I’ve learned nothing if I thought yesterday’s e-mail from Clifford would be the last time I’d hear from him. He can’t resist continuing his copyright infringement streak by sending me a clip of ’N Sync’s “Bye Bye Bye” with his own lyrics dubbed over. “I know that we’ll make more dough, it ain’t no lie. Just wait until you hear the SCORE, you won’t say bye, bye bye.”

I forward it to Miles and chuckle to myself, imagining his reaction.

Then I pull up the hand-drawn instructions (complete with color-coded illustrations and landmarks) that Miles taped to my door last night so that I can re-create the path from our place to Hotel the.

During my trek, I fluctuate between terror and laughter. To keep my mind occupied during the subway ride, Miles included a blank page where I’m supposed to take note of the best and worst tattoos I find, and he’ll grade my pictures upon arrival.

Feeling like a smug regular by the time I reach the ridiculous underground hotel, I even help a new guest locate the way in. “It looks like a service entrance, doesn’t it?” I smile knowingly. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Good deed done, check-in complete, and fluffy robe (it has cat ears, natch) on, I’m relaxing in the spa lounge waiting for Miles and taking in the décor.

In the fireplace is a Lite-Brite creation of a Yule log, the magazine selection consists entirely of back issues of an obscure trade publication called Fashion Mannequins Quarterly, and the seats are shaped like large hands and made out of memory foam; I can’t wait to hear what Miles has to say about this.

Our names are called so I send a quick text to my errant partner-in-crime: You okay? Where are you?

“I just need five minutes,” I explain to the masseuse.

“It will be deducted from your massage time,” she replies before turning on her (thigh-high!) boot heel and exiting the waiting area.

More than ten minutes pass—and I’m pacing with agitation at this point—before my phone buzzes with his response: can’t talk rn sorry

* * *

Over the next day, I tell myself a dozen times that there’s a simple explanation—a work or family issue has come up—and that any second now he’ll tell me what’s going on, and I’ll be able to offer a sympathetic ear.

One day turns into two days.

Two days turns into three days.

On day four, I realize that not only isn’t there a simple explanation—there’s no explanation. There is never going to be one.

By this point, I’ve sent five texts and left two voice mails. The voice mails started out concerned: “Could you call me back, just let me know if you’re all right?” and slowly evolved to “So I guess this is just . . . over?”