“Here we are. Is this okay?”

“Um, this is more than okay,” I said, looking around the room. Like the rest of Cat’s apartment, her guest bedroom had the obvious touch of a professional: clean lines, soft linens, thoughtful accents. Most of the room was occupied by a low Scandinavian bed covered in a gray duvet, accompanied by a minimalist nightstand topped with fresh flowers. But beside the flowers, one thing seemed out of place.

“You’re kidding me,” I said, laughing as I picked up the framed photo of Cat and me at a sorority formal. We were the picture of opposites: Cat draped in a gauzy, powder-blue dress with her hair pulled into a severe bun, and me squeezed into a skintight black dress with my long hair flat-ironed within an inch of its life. I remembered consuming nothing more than lemon water for two days before the event just to fit into that thing.

“Look at us! We were such babies.”

“I know,” Cat said, smiling fondly. “We were juniors there. Can you believe it’s been eight years since that picture was taken?”

“Unbelievable.” I sank down onto the bed and slipped off my sandals. “Thanks again for letting me stay tonight.”

“Stay as long as you want. Really. I rarely use this bedroom.” She smiled shyly. “It could be like college all over again.”

“You mean we could do shots of Goldschläger while watching Gossip Girl?” I laughed. “Sounds tempting, but my movers are arriving at the new place tomorrow.”

Concern flickered across Cat’s face. “I still can’t believe you rented a place sight unseen. How can you be sure the apartment even exists?”

“Don’t worry, I promise I didn’t wire money to some offshore scammer. I searched Google Maps and checked out the landlord, who, by the way, is a nice old lady named Leanne—”

“You think she’s a nice old lady. She could be anybody. She could be a he. She could be Ted Bundy!”

“Ted Bundy’s dead, Cat.”

“She could be like Ted Bundy. She could be worse than Ted Bundy. You never know.”

I shrugged. “Sometimes you have to roll the dice. You know what I always say—”

“Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you more interesting,” Cat finished. “Let’s just hope that apartment makes you nothing more than fascinating.”

CAT’S INVITATION TO MOVE IN was generous, and for a hot second I even considered backing out of my lease, but ultimately I knew I couldn’t live with Cat for more than a few days. It wasn’t that Cat was a bad roommate. Rather, she was too good of a roommate. When we lived together in college, she was always doing my laundry or fixing me tea or checking on me when I was out late. It was like living with my mother but with less nagging.

I never said anything to her, of course. Cat meant well. She was just a little needy. My stomach bottomed out as I remembered the first day of sorority rush. I’d stood in front of the Kappa Gamma Alpha sorority house—my top choice and the house I would eventually pledge—sweating in the midwestern August heat and scanning the (pleasingly lackluster) competition. As I was doing so, I locked eyes with Cat.