“You’re kidding!” I stifle a laugh as he repeats it’s in the closet and I move back so I can see his whole face. “You forgot it? Seriously?”

“It doesn’t count as forgetting if I remember while I’m still in the apartment.” I huff playfully in response. “Plus,” he adds, “what do you want me to do? I’ve got to keep it hanging.”

I stand up and open the door to our walk-in closet, triggering the automatic lights. Our closet rivals that of Carrie Bradshaw, not only in the original series, but also in the movie where Big proposes. It was easily the size of my first apartment’s living room. It was almost theatrically empty before I moved in—less than half the hanging space used, only a handful of drawers stuffed, like a sad metaphor for the single, unfulfilled man who occupied it. But when it’s all used and organized—each hanger taken, each drawer with a purpose—it doesn’t seem as pompous. It seems necessary. Even though it’s not.

I return to the bedroom with Graham’s suit inside the garment bag hanging limp over my arm and see he’s holding the joint, looking at me with a furtive grin.

“Big plans this evening, huh,” he asks as I rest the garment bag on top of his suitcase, letting it hang over the sides.

“I’ll get it ironed when we get there,” I say, ignoring him. “It’s fine like this for now.”

“Get my light.” There’s a subtle but familiar force in his voice that never sits well with me. Reluctantly, I pat down the jacket that was thrown onto the velvet chair in the corner of the room until I feel the hard shell of a lighter and throw it to him. “We haven’t done this in a while,” he says, like we’re kids breaking curfew, holding the joint between his lips as he clicks to start the flame. As I open the window next to the nightstand, I realize I’m less enthusiastic about it now than when I was in the taxi ride home. Maybe I’m just less enthusiastic now that it involves him.