In the lobby, I obsessively press the up button for the elevator three times in quick succession. While waiting, I visualize how easy it would be for thieves to jack my computer, my one pair of ill-fitting-but-stylish Louboutins, even the fifty-five-inch flat screen TV. But what if they take the urn?

Dings from faraway floors indicate the morning churchgoing rush is clogging up the shaft. So I scoop up Leno like he’s a frozen grocery store turkey and head straight for the stairwell. There’s no choice but to take them two at a time. I need to get back to my apartment.

Once at the fifth floor, I fling myself into the hallway and erupt in an all-out sprint to apartment 518. Leno must be getting whiplash. I grab the handle and it flies open with ease. I left it unlocked just as I had feared. Except once I’m inside, nothing seems to be missing. There aren’t thieves robbing the place. There’s just one man sitting there.

“Hey, honey. Can you please tell my mom I’m back and I’m okay?” Decker says from the couch while watching SportsCenter.

At the mere sound of his voice, soft-spoken and genuine, I spring up in my bed and put my hand to my chest to calm my heavy breathing.

I reach for a glass of water on my nightstand that I don’t remember getting and chug the room-temperature liquid.

The door to my bedroom is cracked open and Leno isn’t in my bed anymore, which means he’s probably sitting in the foyer in front of the door, his way of letting me know he’s ready to go outside for a morning potty walk. But I’m not ready for anything other than a triple-shot latte and an Advil or two. I toss my sweaty covers off, put on a robe over Decker’s USC sweatshirt, and head toward the Keurig in the kitchen.

“Morning, Char. What’s good?” Casey is eating a plate of scrambled eggs at the kitchen counter.

I rub my eyes and realize I never took my contacts out last night. I’m sure I look like a bloodshot mess. Good thing Casey doesn’t care how I look. Or that I just borrowed her fork and shoveled a scoop of her breakfast into my mouth.

“Coffee. Now,” I say with my mouth full of rubbery eggs.

“The Keurig is tits up again. We need a new one. But I brewed a regular pot over there. Help yourself. Are you okay?”

I pour a generous serving of blond roast into a mug monogrammed with the letter C on it. Casey’s mom got us a set of four for a housewarming gift when we signed our lease five Octobers ago. It’s cute how we can both use them interchangeably since our first names start with the same letter, but it’s clear Casey uses them most often from her plum-colored lipstick, a shade she says is called “Black Eye,” which has permanently stained the tan ceramic rims.