On Craigslist, I found a spare room in an apartment on the edge of Greenwood. The person leasing it, a yoga instructor about my age named Sara McCarthy, was two years below me in Greenwood’s public school system, though we didn’t know each other as kids. Normally, this would make me wary; I wouldn’t want a repeat of my disastrous date with Lucas. But as Sara gave me a tour of the cozy, colorful apartment, she didn’t ask any leading questions or pry for uncomfortable answers. She seemed both bubbly and relaxed. The apartment spanned the top floor of a duplex; the living room was painted an electric shade of purple, like Rachel and Monica’s apartment in Friends; the rent was affordable; the bedroom came furnished. I said yes on the spot.

A week later, I pack my things into the trunk of the Honda and drive across town to move in. Sara helps me carry my suitcases and laundry baskets of clothing out of the car and up the stairs.

“It’s fine if you smoke, just open the window first,” she says, miming holding a joint. “And I make kombucha every Sunday—you’re welcome to have some.”

I’m not particularly interested in either offer, but I appreciate her openness.

“Cool, thank you,” I say.

She jostles open the door to the apartment and leans one of my suitcases against the couch covered by an enormous hand-crocheted afghan. A pink yoga mat hangs in a nylon carrier on a hook by the coatrack, and a trio of creamy white candles rest on the coffee table.

Despite my protests that there’s no need for her help unpacking, Sara seems happy to. She brews us hot, fruity tea and carries it into the bedroom at the end of the hall—the one that’s now mine. She lets me have what is clearly the better of the two mugs, printed with a faded graphic of a cat wearing bejeweled cat-eye glasses and only barely chipped. She sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed and folds clothes into neat stacks for me to place inside the old-fashioned armoire by the window, chattering easily as she works.

“So, I’ll admit, I know who you are, obviously,” she says, pushing her hair behind her ear to reveal a constellation of silver stud earrings.

“Oh,” I say nervously.

Maybe I’d misjudged her.

“I mean, like, from years ago,” she says. “My little sister went to Summit and practically worshipped you from afar. She’d flip if she knew you were moving in, but I don’t know… You seem so normal? Is that a weird thing for me to say?”

“Um… I don’t know? A little?” I say.

I get the sinking feeling that I’ve just moved all of my possessions into the home of a woman who sees me as Avery, the athlete, not Avery, the regular roommate.