I stroll at a brisk pace (am I going native?), lumbering in my combat boots and muttering to myself (definitely native) until I make a conscious effort to slow down and take in my surroundings. Instantly, Jude’s voice fills my head—I have his tour memorized at this point—calming me down and helping me analyze recent events more clearly. And there’s that line about each neighborhood in New York having its own vibe. It must be from a tourism campaign or something. Why else would Miles have said it the exact same way?

An hour later I return to my apartment, shower, and change clothes, my thoughts still circling back to Jude. Besides the chats that I never should have saved, his walking tour is all I’ve got left of him. I scroll through my phone, wondering if there’s any way to justify one last contact with him.

Guiltily, I flick through Instagram. I never outright followed Bree on IG, but I know her handle (“Breeast94” for “Bree Beast,” but of course it looks like a misspelling of “Breast” because that’s my ex-client for you!) so it’s easy to locate her feed. As if I needed any more reminders that she’s in lurve, her most recent post is of her and Jude, time-stamped last night, snuggling on her couch. She’s holding up the latest re-release of Undersea, the one she waited in line for all night, with the apparently riveting, never-before-seen, extra footage.

Her caption is strange to say the least: “can u fathom he hasn’t seen undersea since childhood?! wuuut! someone needs a spanking! #rightingsomewrongs #datenight”

Great, now I’m picturing her spanking him with the Blu-ray case.

But hold up. He hasn’t seen the film since childhood? What in the name of Quinnley’s hairdo is she talking about? Jude was extremely adept at discussing the movie. I was the one who flailed for dear life whenever the topic came up. Thinking back, though, the way Bree described her IRL interactions with Jude, he almost seemed like a different person from the one I “knew.”

Though I guess if you met me and then met Bree, you’d realize pretty damn quick that we’re not exactly twins, so . . .

Wait. A. Mother-Loving. Minute.

My fingers shake as I close out Instagram and tap my phone contacts.

Because how exactly does a semi-recent transplant wax so very poetically and authoritatively about his adopted city?

Aisha picks up on the fifth ring. The words fall out of my mouth like a toxic oil spill. “Sorry-to-bug-you-I’ll-make-it-quick-it’s-just-I-need-to-ask-you-something.”

“Hey, Zoey, you okay? You didn’t drink the rest of that rotgut from Clifford, did you?”

“What does Miles do? What’s his job?”