I didn’t knit or take any cooking classes, so driving around and looking at open houses on weekends was the closest thing I had to a hobby. Real estate agents had a name for people like me, “lookiloos”: people who toured houses but never made an offer. I would drive around the hills of Hollywood and flats of Hancock Park, checking out houses and imagining the next chapter of my life with Dave. I’d do the combined-income math for the two of us in my head.

I’d recently cleaned out my savings and bought a new shiny BMW, and one of the best things about having the new car was being able to park directly in front of an open house. When I’d driven my Honda, I soon figured out that the Realtors knew there was no way I would be able to afford a two-million-dollar home. Realtors were as tough as interrogating cops when it came to sizing up potential buyers. They’d covertly spy through wooden shutters as the scruffy couples streamed up the sidewalk early with their Starbucks cups, and I felt like a pathetic single version of those losers. Open houses were a lot like Noah’s Ark—everyone was paired off two by two. The BMW (even though it was an entry-level model) gave me enough cachet to walk in with my head held high. Gone were the days when snotty Realtors would pull the color Xerox copies out of my hand and say, “I really need to save these for the serious buyers.”

I had my whole shtick down. Checking out real estate was a lot like going on a blind date. You needed to have pat answers that portrayed you in the best possible light and got you through to the next level. Ms. Realtor would ask, “Is this for yourself?”

“No, it’s for me and my fiancé,” I’d reply with a little laugh—like, how could I be looking for a place to live in alone? Obviously, someone like me was attached. I didn’t feel bad about the fibs, because I knew the ring from Dave would come someday.

Ms. Realtor’s eyes would drift down to assess the size of the stone on my finger. I could attribute my ringless finger to my being in my weekend-casual look, fresh from a hike, no jewelry necessary. “Are you working with a Realtor?” she’d ask.

“I am working with someone, but she’s out of town, which is why I’m on my own today,” I always answered.

If she was really dubious, Ms. Realtor would keep pressing me. “Really? Who? What office?”

I’d give the name of someone I had met at a cocktail party through friends, and the next day Ms. Realtor would call me to verify that we were working together. Whatever.