“Banter. Right,” she says humorlessly. “Well, despite how lame you think I am or whatever, yes, I actually do know her. Because I actually did have a life and a meaningful job and connections before I came to this godforsaken town.” She looks back at her laptop and stabs a couple of keys.

“Come on, Zoey. New York isn’t all bad, is it?”

“I’ve yet to be convinced otherwise,” she mutters.

“I mean, look, it can be tough. But it can also be wonderful. In New York City, every neighborhood, every single one, has its own vibe, something about it that’s unlike any other neighborhood.”

She gives me a strange look. “Is that line from a brochure or something?”

“It’s from life, Zoey. I mean . . . have you ever even been to the High Line?”

“Believe it or not, I have,” she says.

“On a spring day? Near sunset? With New York City itself glittering beneath your feet? And autumn in New York! You haven’t even ever experienced it. Sure, it only lasts like eight days, and is also the title of a subpar Winona Ryder/Richard Gere flick, but it’s going to be the most glorious eight days EVER. The leaves in Central Park turn actual colors! The air is genuinely crisp! The light is golden!”

Zoey gives a slight laugh. “You really, really love it here, don’t you?”

“What’s not to love?” I grin at her. Maybe it’s my celebrity sighting euphoria, but for just this one moment, I’d do anything for her to feel a little of the wonder I feel for this magical city that can break you, and jostle you, and ice you out—both literally and figuratively—and yet, keep you deeply and eternally under its spell. And that’s when I realize that maybe I’ve never completely been brokenhearted, cynic Miles, because this city is the one thing that I’ll be in love with forever.

“There’s plenty not to love,” she says, and rolls her eyes, though she seems to mean it a tiny bit less. “And I think you’re just being nice to me because you found out I know a celebrity. And not just any celebrity, but your teenage crush.”

“No way.”

“Really?” she says. “You and your hand never spent some time getting to know each other beneath a poster of Duchess Quinnley?”

“I . . . didn’t say that.”

She laughs.

“My point is . . . that’s not why I’m being nice to you,” I try to recover.

She gets another gleam in her eye. “Oh? Was it the kiss? Have I replaced your Mary fantasy? I’m hot stuff, right?” She waggles her eyebrows.

I want to have a witty comeback. Instead, I think I might actually be blushing, though—luckily—my darker complexion tends to hide it pretty well.

And then, thankfully, I’m saved by a buzz. I look at my phone. It’s Jude.