I didn’t like him before move-in day, and I liked him even less after.

“Welcome home,” Danny said as he opened my door, offering me a hand to step out of the Uber driver’s Chevy Suburban.

“Eliza,” Reed said, stubbing out his cigarette and walking toward me like we were business associates meeting for the first time. “It’s great to see you.” When he got close enough, his hand transitioned from a shake to a hug, and he wrapped his arms around me gingerly like I was an old girlfriend he didn’t expect to see. I reminded myself to take a deep breath. I’m Eliza now. I’m in charge.

“I feel like I already know you,” I said, mustering all the confidence I had to keep my shoulders straight and strong under his grip. His breath smelled like Listerine and smoke in my ear, a nauseating combination. “Thanks for coming! I’m afraid there’s not too much for you to do, though.”

He stepped back and moved toward the suitcases that my Uber driver and Danny were coordinating from the sidewalk to the bell cart like a game of real-life Tetris.

“That’s it?” Reed asked as Danny positioned the last suitcase on the cart. He looked at me, then the pile of bags containing every single thing I owned, and forced a confused smile. It seemed almost skeptical in its rigidness. Like I’d poked a hole in my own cement-sealed cover by not owning a dresser or a Peloton.

“There’s more than you think,” I said. “I’m a good packer.”

There was a long pause before he muttered, “Clearly,” and grabbed the trolley by the wrong end to begin pushing it inside. “You should talk to my wife about minimalist living,” he added. “She could learn a lot from you, apparently.”

Danny followed us like a concerned parent surrounds a child who just learned to walk. “I can do that, Mr. Walker, really. Here—let me—” He continued until we reached the elevator, satisfied that as long as Reed wasn’t moving, he couldn’t jerk the trolley in the wrong direction and break something.

When the elevator doors opened on the twenty-fourth floor, Graham was standing there like an aide awaiting the queen’s arrival.

“I told you to tell me when you got here,” he whined, repeating the promise I made when I left my apartment. “Danny probably thinks I’m a terrible boyfriend.”

I squeezed out of the elevator and kissed Graham’s cheek. “I don’t think Danny thinks about you at all, babe,” I said.

Inside, a bottle of Veuve was chilling in a marble slate on the kitchen island, with three champagne flutes anxiously awaiting their time to shine.

“Unpack later,” Graham said, “let’s celebrate.”