“You need to take care of you,” she repeated firmly, then she departed as Greg approached. He walked straight toward me. Made no move to grab breakfast, made no motion to pull out a chair. He halted before me.

“Come home,” he said.

“Can’t stand the thought,” I told him honestly.

“Not your home, Danielle. Mine.”

So I did.

Turned out Greg shared a three-bedroom apartment with two other guys. Like many local apartments, it was carved out of a once grand home, with hardwood floors, nine-foot ceilings, and bull’s-eye molding around the expansive bay windows. The place felt worn around the edges, an aging matriarch with good bones but tired skin. I commented on the crown molding. Greg shrugged. Apparently, he wasn’t into architecture.

His roommates were gone. Probably down by the river, he mumbled. Perfect day for hanging out on the Charles. Hot, humid, hazy. Greg turned on the window AC units as he gave me the nickel tour. Still, we were both sweating by the time we reached the end of the hall.

He opened the last door, gestured inside. “My pad,” he said simply.

It was neater than I expected. No towels or stray clothing strewn across the floor. The furniture was College Dorm 101. A double mattress, sans frame and headboard. An old maple dresser, slightly lopsided, missing one knob. An equally old maple desk, small for a guy Greg’s size, and dwarfed by a black office chair.

No posters hanging up. No pictures adorning the dresser. The room featured cream-colored paint on the walls, dark green sheets on the bed, and tan blinds on the sunny windows. That was it. The room was a way station. A place for someone to crash, not for someone to live.

I looked at Greg, realizing for the first time how little I knew about him.

“No photo of the girlfriend on the nightstand?” I commented.

“No nightstand,” he said. “No girlfriend.”

“Family?”

“Got a sister in Pennsylvania.”

“You never talk about her.”

“You never ask.”

He had me there. I rarely questioned him or anyone else. It was ironic, if you thought about it. My entire personal history entered the room way before I did; I could see it on people’s faces when we were finally introduced. Oh, so she’s the one whose father shot everyone…. Therefore, I didn’t inquire about others. That would invite them to ask about me, and then I’d have to verify the rumors in their heads.

“Ever see her?” I asked now. “Your sister?”

“Not lately.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Busy working, I guess.” He set his duffel bag down next to the wall. We both stared awkwardly at each other, too aware of the mattress in the corner.

“Not much artwork,” I commented at last.

“No.”

“Don’t plan on staying for long?”