The biking and jogging trail widens or shrinks along the water, depending on what else shares the space. It’s relaxing and breathtaking all at once. I’m not impressed with the Standard Hotel (LA’s is better), but I’m pleasantly surprised by all the artwork along the walk, from sculptures to murals and mosaics. No need to go inside art galleries when so much is free and visible to those of us passing by. There’s even a project called Mutations scattered on video screens throughout the walk that warms my LA heart.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever have kids, but if I do, I’m taking them to the Pershing Square Beams,” Jude’s voice intones, leading me on a detour. “In fact, the Pershing Square Beams might be the only reason to have kids. Basically, they scooped out the concrete deck so people can see the original steel beams and frames and walk on them.”

It’s impossible to resist, and soon I find myself taking part, testing my balance along the beams of the sunken, rectangular gridwork, between which sit little gardens.

It’s delightful, and I’m so enthralled by Jude’s voice, his calm reassurance and the effort he put into the tour, that I don’t even notice I’ve walked a mile and a half by the end of it. Now I’ve got to walk back, ugh . . . Yet the smile on my face never drops.

I’m rewarded by a snack he suggests at an Israeli joint called Seed + Mill at the Chelsea Market. They specialize in Nutella halvah, aka my new favorite dish.

When I get home, I shower and check the time—it’s only eleven thirty, so I can’t call Bree yet. I’m antsy, waiting for the minutes to pass. I’m also unnerved by how much I enjoyed listening to Jude, and pretending his tour was for me, and not her. How on earth could Bree abandon it after just a few minutes? Why wasn’t she riveted? Or at the very least, more appreciative?

12:01 p.m. and I’m FaceTiming her again. She looks tired when she answers; want to bet she watched the new eighteen seconds on a loop all night? (Like I’m one to talk, having listened to the walking tour on repeat . . .)

“You’ve got to give him another chance,” I tell her, cutting to the chase.

“Are you sure? Because, like, the part I listened to was a tour of my own block. I mean, it was fine, but I live here. I know the area well, I don’t need a—”

“But the effort! The time! You have to admit that someone who goes to all that trouble deserves a second chance.”