We shook hands and hugged awkwardly with our free arms, giving the obligatory manly pat on the back. I grabbed my bag and followed him up the stairs, at the top of which a second door opened into his sprawling apartment that occupied the entire floor. Along the hallway were the doors for the bedrooms, bathrooms, and closets, and across from them Jeff took me into the large, open area that contained the living and dining rooms, the kitchen, an office made up of a desk, computer, and two bookcases tucked away in the back corner. The space was meticulously clean and organized and obviously professionally decorated to create a cold, modern feel; it looked like some display at a fancy furniture store shopped at exclusively by the supergentry of Manhattan. Various paintings surrounded us; matching bronze statues of provocative Greek nymphs stood on each side of the black leather sofa; lush plants dangled in the windows. The coffee table was curved glass atop shiny metal. A flat-screen television neatly adhered to the far wall and tiny, almost indiscernible speakers hung around the room.

“Just got that last week,” he said as I stood in front of the TV. “Sixty-four inches.”

He turned it on, flipped through the channels until he found a college basketball game. He cranked the surround sound. I stared at the screen and he stared at me, seeking the very approval I was averse to giving. I could feel my clothes ruffle from the deep bass, and the picture itself was pretty damn impressive. I told him as much, and in reply I was given a smile and a wink.

From there we toured the rest of the 2,300-square-foot space, each room more of the same. Everything pristine and in its place, not a speck of dust anywhere. A far nicer place than any I’d lived in or stayed at before. We were both twenty-seven and it pained me to see how much he had already accomplished.

In the larger of the two guest rooms, I unpacked my bag into a tall oak dresser while creating a pile of dirty clothes on the floor. Jeff carried in a bottle of Scotch and two glasses full of ice. He handed me one and filled it halfway while remaining mindful that his hand wasn’t covering the bottle’s label, which he kept aimed at my face.

“Nothing wrong with a quick celebratory drink, right?” he said.

We clinked glasses and drank. It was rich and smooth, far easier to drink than any whiskey I’d ever had before. Jeff watched my reaction in much the same way as he had with the TV, smiling widely when I nodded approval.

“Johnnie Walker Blue Label, my friend. Two hundred bucks a bottle. The finest Scotch in the world,” he said with pride. It was almost as though he had invited me inside for the sole purpose of admiring his possessions.