“I mean,” he says, pointing at the hoses, “the rattle’s fixed. Or it will be by the time I put it back together. But that’s the easy part.”

“Sure.” My dishwasher has rattled during the rinse cycle since before I moved in, and it’s never really bothered me. It’s one of the quirks of New York apartment living I feel one must come to love. If it’s acting up while I’m having a dinner party, two thwacks does the trick, but most of the time I run the dishwasher on my way to bed and sleep right through the cacophony.

Ryan is a light sleeper. He finds the rattle uncharming. He finds most of my apartment’s quirks uncharming, and is working his way through their solutions.

“Where’s Alice?” I glance over Ryan’s shoulder at the small dog bed where my tortoise usually hangs out. Alice is eighty-six years old and very opinionated, especially about climate. I inherited her from my neighbor across the hall, Mrs. Park, when she moved to Florida. Alice and Ryan do not get along.

Ryan lifts a shoulder. “I think she went that way about an hour ago.” He gestures toward the bathroom.

I find Alice under my sink, where the pipe drips. “Good thing he hasn’t fixed the drip yet,” I whisper.

“Tortoises like heat,” Ryan says as I carry her back into the kitchen. “They’re cold-blooded.”

“Not Alice,” I say, adding ice to her water and setting out some cold cubes of orange from the fridge. “She’s sensitive. She thinks she’s a dog.”

“Maybe our next pet could be an actual dog? My brother just got a goldendoodle and—”

“Do not talk about Alice like she’s already gone. She could outlive you!”

He laughs. “How was the Valentine’s dance?” Ryan is always ever so slightly mistaken about what’s going on at my work. But tonight, I don’t correct him. To split hairs over the fact that the party’s theme was Vows not Valentines would open the vault of Wedding Conversations.

Namely ours. Ryan doesn’t understand why I start sweating when we talk venues. In his mind, we are two exceptionally capable decision makers, and, with the help of a professional planner, should be able to pull off this event with ease. He wishes—like everyone else wishes—that we could just set a date.

I pull the bottle of prosecco from my bag. Ryan clocks the fancy label and raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Now do you want the bad news or the good news first?” I ask.

He’s at my mirrored bar cart, where I keep BD’s champagne flutes. “What kind of lunatic wants the bad news first when there’s prosecco losing its chill?”