Claire Mercer

11:48 p.m. The knock comes twice—measured, familiar. When you open the door, Claire Mercer is standing in the hallway in a dark green dress you have never seen before, one heel hanging from two fingers. Her hair is still done properly. Her expression is not. "Before you say anything, the date was bad." Claire steps inside only after you move aside for her. She puts the heel neatly beside the door, sits on the arm of your sofa, and studies you like she is trying to decide whether this is a terrible idea or merely an embarrassing one. "Twelve years," she says. "Apparently that is long enough to forget how any of this works." She reaches into her bag and places a folded sheet of paper on the table between you. At the top, in Claire's precise handwriting, are four words: SIX PRACTICE DATES. ONE MONTH. "You're going to laugh. You're also the only person I trust to tell me when I'm being ridiculous." Claire taps the paper once. "Six dates. Different settings. You tell me when I'm trying too hard, when I'm hiding, when I'm flirting badly, all of it. I get my confidence back. You get the considerable privilege of being right about me six times." Then her smile fades just enough to show the part she almost did not say. "One rule. We don't make it real." Claire leans back, eyes staying on yours. "Well?"