Brown hair. Gray-flecked beard. A strong, chiseled jaw. Red plaid short-sleeved shirt, phone tucked inside the chest pocket. And that feeling, the one I’d had when I saw the displaced floorboard. That weight in my gut, telling me things aren’t what they seem. Whether nefarious or benign, I’d become a pro at knowing when there was more to the story. Not from journalism but from Davis.

I was staring at the man from the photos, without question.

‘Hi there,’ he said, wrapping me in a hug. It caught me so off guard, I spilled whiskey down the back of his shirt.

‘Christ.’ I pulled away and wiped the edge of the glass with my sleeve. ‘I didn’t mean to.’

Vera grabbed a linen dish towel and blotted John’s shirt, almost as if on cue. ‘John’s a hugger,’ she said. ‘I should have warned you.’ She leaned in to kiss her husband, but she just barely missed, her lips landing on his cheek instead.

‘Guilty as charged,’ John said with a laugh. The sound was big and guttural, taking up the scarce space in the tiny room, and it vaguely reminded me of my dad’s. ‘Is a handshake any better?’

I nodded as I took his hand, which was warm, rough, and flecked with what looked like paint. ‘I’m usually a hugger, too, it’s just that you caught me by surprise.’

It’s just that five photos of you are tucked away in my underwear drawer.

I gestured to the whiskey. ‘Please have some before I go any deeper into my hugging history.’

They both laughed. A sugary feeling, one I hadn’t had in a long time, of being appreciated by someone new.

Vera pushed the third glass into John’s hand. ‘To neighbors!’ she cried.

‘And new friends,’ John said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Especially ones who bring us good whiskey.’

I lifted the glass to my mouth, and we all drank at once.

The lasagna was delicious, with layers of meat and ricotta and sauce and noodles, like my mom used to make. They didn’t even serve a salad, didn’t pretend to be doing anything but eating pasta.

Vera shoved a huge forkful into her mouth as we told her how wonderful the meal was, sauce spreading over her lips. Maybe that was the chink in her perfect-girl armor: She’d never been taught how to eat properly.

Unlike Vera, John was eating his carefully, slicing each noodle into neat little squares. ‘So Vera said you were from the city?’ he said, setting his fork down momentarily. ‘Let me guess – Brooklyn?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘How could you tell?’

‘Your hair,’ Vera interrupted. ‘All chic but unmanageable. A total Brooklyn do.’ She scooped another forkful of lasagna into her mouth and chewed it fiercely, swallowing fast.