And there he is. His hair is damp from a shower, and he’s dressed up in a linen collared shirt, dark blue slacks, and stylish brown leather brogues. His pea coat is draped over his arm—no one can do a five-floor walk-up wearing that much wool.

I just saw him downstairs through my window, but it’s startling to face him at close range. I still have trouble believing that he is Noa Callaway. I’m still, to be honest, pretty mad about it. He looks flushed, a little off, and I remind myself he’s just climbed seventy-eight stairs and been accosted by shih tzus, so I give him a moment’s grace.

“What can I get you to drink?” I say.

He steps through my doorway as if into an active volcano. “This is . . . your apartment?”

“Home sweet home,” I say.

We both survey the scene of my one-bedroom pre-war walk-up. Lovingly furnished with estate-sale finds and BD’s hand-me-downs and lived in for six years by yours truly.

“I didn’t realize the address Terry gave me was your home,” Noah says, determined to harp on this.

“Where did you assume I had invited you?”

“I don’t make assumptions,” he says.

“How benevolent,” I say and let him stew in whatever he’s trying to insinuate about my apartment. I refuse to apologize for the state of my living quarters, even as I can’t help wishing I’d made room for War and Peace on the bookshelf.

I become aware of an acute discomfort in Noah. He’s stuck in the doorway and doesn’t seem to know what to do.

“There’s a hook behind you for your coat,” I say, and then we fumble over who will hang it up.

“Espresso?” I say. I’m eager to leave the hallway and make it to my slightly more spacious kitchen. “I’m fresh out of two-percent milk, but I have whole, or almond, or . . . oatmeal, I think.” I glance at him. “That was a joke? Terry mentioned some issue with two-percent, oh never mind . . .”

He’s looking at me blankly.

“I can just make the espresso and—”

“No, thanks,” Noah says. He walks past my kitchen and into the living room. He sinks down on the couch and looks, for a moment, almost normal there. Then he ruins it with a snarky, “It’s not like this is going to take long, is it?”

“You’re in a charming mood,” I call from the kitchen, making myself a stupid espresso because I paid eleven dollars for it at Blue Bottle. Then I hear my words on playback and I wince. “What I mean is, no, I won’t waste your time.”

Espresso in hand, I meet him in the living room. As I reach for my notes, there comes a rustling from underneath the coffee table. Noah jumps about a foot off the couch.

“What was that?” he says.