A week or two later I stood on the curb by our apartment building and admired a motorcycle that was parked out front. And then there came Jessie, a helmet under her arm and this tiny little smile on her face. She slung one leg over the motorcycle and couldn’t have looked more badass.

I awkwardly waved and tripped over the curb. Great.

Some time after that she came around with an exterminator to lay down some mousetraps. Before they left my apartment we all heard a trap snap from my kitchen. She must have seen the horror in my eyes at the thought of cleaning up a mutilated mouse carcass because with that little smile on her face she turned and walked into the kitchen, took care of it herself.

And then, of course, the light bulb debacle.

This whole time, she knew it was me. This whole time I was teasing and flirting with her, she knew it was Eliot Hoffman, scaredy-cat moron.

This, my friends, is why there was likely a dash of horror on my face when I rounded that corner and realized that JD was Jessie. Generally, you don’t especially want to start out a relationship with someone by showing them your worst qualities.

We were literally just talking about being fantasies to one another. Gigi Hadid and The Rock. I’d firmly believed that I wasn’t building her up as a fantasy because she was a she-blob in my head. And what kind of fantasy is that?

But now, I think she might have been right to ask me that. Because even though I wasn’t dreaming of her being a supermodel of some kind, I was thinking that she probably thought of me as a charming, interesting guy at the very least. I, almost always, make a first impression as someone friendly and fun. I’m not Brad Pitt, but I’m not terrible-looking. I thought there was a reasonable chance of her being into me. But now? Honestly, I can’t even think of it without cringing.

We’ve come a long way together, but is there any chance that she doesn’t still think of me as a twerp?

“And why,” Frida asks from beside me, “did she run away from you?”

My brain is on the fritz. I can’t think in a straight line. I’m still humming with adrenaline from figuring out who JD really is. I’m cringing with embarrassment and discomfort from the resurrection of that most horrible night. I’m stunned and confused and . . . yeah.

“Um. I’m not sure,” I tell Frida. Because it’s pretty much true.

I’ve imagined meeting JD about a thousand times and I never once pictured her going white as a sheet and literally sprinting away from me.

Frida is saying something else to me, but I’m not listening. “Sorry to run, Frida,” I tell her.