Ralph is happy.

It's almost weird to witness. I'm so used to seeing him look at me with that expression of half-indifference, half-frustration on his face, I'm having trouble processing the fact that he's actually smiling at me. With teeth. For the first time in...

Weeks?

Or, is it months?

Needless to say, he was thrilled about the tickets when I told him. Hell, he picked me up off the floor and spun me around in a circle, which is the most action I've had in...

Weeks?

Or, is it months?

Jeeze, my life is pathetic.

I wasn't always this girl — you know, the one who settled for consistent sex at the sake of both that elusive spark and her self-respect. I guess I just got tired of waiting. When I moved to the city eight years ago, I was an idealistic eighteen-year-old full of energy and hope and passion. Being single was exciting, rather than exhausting. I spent years going to bar after bar, club after club, dancing the night away with anonymous strangers. Doing what my generation does best — total physical intimacy with none of the emotional baggage.

Then I hit twenty-four, and slowly began to watch my friends, who'd once matched my every tequila-shooter and shimmied until the wee hours by my side, pair off into couples.

And then married pairs.

And then parents.

I can barely keep my plants alive, let alone a tiny human.

By the time I hit twenty-six and realized what was happening, it was too late. I'd already become Single Gemma — the one who throws off the even-numbered dinner party, the one my friends look at as a pet-project rather than a person. They're well meaning, of course, but I can't say it's always appreciated.

First there's Shelby: "My dentist is single, Gemma! Recently divorced, full head of hair... I really think you two might hit it off! I'll set something up when I go in for my cleaning tomorrow. He's stable — you would do so well with a guy like him! And he almost never makes my gums bleed."

Breathe, Gem. She's not trying to be patronizing, she's just trying to help.

Then there's Chrissy: "Oh, my Cross-Fit trainer is mega-hot — seriously, you should see his abs. I wish Mark still had abs like that, but he keeps talking about gaining 'daddy-weight' — like he's the one who carried the goddamn baby around in his goddamn womb for nine goddamn months. Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, right, Steve. I'll slip him your number after my next class."

See, marriage isn't the Crock-Pot 'o gold everyone makes it out to be, Gemma. If you were married, you'd probably know what the hell daddy-weight is and be required to accept the fact that your husband let himself go less than a year after the wedding. The world of Budweiser-tumors and marital resentment is not for you.

But, no matter what I tell myself, I can't shake the feeling that something is simply wrong with me. I'm a twenty-six year old woman living in a modern metropolis and I've never been in a serious relationship in my life. There are literally thousands of men at my fingertips with the help of Tinder and OkCupid and CoffeeMeetsBagel and Hinge and a million other online-matching services whose mission statements guarantee they'll help me find my perfect match.

So... where the hell is he?

And, if date after date after date after date leads to absolutely nothing more than coffee or a one-night stand... if none of the hundreds of men I've met since I moved to Boston are right...

It has to be me.

That's the only logical conclusion.

Which brings us back to Ralph.

With his cheap haircut, pudgy physique, and a wardrobe most sixteen year-old boys would kill for — seeing as it consists almost entirely of Boston sports team logo tees and track pants — Ralph Goldstein isn't exactly a stunning specimen of man. But he is one crucial thing my friends seem to think outweighs all the questionable fashion choices and lack of sexual magnetism: single.

I met him six months ago, when he moved into the apartment across the hall from mine. He isn't my type — in fact, I'm not sure he's anyone's type — but I felt like I had to at least try this relationship-thing everyone else is always raving about.

So I tried.

I've been trying for about four months now.

But no matter what I say, do, or pretend to feel, I just can't seem to make it work.

In a shocking turn of events, Gemma Summers fails once again to find her true love.

At least at first, I could console myself with the fact that, if not a soulmate, Ralph was a decent enough sexmate. But then, time passed and even that wasn't enough to keep what minimal heat existed between us burning. Now, it seems like we fight more than we talk, and I can't really remember why I was so determined to be coupled-up in the first place. Sometimes, I think I was happier as Single Gemma than I've ever been as Relationship Gemma, even if it is nice to have someone to go to the movies with and to drag along to the wedding showers that seem to be getting more and more frequent as the years slip by.

But maybe my luck is about to change. Winning these tickets — maybe it's a sign that things can get better between Ralph and me. Maybe two people who aren't perfect for one another can still be happy. Or, if not happy, then maybe... content?

I don't know.

But I'm glad when he laces his fingers through mine and guides me across the street into the TD Garden stadium — better known to every Bostonian as The Gahden. It's the most loving gesture he's showed me in... well, maybe ever... and I smile as we jostle through the crowd with our hands entwined. There are people everywhere, a sea of green jerseys and foam fingers and face paint crowding in from every direction as nearly 20,000 fans cram inside and fight to find their seats.

Boston takes its sporting events very seriously.

We find the box office and collect our tickets, and I pretend it's not annoying when Ralph speaks over me to the window attendant. He doesn't even let me hold the tickets I won as we make our way through the arena, but he is still grasping my hand as we walk down a billion steps, and I figure that has to count for something.

Right?

Down, down, down — light-years closer than I've been at any kind of event before. The only tickets I've ever been able to afford on my artist salary were nosebleeds at Fenway three summers ago, and, if I'm being honest, it was to see Bruno Mars, not the Red Sox. Sports aren't exactly my thing.

Still, when we hit the court it's so surreal, I nearly stumble, my Chucks squeaking against the high-polished wood. Instead of steadying me, Ralph drops his hand so I don't take him down too if I fall on my face, which is kind of a dick move. Thankfully, it doesn't matter — I manage to right myself at the last minute and prevent a potentially mortifying moment in front of thousands of people.

A dowdy-looking usher looks me up and down skeptically — rude — before scanning our tickets and pointing us toward a stretch of empty seats on the mid-court sideline.

Jeeze, I already know I look ridiculous, lady, you don't need to rub it in.

Frankly, I'm considering writing a sternly-worded letter to KXL the moment I get home, suggesting that next time they give out free tickets, they also provide a pamphlet with "what to wear" guidelines. That'd be really helpful and would probably prevent people like me from wearing bridesmaid dresses to basketball games.

What you have to understand is, I've never been to a basketball game in my life — and certainly not a playoff game. Courtside. With cameras and celebrities and giant, gorgeous NBA players so close I'll be able to see individual beads of sweat on their brows. (Side note: Yum.) So, naturally, I called Chrissy this afternoon, hoping she might have a little fashion insight to help me blend in at an event like this.

I can see from the usher's expression that I'm definitely not blending. In fact, I think Chrissy's advice ("Wear something fancy, you're going to be on television if you're sitting courtside! Hell, Ben Affleck might be there!") has led me very, very astray.

See, I'm an artist. A freaking oil painter. Which means there are maybe four items in my closet free of paint-speckles and grime-smudges. Of those four, only two could possibly be considered fancy — and they just so happen to be my old bridesmaid dresses from Chrissy and Shelby's weddings.

So, here I am — crammed into a two-year old, blue-black cocktail dress that's at least a size too small in the boob region and makes my ribs ache if I breathe too hard. And, because I'm me, an idiot, I listened to not only Chrissy, but also to the sincerely-flawed Gemma-Logic that thought it might be a good idea to "dress down" my ridiculous getup — not with a casual-but-still-appropriate pair of heels or flats, but with my beat-up, black Chuck Taylors.

In other words, I'm a walking disaster.

Ralph is so self-absorbed, I don't think he's noticed. That's possibly due to the fact that he's been on his cellphone since I told him I scored us tickets, calling every guy he's known since fourth grade to brag about the "seats he won." Whatever. Hopefully he'll put the phone down when the game starts.

The sad thing is, even if he doesn't, this is still the best date we've ever had.