She shrugged. “It was the easiest place to tuck it away. When it’s behind the screen, you don’t even notice it, and when I want a fire, I just find one on YouTube.”

Her kitchen was small but spotless—wooden countertops, a small white farm sink. Even her fridge seemed half-size. A bistro table was nestled in the corner with just two chairs, a small pitcher holding crisp white tulips on top.

“Bathroom?” I asked.

“Here,” she said, waving at me to follow. A few steps past the kitchen was a small bathroom, with barely room for one person. “This is technically a studio, but I put up this curtain rod so my bed feels like its own space.” Her living room was one thing, but seeing her bedroom felt intimate, personal, like knocking on someone’s door and having them answer in their pajamas. She tugged the curtain open, revealing a nook as bright and cozy as the rest of her place—a bed draped in a blue patterned duvet, yellow throw pillows, a small side table with a lamp and potted succulent. A book rested on the edge, and I leaned closer as I walked by to get a peek. Nora Ephron. I smiled. We had been trying to out–New York each other all night, but the Ephron book pushed Franny just ahead of me to first place.

Her bathroom: black-and-white tile. I gazed into the mirror as I washed my hands in the tiny sink. What the hell was I doing here, close to 1 a.m.? What I wanted to do—drag Franny to her bed and never leave—was butting heads with what I felt I should do—say good night, head outside, and get a car back to Manhattan. Run. Maybe go into the office tomorrow, prep for my Seattle trip, rehearse my pitch.

Return to normal.

But walking back out into Franny’s apartment, I was immediately hit with the smell of popcorn. Popcorn? She was standing over the stove, barefoot, shaking freshly popped kernels into a large glass bowl. “Beer? Water?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Um, water’s good.”

She grabbed two glasses and passed them to me. “Water’s in a pitcher in the fridge,” she said.

There went my great exit.

“Sure, yeah. And then I’ll probably head back into the city,” I said, admiring how, for a New Yorker, and a single one at that, Franny had so much food in her fridge. And not takeout containers either—neatly stacked Swiss yogurts and glass containers of sliced vegetables.

“Nice try, The Third,” she said, turning to shove the bowl toward me. “I have one more thing to teach you before you can go.”