It's approaching twenty minutes past seven when I sidle up to the entrance at Ruggiero's. I've changed my mind about coming here a minimum of a half-dozen times, though it appears the side in favor of not turning into a bitter old hermit has won out, at least temporarily. I figure I can invoke my alleged stomach virus if this social stuff is too much to bear.

So what finally drove me out of exile? What motivated me to shower, shave, and put on clean clothes – on the same night, no less? Well, I imagined what Tierney must be up to tonight – no doubt something fun and fulfilling, most likely with her still-nameless-to-me new beau. And I realized that by retreating into a world of video games and processed sugar, I'm allowing her to maintain a hold on me, even weeks after she left. If I ever want to move on, I need to break free. So what better way to start the next phase of Life After Tierney, to announce to the world that Gavin McKee is back, than a night out of great food and even better company?

I scan the bustling restaurant, and it's suitably packed for a Friday evening. The lively crowd and the murmur of their overlapping conversations nearly suffocate my senses. Anxiety tightens its grip on my insides, and for a minute Forza Horizon 3 and Little Debbies don't sound like such a bad way to spend a night after all. I take a step toward the exit, but as I do, my gaze lands at the far side of the dining room on a group of familiar faces. They light up with excitement as soon as they recognize me.

I wave back, summoning my best faux-smile. It's too late to turn back now. I'm actually going to do this.

One of the women at the table rises and saunters up to the hostess's stand to greet me, her eyes bright and warm and welcoming. She's decked out in a one-shoulder, eggplant-purple cocktail dress and black platform heels, her dark brown hair is done up in a top knot bun, and her crystal drop earrings glisten in the restaurant's ambient light. My modest wardrobe choice of a plain white tee, a black cardigan, and jeans seems downright slovenly by comparison.

This lovely human being is Ivy Johnson, part of the Oregon Symphony's viola section and best friend of tonight's birthday girl. Like Eun-Ha, Ivy has a sweet, genial disposition and a kind heart – I've quite literally never heard a bad word about her from anyone. Unlike our guest of honor, Ivy's not currently attached, and I'd guess she's been the object of a fantasy or three for much of our orchestra's straight male contingent.

And yes, that includes me. Guilty as charged.

"Gavin!" Ivy exclaims in a near-squeal as she approaches, spreading her arms in anticipation of a hug. "Jeremy said you'd be coming. I'm so glad you're here! How are you doing?"

Ivy and I lock in an embrace as if we're long-lost brother and sister, even though 'friendly acquaintances' is more accurate. There's already a hint of wine on her breath, but it's driven back by a breeze of vanilla with a back note of lavender. How is it that beautiful women always manage to smell as incredible as they look? Ivy's fragrance reminds me of this perfume Tierney used to like...

Oh, God, here I go again. Focus, McKee. Focus!

"I'm doing great, actually," I reply, a bald-faced lie if ever I've told one. "Pretty much over this stomach thing I've been battling."

Fantastic. Now I've blown my one solid pretext for cutting out of this thing early. If it comes to the point where I'm desperate to go, I'll have to get creative.

"That's so nice to hear," says Ivy, releasing me from her gentle but firm grasp. "We've been worried about you lately. You don't seem to be your usual self. But I'm glad you're on the mend."

'Not my usual self.' Well said, Ivy. That sums up the last two weeks of my life perfectly. I just want my 'usual self' back.

"We're back here," she says as she turns toward the dining area, gliding along effortlessly in her heels as I struggle to keep pace behind her in my navy blue Chuck Taylors. It's not a terrible place to be, considering Ivy's leaving a trail of that otherworldly scent in her wake. We arrive at the cluster of tables where about twenty-five of my coworkers and their partners are gathered, and I slide into the first unoccupied seat I see. To my right sits Jeremy, who's already making short work of his beer.

"Look who finally showed up," he hollers, whacking me on my upper back. It's nothing like the calming pats he offered at rehearsal today. In fact, it leaves behind quite a sting.

I want to be annoyed by the gesture, but I find myself loosening up. I jab Jeremy in the ribs with my elbow, not forcefully but hard enough to get a reaction. We both burst into raucous laughter, and several others at the table join us. Now that I think about it, I haven't laughed this much in far too long.

I'm in the mood for wine – it only seems right at an Italian restaurant – so I order a glass of Sangiovese and survey the group that's come out tonight. Not surprisingly, it skews toward young and single; the musicians with children at home are taking advantage of some Friday family time since Thursday and Saturday are concert nights. I manage to get Eun-Ha's attention and wish her a happy birthday, and I observe that like Ivy, she's dressed to slay – in a form-fitting black number with spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline, her hair and makeup done to perfection.

I turn to Jeremy with a puzzled expression. "Why's everyone so dressed up?" I ask, gesturing in Eun-Ha's direction. "Did I miss the memo?"

He chuckles heartily, a real belly laugh. "Oh, no. Not for us guys, anyway." I see he's going even more casual than I am with a faded black gamer T-shirt and well-worn jeans. "But the ladies are hitting the Atrium after dinner." The Atrium might be Portland's swankiest nightclub, one of those places to 'see and be seen', known for its well-heeled, well-dressed clientele and the occasional celebrity sighting. "It's not really my jam, but I guess you only turn thirty once," Jeremy adds flippantly, taking a swig of beer.

"Well, not all of the ladies are going clubbing," comes a dusky female voice from across the table. It belongs to someone who, to this point, has been engaged in conversation with one of our other colleagues. "Some of us have laundry to fold, cats to feed, romance novels to read, that sort of thing," she says, her voice tart with sarcasm. "You know, actual grown-up stuff."

"Hey, Roxanne," Jeremy says to the woman seated opposite me, she of the honeyed contralto and the acerbic wit. "How's life treating you?"

"Oh, just splendid," she responds in the same impudent manner. But as she raises her glass of Chardonnay to take a sip, her pursed lips blossom into a grin; her tone turns more serious, more sincere. "Really, I'm having a lovely time, thank you. I'm glad I dragged myself out of the house."

Not that I'm so well-acquainted with Roxanne Lively, but it appears tonight might afford me the chance to remedy that. I do know she plays in the first violin section with Eun-Ha, and by way of the orchestra rumor mill I've heard she recently endured a difficult divorce. Otherwise, I couldn't tell you much about her.

But we have something in common, a natural gateway to a conversation. So tonight, I'm inquisitive. "You had to force yourself to come too?" I ask her with a knowing smile. "Believe me, I know what that's like."

"Yeah, tell me about it," says Roxanne. Her steel-blue eyes widen. "Oh, that's right, I heard you've been sick. You poor thing." Her expression turns to one of pity, and she sticks out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout. "Are you at least feeling better?"

"Yes. I'm much better, thank you."

I'm unsure whether I should keep going with the stomach virus ruse or finally open up about the truth, but our server swoops in, temporarily sparing me the decision. He's ready to take orders for dinner – and for more drinks. My first glass of wine is already empty, so I ask for another without a second thought.

By the time our food arrives, Roxanne, Jeremy, and I are completely immersed in our own conversation. We talk work, we talk family, we talk pop culture and politics. Jeremy absolutely cracks us up with his trademark devastating humor, but Roxanne gets in a few one-liners of her own. I'm just along for the laughter.

I learn Roxanne once had aspirations of becoming a concert violinist, but she put those plans on hold to start a family. While her now-former husband traveled the world building his consulting business, she stayed home and raised their three daughters. One of them now has a two-year-old of her own – which doesn't seem possible until Roxanne reveals her age.

She says she's fifty-four, but in truth she barely looks older than Jeremy. Clearly, she takes exceptional care of herself; she did mention doing yoga and hitting the gym regularly. Only the subtlest of wrinkles have begun to form around her eyes and lips, and the champagne-blond hair that frames her elegant face in a bob cut certainly doesn't look dyed. She's dressed nicely enough to join the club-goers, and I have little doubt she could keep up with them on the dance floor. Not only is Roxanne amusing, charming, and sweet, she's legitimately good-looking – I don't care if she's north of fifty.

Holy shit. I'm not even thirty and I'm checking out someone's grandmother. It's not just the wine in me, either.

Roxanne seems about to give Jeremy and me the details of her divorce when the server again drops by, bearing a slice of tiramisu topped with a solitary candle. He's had quite a sense of timing this evening. Our attention shifts to Eun-Ha, and two dozen voices serenade her with an irreverent, alcohol-soaked rendition of the 'Happy Birthday' song in about ten different keys. You'd think a bunch of professional musicians could carry a tune – but when most of us have had a few adult beverages? Not so much.

I pass on ordering dessert, but I can't resist treating myself to a cup of coffee spiked with Bailey's Irish cream. As with anything even remotely Irish, it brings Tierney to the forefront of my mind – coffee with Bailey's was one of her favorite cocktails, one we often enjoyed on chilly winter nights as we cuddled up at home to watch a movie. The memory is more nostalgia than sadness this time, so I roll with it as I leisurely sip.

A pleasant buzz sets in. I haven't drunk much since Tierney left, mainly because I've wanted to avoid using alcohol as a coping tool. But tonight feels different. Inside I'm all warm and glowing, as though someone's tossed a fresh log on the fire burning within me, a fire that had nearly gone out. I'm more at ease than I've been in weeks.

Eun-Ha approaches our end of the table, her girlish face graced by its usual sweet smile. Jeremy, Roxanne, and I stand up to exchange hugs with her and once again wish her a happy thirtieth. She heads for the exit followed by Ivy and four more dolled-up young women, ready to grind the night away to eardrum-splitting music in a pulsating sea of sweaty bodies.

As you can probably tell, clubbing has never been my thing. I enjoy people, I love music, and I don't mind dancing – but there's such a thing as too much of all three. I'm more at home in a small group of close friends. There's space. There's air. I can actually hear my own thoughts.

The rest of our orchestra colleagues take their leave one or two at time, and eventually we're left with just such a group: the first friend I made when I joined the symphony; my newest friend, whom I barely knew before tonight; and me. It's perfect.

We chat heartily for a good hour after everyone else has left, and I somehow manage to nurse my coffee and Baileys for the entire time. I'm sorely tempted to order another, but an extra dose of caffeine after ten P.M. doesn't seem so prudent.

The more I talk to Roxanne, the more I find her fascinating. She's traveled all over the world. She's extremely well-read, and she has nuanced opinions on everything from reality TV to trade deficits. She's refined and sophisticated, with an appreciation for many of life's finer things. She's shockingly funny, her humor edgy and unapologetically sarcastic.

The three of use are among the last to leave the restaurant, and with my apartment a little under a mile away, I'm looking forward to a walk home on this invigorating early-spring evening. Not that I'd be driving anyway with this buzz, but Tierney and I shared a car – her car, technically. I'm planning to buy one eventually, and I'll get my bike out of storage when the weather warms up. But for now, it's up to my feet and Portland's public transit system to get me where I need to be.

And I don't mind walking at all, not tonight. It's the perfect chance to relish what has truly been an enjoyable time. Phase two of Life After Tierney is off to a promising start.

But the weather which greets us as we depart Ruggiero's is anything but invigorating