“I need to talk to you,” he said. His voice was slurring just slightly, but not enough that the words slid out of place. “Meet me out front in five minutes?”

He vanished before she could answer. Scarlett had to take a heaving breath. Five minutes. She looked around to see if anyone had just noticed what transpired, but everyone was busy talking. She quietly got her bag from the corner of the room. When she went outside, Eric was there, staring into the driver’s window of someone’s car.

“Come on,” he said, taking her by the hand and hurrying her down the block. “I should have showed you this before.”

They went four blocks to see whatever it was that Eric wanted to show her, finally stopping in front of a fairly run-down apartment building, one of hundreds that dotted the East Village.

“Wait,” he said, throwing himself up against the door. “Wait a second. Before you go in. I just want to say, you don’t have to worry.”

“I’m not worried,” she said. This wasn’t true. She was experiencing a kind of terror, but a pleasant terror.

“No,” he slurred. “Remember. I am Southern. I am a gentleman. I just need you to know that. If you feel uncomfortable, you just tell me, and we go back in a second, okay? I’ve got iced tea and a television, and we can just drink iced tea and watch TV if you want. That’s all I’m saying. Or we could not go up. I wouldn’t be offended.”

He was drunk, possibly even playing it up to make his point, but it was all very sincere. He looked both hopeful and worried.

“It’s okay,” she said.

He smiled so deeply she felt her eyes water.

The lobby had a cracked mosaic floor and smelled like old pizza boxes. There were stickers for a political rally pasted all over the circuit breaker box. He didn’t let go of Scarlett’s hand or slow down the entire way to his apartment. He took the steps two at a time and had the door hanging open when she got there. It was dark inside the apartment. He went in first and turned on all the lights.

“Welcome to the palace,” he said, backing up against the refrigerator to let her past.

Eric’s apartment was a tiny studio, the kind that reminded Scarlett that most people in the city didn’t live in five-story hotels, no matter how decrepit they were. The room had an uneven floor and was just wide enough for a bed and a canvas chair. Those were the only real pieces of furniture. The kitchen—it if could be called that—was about the size of the back seat of a car and was full of miniaturized appliances. There was only one small set of shelves, and they were packed to the point of groaning, so most of his things were piled neatly and pushed against the walls—books, scripts, DVDs, piles of clothes. Everything was careful and neat.