“Oh, so you’re a doctor? I’m Alexis,” she says, extending a hand.

“Ready, Bri?” I say. “I know you have to get to work and I just realized I left my keys at your place.” I toss that last part in as a little extra ammo. How threatened can Blondie be by a girl wearing a panda mask if I don’t say something that makes her wonder if maybe I spent the night at Brian’s place? And who cares if she does think that? I’m being protective, not jealous. I don’t want him getting trapped by some gold digger chick wearing a flower crown.

“Enjoy the market, Alexis,” he says, pulling out a few singles to tip the face painters. “Let’s head back. Think you left something else of yours at my place, too,” he says to me with a smile.

I know he’s talking about the urn, but the inflection in his voice matched mine, and so I breathe a little easier knowing we were on the same page just now.

I’m drinking a Diet Coke and putting away the rest of my laundry from earlier when a knock at my door tells me I have a delivery: the matzo from my mom has arrived—and for what it’s worth, so has my hard drive. Upon opening the matzo package, with no help from Casey’s switchblade this time, I immediately help myself to a big, crackly square and slather on chunky peanut butter I found on Casey’s side of the pantry.

Two bites in and I’m transported to my favorite Brooklyn bodega, Hadleigh’s, where I imagine putting box after box in a red grocery store basket before checking out with the friendly cashier named Eli. The simple treat tastes like home. Just like bagels and lox, they don’t make matzo like this in LA. In fact, I don’t think they make matzo at all in LA. It is while I’m basking in this unleavened daydream that Brian Jackson’s name pops up on my iPhone.

“I thought you had rounds tonight,” I say. As I stand up, matzo crumbs fall from my crotch and Leno is there to vacuum them up with his mouth.

“I’m on my way to work now, stalker. Listen, hey, I know it’s last minute, but how about accompanying me to a Dodgers game tomorrow night? I’ve got some decent seats behind home plate if you’re into that kind of a thing.”

To be honest, I’m not sure if I am, but I’m willing to find out.

“Sure,” I say as I thread my freshly Turbo-laundered Anthropologie linen back through the handle of the oven where it belongs.

Chapter 12

I baked a marble cake.

I saw the recipe on Facebook when I woke up this morning; one of my mom’s friends shared it to her wall. It looked easy enough and then I remembered reading somewhere that baking decreases stress and anxiety levels by 35 percent because it puts your head and your hands somewhere else. Given my current life status, I let the baking bug bite me. Though it required an Instacart delivery, two additional trips to Trader Joe’s, and hand-stirring three sticks of butter and six eggs because I put my quintessential wedding-registered KitchenAid in the Goodwill pile years ago, the real challenge was making the layers of melted, bittersweet chocolate look like intricate marble veins by using the tip of a steak knife to fan it out. Even though it’s probably more a Pinterest fail than anything else, I pulled it off and now our apartment smells heavenly. Like Magnolia Bakery.