Ultimately, I settle on tacos. I would have gone for her favorite—deep-dish pizza—but I didn’t want to wait for it when my drive from the suburbs to her apartment was already going to be at least forty-five minutes, and there are too many bad jokes to be made about being the pizza-delivery guy.

One of the best dates we ever had was at a hole-in-the-wall taco joint where we ordered one of everything. The entire menu. So I find a similar spot on the way and order one of every kind of taco they have available, and that is how I find myself thanking someone in Scarlett’s building for holding the door for me—conveniently allowing me to bypass the buzzer—and making my way up to her fifth-floor apartment.

My heart is in my throat as I grip a full bag of tacos in each hand and wait for the elevator to take me up to her floor. Either her elevator is ridiculously slow or my nerves are altering my sense of time. Hard to say, because I felt the same way when I was here the other day, too.

Finally, the elevator spits me out on the fifth floor, and I walk the few feet to Scarlett’s door. I knock, then wait. Nothing. There’s no light filtering out from beneath the door, no sound of anyone moving around inside. It’s almost as if she’s not home. For a moment, I’m equal parts disappointed I won’t see her and overjoyed she’s venturing out of her apartment. If she’s going out, she’s okay. But I knock one more time anyway, just to be sure.

“It’s open,” comes Scarlett’s muffled voice. It’s hard to tell through the door, but she sounds hoarse.

The first thing that hits me when I open the door is a faint musky smell, like someone has left garbage sit for too long without taking it out. Sure enough, when I glance toward her kitchen, dishes are piled high in the sink, and several take-out containers litter the countertops.

When I step further into the apartment, I can see the television is replaying a silent teaser for a baking competition. Scarlett is sprawled out on her couch, her satin pajamas rumpled up over her calves. She has one sock on, and one foot bare, and her hair covers most of her face.

Papers are strewn about the kitchen table. I push enough of them aside to clear a space for the bags of tacos. She still hasn’t looked my way by the time I’ve deposited them onto the table, and I wonder if she’s been making a habit of letting anyone into her apartment who comes knocking. And then I wonder if anyone has come knocking, and the realization that no one has causes an ache in my chest.