Maybe that’s not fair. Maybe Charles is perfectly nice to someone who hasn’t spent the past six weeks invading his personal space, sweating all over his possibly Kermanshah rugs, and filling his fridge up with half-eaten cartons of chow mein. (I always want it fresh, but then I hate wasting food, so the leftovers tend to pile up. It’s the ultimate millennial conundrum: determined to be conscientious while simultaneously wanting everything on demand.)

“He hates me,” I say as I stack my shoes neatly by the door.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Dylan replies too quickly, which makes it hard to buy.

Oh, well. To be honest, I’m not sure Charles ever liked me. Maybe I wasn’t able to hide the “Wow/How” in my face when Dylan first introduced me to him. The moment Dylan, the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome—the ultimate wingman, since we were never competing in the same pool—walked into the bar, his face flushed and glowing with Charles behind him, I automatically assumed that he had gotten separated from the boyfriend I was supposed to meet by an older, balding, bespectacled gentleman. I craned my head to look behind him for the young, hot dude I was expecting.

Until Dylan put his arm on Charles’s and gave me a huge grin. “This is Charles.”

It was probably too late to stuff the look on my face back into the box, and Charles noticed. Charles notices everything.

Like last night, when I was trying to figure out what to order for dinner. Charles took one glance at the app I was on and chimed in with, “Let me guess. Chow mein.” I switched over to sushi, just to spite him. (Now there is half of a yellowtail/ avocado roll in the fridge, too.)

Last week, he must have seen my laptop opened up to three different tabs of Sudoku, a crossword, and KenKen because when I came back from the bathroom, he casually asked me how work was going. “Busy,” I lied automatically.

“Really?” he asked. “That second column is wrong by the way.”

And today, just as I’ve peeled off my shirt to hop into the shower, he leans against the wall and comments, “So you finally went for a real run today?”

I bite my tongue to keep from retorting something about how would he know what a real run is, considering the only bit of exercise he gets is running his mouth. I’m a guest in his home, I remind myself. Their one-bedroom home.

“Yeah,” I respond instead. “Riverside Park.”

He nods. “A city gem you discovered in You’ve Got Mail?” He grins evilly.

I give him the finger when he turns around. The thing is, how would he know Riverside Park plays a crucial role in You’ve Got Mail if he hasn’t also seen the movie? Huh?