| SEATTLE |

MARCH 17th

Fucking Tuesday. Who likes fucking Tuesdays?

So what if I want to eat ice cream all day and waste away in my elastic pajamas? So what if I listen to Kodaline All I Want on repeat. It's not even a soundtrack moment. I have literally racked up 237 listens in the last two days.

It's an emotional aesthetic. A vibe. A dream.

The new dream.

I don't want to sound melodramatic. But I am being melodramatic. It's been 48 hours so naturally my mourning is in full-fledge swing. I got back Sunday night and was surprised by how cold and empty my loft felt. Sure I got up yesterday and went to the 5 AM at Go Zen. Had to relieve Zoë of her duty at some point.

But my heart wasn't super in it. It was still in the non-dairy Ben & Jerry's pint I left behind on my nightstand. They never make it back to the freezer anymore. No need to when they're empty –unless I want a freezer full of hollow pints. Maybe I can use them to collect my tears.

But I got up again today. Made it to the 5 AM. Split the 8 AM class with Zoë. Somehow managed the 11 AM solo. Showered. Had three bites of avocado toast. Progress. Went back for the 2 PM.

I'm just clearing the mats for the last class of the day when Zoë sneaks up on me.

"Em?" Her voice is quiet. I can tell she thinks I'm fragile –like if she even just says my name too loud it might break me apart forever.

"Zoë."

I repeat her name back to her, forcing a smile on my face. She watches me as I stack the mats on the shelf in the back of the room.

We do our ending stretches and I can tell she's thinking something over in her head, chewing on her lip.

"We're going out tonight. McGrath's Pub. 10:00." She nods. It would sound like an invite, if I didn't hear the no ifs, ands, or buts in her tone.

"Zoë, I don't know," I whine. "I'm not in the going-out mood."

"You're going out," she insists. "Come on. It's St. Patrick's Day and we're Irish."

"Literally neither of us is Irish." I can't help but laugh at her. I know she means well.

"I am tonight. WE are tonight." She laughs. "Here, I got you a gift."

She tosses me a tiny round pin: Kiss me, I'm Irish.

"We'll see," I finally yield, taking the pin.

"Come on. It's like blasphemous if we don't drink tonight." She laughs.

"Ugh." I roll my eyes, giving in.

"Excellent! I'm picking you up at quarter of." Zoë turns and walks away, her dark hair swaying behind her.

The pub is crowded with 100 people, approximately 5% of whom are maybe Irish. I feel good though. Part of me is glad to be out of my apartment –glad for the distraction of noise and booze and people. Part of me is even glad that Zoë dragged me out by my ponytail.

We push ourselves further into the pub, making a clear cut for the bar. If I am going to be out then I am going to be drunk. #IrishWhiskeyMakesMeFrisky

I'm having major Halloween flashback vibes right now. I almost welcome them. Maybe it'll be just like that night. I'll make friends in bar bathrooms and go home with a semi-stranger. Maybe I'll drunk-dial some people I shouldn't and regret everything in the morning.

"First of many," Zoë says, holding a beer out to me. I roll my eyes at the beer. "Tonight you drink beer."

I take it from her and shrug. A long sip later I smile. "Tonight I drink beer."

"Bryan is meeting us. Should be here soon." She looks around through the bar. "You know, he's bringing his friends. I think they're single."

"Zoë," I whine, shrugging her off me.

"Oh stop. You're sad. You're not dead!" She sighs.

"I know I'm not dead, thanks." I swig my beer.

"Do you?"

"Very funny." I take another sip of beer. It's not so bad once half the bottle is gone. I already have to pee though.

"Oh, there's Bryan. Here, hold my beer." Zoë thrusts her bottle into my hand and skips away to the door.

I watch her go. This place is crowded with lots of leprechaun impersonators with fake red wigs and green overcoats. Green everything. Green everywhere.

I'm not even looking for him, but I find him. I can't help but smirk when he sees me from the bar. Trevor. The universe keeps putting us on the same path. That or we happen to pick the same bars for drunken holiday parties.

Wow this really is just like Halloween.

I walk to the bar.

"Hey Emmy," Trevor smiles.

"Hi Trevor," I say. He kisses my cheek. What a little sweet nerd.

"We need to stop meeting like this," he laughs, raspy.

"Drunk at bars? Seems like a pretty good way to meet." I laugh back, leaning closer to him.

"I like your shirt," he screams in my ear, moving his hand around my waist to pull me closer.

"Thanks!" I find myself laughing at him.

He's not telling a joke, idiot. The shirt isn't even funny. I look down at my own T-shirt, the one Zoë gave me to wear.  It's a small pot of gold with a rainbow that says I'm magically delicious.

OK. It is cute.

"You're not very festive," I say, pointing to his blue button-down and jeans. I feel like he's always wearing button-downs.

"Short notice." He laughs.

"Yea, if only Saint Patrick's Day was the same every year!" I shout.

"Good one," he grins.

I unfasten my pin and tack it to his shirt pocket, patting it for good measure. "There you go!"

He looks down at the new addition to his outfit and smirks. "Kiss me, I'm Irish. You know, I actually am Irish."

Maybe I need to take Zoë's advice; maybe I should listen to what Trix and Meg have been telling me. Trix –the strongest most pro-Brooks & Emmy advocate I know spent all last night telling me I needed to just, what was it? Bang one out.

Of course I didn't tell Trix. I couldn't face her. She only knew because Mr. Douche-ola and Ms. Fake Boobs did the unthinkable. They went public. Kissing picture and sappy caption to boot.

Maybe Trix is right. Maybe I do need to bang one out. I think all this standing one-foot from Trevor. We always find each other at bars –on holidays –when we're drunk. It's like a thing we do. Our thing. He'd be a nice way to bookend this whole fiasco –bookend the last seven months.

As Trevor asks if he can get me a shot, I don't even hesitate to say ya bitch, buy it. OK, really I just nod. There's something wildly bizarre about agreeing to a drink with a stranger that you've already slept with. Twice. It's almost like you're automatically agreeing to do it again.

He looks at me now with almost that exact question on his face. Are we going to do this?

I look at him. I look around. Under the dim bar light, surrounded by drunken wannabe Irishmen and neon green shamrock hats, both of us holding tepid shots and already starting to sweat in the crowd, I decide this will do.

Third time's a charm.

Sure, it's not a mountain rave or a Cuban nightclub dance party and sure it is painfully average. But maybe painfully average is what I need. I toss my head back and down the shot, placing the glass back in Trevor's hand.

"Buy me a second?" This is my answer.

"You got it." Trevor laughs easily.

"And a third."

He tilts his head back and looks at me like I'm such a surprise to him. Like every word I say is a treat to his ears. I realize this is likely how we ended up together last time.

Met at a bar. Drank shots. And then six more. I was OK with it then and I'm OK with it now. I smile to myself. For some unexplainable reason, I find I am free.

We exchange numbers this time, so it's more than a third one night stand. Maybe it'll be more. Maybe weirdly, I'm OK with that. Into it even. My heart's not entirely dead, ya know.