I open my phone and scroll through my contacts, hoping that seeing the blur of names zing past will somehow trigger some lost memory or clue as to how I know JD. I stop the scroll of contacts at random and find I’m staring at Paloma’s contact info. My sister’s best friend.

I groan. I hadn’t even started to consider all of Vera’s friends. I scroll again and land on an old friend of mine from college. Another groan. There are literally dozens of people that JD could be.

She could be an old work contact. She could be a buddy’s ex-girlfriend. She could be someone I met on that cruise three years ago. Or worse, she could be someone totally random. What if I met her at a bar or a party and she’s completely lost to the annals of time? When she tells me her name, I still might not know who she is. What if I’m trying to guess someone I truly don’t know? I’ll never find out who she is.

I take a deep breath and wave goodbye to JD for the day, flicking on my computer and setting my phone aside.

Around lunchtime I’m roused from work by someone knocking on my front door. I swing it open and blink at my superintendent standing on the other side.

If we’re being honest here, my super kind of scares the shit out of me. She suffers exactly zero fools. She wears red-black lipstick and has tattoos up and down her arms. She’s always in overalls and combat boots and has one of those middle-of-the-nose piercings. I have literally seen her with a pack of cigarettes rolled up into the sleeve of her white T-shirt. She’s more James Dean than I could ever hope to be in my whole Windsor-knotted life.

I always feel like a complete square whenever I’m around her. Especially since the way we met was . . . God. I cringe just thinking about it. Let’s just say that I didn’t get her name, and I’ve been too scared to ask again.

I resist the urge to fiddle with the sleeves of my button-down. “Hey! What’s up?”

Frida Hawkins, my downstairs neighbor, peeks around the door, her milk-white hair standing out against her tan skin. I hadn’t even seen her standing there.

“Eliot. Hi there, sweetie.”

“Hi, Frida.”

“Your kitchen sink is leaking again and ruining my ceiling.”

“Oh! Shoot!” This happened last year, too.

My super raises her eyebrows and holds up the toolbox I hadn’t noticed she was carrying.