girls will realize how ludicrous—and not actually fun—this is, and we’ll go back to normal, boring Friday nights.

I shake my head and start filling out the worksheet. Mia crimps my hair.

Lottie’s Dream Man:

Let’s call him Daniel Paddington since this is a preposterous idea and he can have an equally silly last name. Hell, his nickname can even be Bear.

He’s British, from just outside of London. Grew up in one of those picture-perfect stone homes.

Very Downton Abbey.

He’s older.

He’s an incredible dresser and wears only custom suits from Bond Street. (On the weekends, he wears cashmere sweaters and nice dress pants. He doesn’t even own jeans and if he did, he would still call them ‘trousers.’)

While he embodies the best of all British stereotypes (the charming accent, an utter gentleman, conversationalist), he’s found New York to be his true home.

He works hard and makes good (okay, let’s say great) money, but also enjoys the arts and sports although he doesn’t disappear every fall the second that (American) football starts. In fact, he thinks fantasy football is simply fantastical and not worthy of his actual time.

He makes me laugh and he’s my best friend (other than you girls.)

How We Met:

We both got off the 1 train at Christopher Street. When we exited on street level, it was raining. Pouring. He turned the same way as I did and offered to share his umbrella. Then he lied and said he was going the same direction as me and walked five blocks out of his way before it stopped raining. He got my number before he left and we were engaged six months later.

Dream Wedding:

Colors: Currant and Gold

Motif: Vineyard

Since my family is small and his is across the pond, we decided on an intimate, Tuscan-vineyard wedding. I’m going to wear Vera Wang and he’s going to wear a dark gray suit. The bridesmaids will wear currant and there will be a harpist playing throughout the ceremony. We will dance to “At Last.” Everyone will ask if we took lessons, but we hadn’t. We just work well together.

The dinner will go on forever, course after course. The cake will be lemon. We’ll exit to friends popping bottles of champagne. We will honeymoon on the Amalfi Coast.

I hand Elsa May the paper. “Here you go,” I say, rolling my eyes even though I did surprise myself with how into it I got. “CliffsNotes: handsome Brit and I are getting married soon in Italy. Very George Clooney and Amal.”

Jane smiles and blushes. “That sounds lovely.”

(I forgot that Mia told me that Jane is a secret romance novel fiend. She says it’s all for “academic research,” but by the starry-eyed way she’s looking at me, I’m beginning to second-guess that. She might be one of those true believers.)

Elsa May takes the paper and reads it over as if it’s a legal brief.

She presses her tongue against her cheek in this smug-but-cute way. “I always knew you were a closet romantic,” she says knowingly.

“I’m not. You know I don’t believe in all that fate and soul mate stuff. I’m just playing along.” I shake my head.

Elsa May looks at her iPhone. “C’mon, bachelorette party, we have a subway to catch. Don’t worry, Lottie; we’re heading out of Manhattan so I doubt you’ll see anyone you know.”

I take a look in Mia’s full-length mirror. Elsa May stands on her tiptoes behind me and adjusts the crown.

“Is the crown really necessary?” I ask. “I mean, aren’t we a bit old for fairy tales?”

“Never,” Elsa May says. “The crown is your glass slipper. It’s what transforms you into somebody else for the night.” She looks at me. “Just one more thing.” She sprinkles a handful of confetti over my hand. “Bippity-boppity-boo!” she exclaims.

I laugh and dust the confetti off my shoulder. “Somebody has been reading too many princess stories at bedtime.” I tilt the crown just a little bit. “All right, fairy godmother. Let’s go hitch a ride in our pumpkin carriage. Just don’t come crying to me when this all comes crashing down at midnight.”

* * *

“So,” Jane says, twisting strands of expensive Brooklyn ramen around a fork. “Is a strip club on tonight’s agenda?”

In unison, both Mia and Elsa May nearly spit out their own noodles.

“Isn’t that against your beliefs?” Mia asks when she stops laughing.

“Not if it’s a male strip club,” Jane says. “You know, Chippendales, that kind of thing. I’m in favor of any place that subverts the male gaze.”

Elsa May smiles kindly, the way only a mother could. “Not tonight. Maybe for your faux bachelorette, Jane.”

Jane raises her thimble of sake. “I’m in!” I think she’s already drunk.

I relax my face so I’m not smiling when I say, “I’m glad you’re enjoying this, Jane, but here’s the thing: I won’t be agreeing to do any more of these.”

“All right, Lottie,” Mia says and pours me more sake. “We already know that you’re no fun and live your life according to some arbitrary rules you made up that help you feel in control during the chaos that is life.”

I’m used to Mia’s judgment of my “rules,” so I don’t get into it with her. But they are more than just rules; they are my standards. Also, why should I have to compromise?

Our waiter, the typical young Brooklynese with Converse high tops, tattoos, and flannel, walks over, balancing a tray with four glasses of champagne. “On the house,” he says, and looks right at me. “He must be a lucky guy. Best wishes.”

I can’t help but blush. Is it wrong that having men think I’m taken makes me feel more desirable?

“Isn’t this immoral?” I ask when the waiter is out of earshot.

“If getting free drinks and having fun is unethical,” Elsa May says, clinking my glass, “I’m still signing up. I’m probably never going to become a real lawyer anyway, so I’m not really worried about my character.”

Mia holds up her flute. “To our blushing bride-to-be: may the night sparkle as much as your ring.”

And even I have to drink to that.

“All right, ladies,” Elsa May says, pushing her plate away. “I have a clue for our next stop. It involves lots of balls. But no, Jane, it’s not a strip club.”

* * *

After two drinks and one 400-point winning score at Skee-Ball, I somewhat reluctantly agree to put a penis straw in my drink.

After another drink at the video game arcade slash bar, I suck back red Jell-O shots with a stranger and then go on to win four consecutive games of Ms. Pac-Man.

When a guy at the next dive bar tells me I look like Saved by the Bell’s Kelly Kapowski, the girl of his childhood dreams, I surprise everyone—including myself—by smiling, flirting, reciting the Bayside cheer, and calling him “Zack Morris.”

By midnight we’ve arrived at our final stop—a beer garden—and I can tell that Elsa May is beyond thrilled by the results of this (faux) bachelorette party. “It’s like the crown has totally loosened you up,” she says, readjusting it in my hair. “This is so fun. I can’t wait for my turn.”

I fluff my crimped hair. “I’m only playing the part.”

“Tequila shots!” Mia cries out.

Jane shakes her head. “This is a beer garden. They don’t have shots, Mia. They don’t even have wine.”

“Buzzkill,” mutters Mia, and even Jane laughs.

“Over here,” a guy from the other side of the bar calls to us. “Come over here.” He points to some empty barstools.

At first, it was weird having all these strangers beckon us, but by now, we’re used to it. Usually, I just blend in with the crowd at bars and purposely try not to draw attention to myself. But for once, I’m not part of the background. Instead, I’m the scene. I’m not sure how to feel about it.

We make our way to the bar as a group. Before we even get there, one of the guys has ordered us a round of beers.

“Hey, Elsa May,” I say, seeing the bathroom sign out of the corner of my eye. “I’ll be right back.”

“Hurry,” she says, pointing at the guy and the drinks. “Soon it’ll be Cinderella’s metaphoric midnight, and we’ll all return to being who we actually are.”

I look at my ring. Fine: I’ll admit it’s exciting to have everyone think I’m taken. It seems as if guys actually open up more when they know that you’re about to get married. How ironic.

“Thank you, Elsa May,” I say. “I know I was a reluctant brat about this at first, but it’s been fun.”

She nods, knowingly.

After going to the bathroom and checking out my ridiculous appearance, I head back to the bar.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. “You dropped something,” a voice says.

I turn around and look up to see a tall, bearded guy in jeans and a T-shirt that says “Goonies.” What a fashionista. Strike.

He’s holding my crown. He dusts it off and passes it back to me.

“Thank you,” I say and give him a small curtsey. Who am I tonight? I think.

“Congratulations, by the way,” he says, pointing at my shirt.

“Thank you,” I say again. Rule Number Eight is no beards, but I find myself admiring his pretty blue eyes and long eyelashes, the drag-queen type that all girls covet and only boys seem to be born with.

“So, are you getting used to being the center of attention yet?” he asks. “My cousin just got married and she said that freaked her out the most.”

“Guys buying you free drinks? It’s pretty fun, surprisingly,” I say. “And I didn’t think that I’d like this whole thing at all.”

He holds up his beer. “You can have this. Haven’t opened it yet.”

I shake my head.

“It’s still cold,” he says, gently pressing the beer bottle to my cheek. “See?”

I shiver and step back, surprised. “You’re right. It’s freezing,” I say, wiping the moisture from my face. “But I’m really all set. I should probably take a break from drinking.”

He nods and points out to the small courtyard. “I was about to go outside and smoke if you want to join.”

“I don’t smoke,” I say. Another strike. (Rule Number Seven: no smoking.)

“Okay,” he says, shrugging. He starts to head out but turns around once he’s nearly out the door. “I’ll stand five feet away.” He salutes with his free hand. “Scout’s honor. I’d be honored to have the bachelorette’s company.”

“Okay,” I say, eager to have a minute away from the chaos of the bar.

He lights up his cigarette before we are even outside, but he does stand a respectable distance away.

“So when’s the big day?” he asks.

“March fourth.” I’ve said it so many times tonight that it almost rings true.

“That’s not very far away. Are you nervous?”

“Not at all,” I lie.

“You’re lucky then,” he says. “I’d be crapping my pants.” He holds up his hand. “Excuse my language.”

I lean against a brick wall. “So I’m guessing you’re not a fan of marriage,” I say. I know this guy’s type.

“I’m not sure it’s for me personally,” he admits.

(Rule Number Six: avoid all men who vocalize fear of commitment. People don’t change.)

I shake my head. “I think if you use your brain, don’t get completely hopped up on hormones, and pick someone logically, then marriage can work out very well.”

He laughs at me. “That’s the saddest description of marriage I’ve ever heard, darling,” he says. “That’s way sadder than even me being against the institution as a whole.”

“The name’s Lottie,” I say. Why doesn’t anyone believe love can be logical? The Earth has order and makes sense. Why can’t love?

“I figured you were Lottie,” he says with a smirk and nod toward my T-shirt. “I’m Tyler,” he says. He stomps out his cigarette with his boot and walks over to me. I think he’s going to shake my hand, but instead he reaches for my left hand and examines my ring. His skin is rough, and I reactively breathe out deeply when he touches me. How long has it been since a guy has touched me?

I quickly retract my hand. Obviously, it’s been too long, judging by the diameter of my goosebumps.

“So nice to meet you,” I say and head for the door.

Tyler shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Just trying to make conversation. I didn’t mean to scare you. Let’s start over. I’m Tyler. Pleased to meet you, Lottie.” He looks at my hand again. “That’s a nicely cut diamond,” he says, pointing to it. “Big, but nice lines.”

I turn around and raise an eyebrow.

“I work in jewelry design,” he adds.

I start to laugh, until I realize he’s serious. Mostly, I’m glad he doesn’t have some hand fetish. “Oh, that’s cool,” I say. “I’ve never met anyone who does that. My friend works at Trinity Jewels, but she does the financing.”

He shrugs. “My grandmother had great taste in costume jewelry. Then I was an art major and sort of fell into it. It pays a lot better than selling still lifes of fruit in Union Square. A lot of jewelry design is done on the computer now, but I always draft by hand.”

I look at my ring. “So tell me this: you’re against marriage, but you design engagement rings?”

He shrugs. “It’s my bread and butter. People are always getting married. Divorced. Remarried. I may be an artist, but I’m also a capitalist.”

I laugh. He might not be my type, but he’s funny. But funny doesn’t matter. It’s not in my rule book. If you want funny, visit a comedy club.

“What do you do, Lottie?” Tyler asks.

“Real estate. People are always moving too.”

He pauses and twirls his mustache with his fingers. “Are you a broker? Any listings downtown?”

I nod. “That’s my specialty.”

Of course, I say that about every neighborhood.

“Can I have your card?”

I raise my eyebrows again and he shakes his head. “It’s for my brother. He recently got a big new fancy Wall Street job right out of college and needs an apartment. But he’s useless at life skills, so I’m in charge of helping him out. It’s been that way since forever.”

I fish through my purse and pull out my business cards. “Here you go.” I won’t pass up a potential broker’s fee. That would really make this bachelorette party worth it.

“Here,” he says, passing me a black-and-white card that reads: “Tyler King. Custom Jewelry Design. Gowanus Studio Space. Brooklyn, NY 11225.”

“Well,” I say, pausing to put the card in my purse. “I better get back to my party. You know, last night out and all.”

“One more question,” he says, and leans in a little too close. So close I can smell the way his cologne mixes with his cigarettes into something that smells all man. “How does it feel to know that you’re never going to kiss anyone else again without doing something wrong?”

Deep down inside, I’m truthfully more afraid that I’m going to keep kissing people and that none of them will be the one. “I like that thought,” I say, opening the door. “In fact, that sounds like the very best part to me.”

He smiles at me. He has perfect teeth. For a guy who’s totally not my type, that is.

“That’s really sweet,” he finally says. I find myself relaxing.

He looks at my ring again. “You know, if you ever want to get it reset, I’d be happy to draw up some designs for you.”

“Reset?” I nearly yell, tensing up again. “It’s the perfect engagement ring.” Even if it’s a faux engagement ring, I think. I point at him. “Who are you?” I shake my crimped hair.

Did all the manners leave Brooklyn when all the Whole Foods stores moved in?

“My mistake,” Tyler says. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I was only giving professional advice. In my humble opinion, I don’t think the setting fits the diamond as well as it could.” He shrugs. “This happens all the time. Men are always so obsessed with finding the perfect diamond for their women that they forget all about the setting. Too often, the band doesn’t do anything for the diamond. But if you love the ring, that’s all that matters.”

“I think my fiancé did a great job,” I say. “But thank you for your unsolicited advice. Hope you have a great night.”

I make sure to slam the courtyard door behind me. I’m insulted on behalf of my fake fiancé.

Elsa May hurries over from the bar. “Were you making out with that extremely hot guy outside? I know that’s against the official rules, but unofficially, I would be totally okay with it.”

I laugh. “I was getting fresh air.”

Elsa May rolls her eyes. “C’mon. I was spying like Nancy Drew on assignment. I saw him smoking, so I don’t think the air was very fresh. Just saying.”

All of sudden, I’m very aware of how warm I am despite the fact it was chilly outside. I feel tiny beads of sweat forming near my hairline.

“We were just making small talk,” I say, wiping at my brow. “He’s a jerk anyway. I would never make out with him. You know I’m not into the Brooklyn-artist type. And when have I ever made out with a guy at a bar, Elsa May?”

But for a second, I let myself imagine it. But only a second. C’mon, Lottie. Pull it together and drink some water. Like a gallon of it. The guy probably tastes like an ashtray. Totally not your type.

Elsa May turns and gives Tyler a look. “You’re right,” she says. “Not your kind of guy.” After a pause, she adds: “Too bad for you.”

I sigh and pull off my crown. “Can we go home now? I had a great time, but the room’s spinning.”

In the cab, I rest my head on the window and Elsa May leans on me. “Thanks for playing along, Lottie,” she says.

“Sure.” I look at my faux engagement ring, which I realize I forgot to give back to Mia. “Shit.” I pull out my phone to text her.

She replies back, “No worries. You’re not actually Cinderella. It won’t turn into a pumpkin. Please just keep it safe until tomorrow.”

I admire it as the cab flies across the Brooklyn Bridge. I’ll admit I’m a little sad that the game is over—that the ring isn’t really mine, that Daniel doesn’t actually exist, and that I’ll wake up tomorrow alone.