He’s standing very still, his hands clasped behind his back. He never looks comfortable, but in Ryan’s darkened foyer, he looks even more uncomfortable than usual. We should get out of here.

“Hey,” I say, hefting the box into my arms. “Wanna celebrate?”

When Noah said he knew of a place nearby, I was not expecting a cash-only dive called Poe’s and two cold cans of Natty Boh. But it turns out, a snug booth at the back of this crowded bar is the perfect place for Noah, Javier Bardem, and me to revel in my reclaimed possessions.

“You never told me what you’re doing in D.C.,” I say, still high on our achievement, and a little loose from the beer.

“I’m visiting my mom.”

“She lives here? I don’t know why I thought you grew up in New York.”

“I did. I grew up on West Eighty-Fourth. My mom moved down here about ten years ago. I’ve been trying to get her back to New York but . . . it’s complicated.”

“Oh,” I say, thinking back to the day I saw Noah showing Javier Bardem a building on the Upper West Side. Was that his old apartment? Also, why didn’t he mention he was visiting his mother earlier? Now I feel guilty I’ve taken too much of his time. And what does he mean, complicated?

“Do you need to call her? Is she expecting you for dinner or anything tonight?”

“No,” he says, busying himself with sorting through some loose change from his pocket. I realize he’s searching for quarters for the mini jukebox on our table. And also that he’s not going to tell me anything more about his mom. So, I turn my focus to the jukebox, too.

The machine is old, the glass too scratched, the labels too faded to make out any of the song listings.

“How do you know what you’re selecting?” I ask, as he slips coins into the slot.

“I don’t,” he says, “but it’s a chance I’m willing to take.” He points at my box. “So what’s in there anyway?”

I sift through my old things. In between a bunch of clothes, my hand hits the smooth wood of the Ninety-Nine Things list I gave Ryan for Valentine’s Day.

Half of me feels indignant that he returned my gift; the other half feels extremely committed to hiding this artifact from Noah Ross. I don’t want him to know this about me, that I was once a girl who made such a list, that I clung to it . . . up until about a week ago. I’m also not sure I can discuss this with Noah without blaming him, just a little, for my breakup. For everything. I shove it to the bottom of the box, as Noah points at BD’s robe.

“Let me guess,” he says, “your grandma’s?”