At five p.m. the next day, with the Bluetooth headset stowed away in my messenger bag, I knock on Zoey’s door. It takes her a minute to answer and, when she does, she looks surprised to see me.

“Yes?” she asks testily. She’s dressed up in a magenta dress with blue polka dots and navy heels. She has dark pink lipstick on to match and a pair of silver earrings shaped like wishbones in her ear. If I’d seen her passing me by on the street, I might not have recognized her except as another pretty girl in New York.

“Hi,” I say, momentarily forgetting why I came here and instead picturing Charles and Dylan’s Save the Date.

“Hi,” she responds flatly, her hand on one hip. I now realize the polka dots on her dress aren’t polka dots at all, but tiny little typewriters. Cute.

“Your dinner is still on tonight, right?” I say, indicating my bag. “I have my headset.”

“Oh,” she says looking taken aback. “I didn’t think you’d still do that after . . . everything.”

I frown. “Why not?”

“I just figured, after what happened yesterday, our truce was over. So why would you do anything nice for me?” She shrugs.

“Isn’t that all just a game?” I ask.

She looks hard at me for a moment. “Not for me. Not when you choose to throw the one tiny insecurity you know about me back in my face.”

I never did apologize for calling her out on being scared of her parents. “You’re right. I’m sorry about that comment. It was out of line.”

She shrugs. “Whatever.” And then she goes to close the door.

I put my hand out to stop it from clicking shut. “But I can still help you.”

“No, thanks,” she says. “I don’t need to give you any more ammo. And my parents . . .” She shudders.

“Come on, Zoey. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

I shake my head. “No. Promise. It caught me really off-guard that you’ve been my neighbor this whole time. But that was a really crappy thing to say. I’m sorry.”

She looks at me. “And I’m a shithead, Zoey,” she prompts.

“And I’m a shithead,” I concede.

“Whose wardrobe looks like it came straight out of the Smarmy Hipster catalog.”

I look down at my black T-shirt, eggplant blazer, seersucker shorts, and boat shoes before looking back up at her. “I am rocking this.”

I catch the hint of a smile on her lips. “If you say so. Vlad.” She takes her purse from the hook by her door. “I’m only doing this because I need some help navigating the subway. And you owe me for being such a jerk.”

“Fair enough. Where are we going?”

She checks her phone. “A Spanish place on Fifty-Fourth and Ninth.”