MR. KIM DID wind up answering my text eventually, and I did wind up standing in the hallway with him in Joe’s too-big bathrobe as he got the lock working.

“Why is the handle dented?” Mr. Kim asked. “No comment,” I said.

“Where’s Helpful?” Mr. Kim asked. I frowned. “Where’s—?”

“Helpful,” Mr. Kim said, gesturing toward Joe’s apartment with his head. “He couldn’t get this fixed?”

Mr. Kim’s nickname for Joe was Helpful? He had nicknames for lots of people in the building—often just their apartment numbers. But this one seemed, suddenly, especially on the nose.

“I don’t think he’s very mechanical,” I said.

All the other locks on the penthouse floor were, of course, high-tech, digital fanciness you could operate with your phone. This lock, however, was like a 1980s punch box. Something a real estate agent in shoulder pads would operate.

“This is a terrible lock,” I pointed out to Mr. Kim.

He didn’t disagree. Just glanced in the direction of the roof. “Technically, nobody’s even up there.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

Mr. Kim could fix anything, and that was a point of pride with him. He had it working again in record time—and I wasn’t sure if I was glad or disappointed.

Before he left, Mr. Kim leaned in to tell me something. “When Sue calls you with her news, don’t worry. He got our permission.”

“Who got your permission?” I asked.

But Mr. Kim shook his head and made a little key-locking gesture at his mouth. “I’ve said too much already. But trust me. It’s okay. They have our blessing.”

“Who has what blessing?” But he just shook his head.

Then he started down the hallway, waving goodbye, before remembering: “Mrs. Kim has some homemade kimchi for you! I’ll bring it up tomorrow.”

“I can come down and get it!” I offered. But he waved the idea away, like Pshaw.

Just as he disappeared into the elevator, my phone rang. It was his daughter.

“Hey, Sue,” I said. “Your dad was just here.” “Don’t tell him I’m on the phone!” she said.

“He’s gone already,” I said. “Why do you sound freaky?” Sue regrouped. “I’m calling with news.”

“Good news, I hope,” I said.

Sue didn’t comment on that. “I know I’m supposed to come over tonight—”

I checked the time. I’d completely forgotten about her. “Yes! And you’re an hour late!”

“But I have a conflict,” Sue said.

“You cannot have a conflict,” I said.

“But I do,” Sue said, in a voice that was just begging me to ask her what it was.

I sighed. “What’s the conflict?”

And so she burst out, “I’m eloping!” “You’re…?”

“Eloping!” Sue said again—because it was so fun to say. “Eloping?” It didn’t compute. “With Witt?”

“Guess what he got for us?”

Did she really want me to guess?

“Transcontinental railway tickets! Across Canada!” Guess not. “What does that mean?” I asked.

“We’re traveling from one side of Canada to the other!”

“On a train?” I asked. Did they even still have those?

“Vancouver to Halifax, baby!” she said, in a voice like we were about to high-five.

But I refused to validate this madness. “I don’t understand.”

“We’re eloping. On a train. Witt bought the luxury package,” Sue said. “He used up his savings.”

“Okay, that’s a red flag, right there.” “Hush. It’s romantic.”

“I don’t know if you know this,” I said, “but Canada is really big.” “Yeah!” Sue said.

“So this isn’t like a weekend jaunt or anything. It’ll take at least…” I paused to calculate.

“Fourteen days,” Sue supplied.

“Fourteen days!” I repeated. Then, to confirm: “That’s two weeks!” Then, just to make it sound even more ridiculous: “That’s a fortnight!”

“It’s sixteen days with travel time.”

“What about work?” I demanded, grasping at straws. “Don’t you guys have jobs?”

“We figured it out. Don’t worry about it.”

“What about your parents? Won’t they be pissed?”

“He got their permission beforehand. Which made them love him even more.”

She sighed like the resistance in my voice was excitement. Like we were going to swoon about this together. “It’s a sleeper train,” she whispered.

Why was she whispering? “Don’t people get murdered on those?” She paused. “Wait. Are you not excited for me?”

I backtracked. What kind of friend wasn’t excited for her best pal when she eloped with a former college track captain? “I am very excited for you,” I said, worrying again about my acting.

“That’s a relief,” Sue said. “When do you leave?”

“That’s the thing,” Sue said then. “We’re at the airport now. So if you have an issue, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“You’re eloping—right now? As we speak?” “It was a surprise,” Sue offered meekly.

“But—” I said. Was it unsupportive of me to point out that she was abandoning me during the one week—the only week—when I needed her the most?

“I know,” she jumped in, not making me say it. “We’re supposed to do the portrait this week.”

“I—”

“I should have called you sooner—but it was all so dramatic. He

kidnapped me. Isn’t that cute?”

I drew the line at kidnapping. “Not really.” “The point is, I had no idea.”

“Wait—” I said then. “Are you calling me from the airport in Canada?” “Greetings from Vancouver.”

Oh god. She was already gone.

I was happy for her. I was, I was. Of course I was. But … just … who was going to model for me now?

I was in a uniquely terrible position—because I had to do a uniquely bizarre set of things to this person. I couldn’t just hire some random art model. I barely felt comfortable doing all these things to Sue. And we’d seen each other in bathing suits!

I felt an urge to cry clasping at my throat. But I swallowed it—hard.

I was not going to ruin Sue’s kidnapping-elopement by bursting into tears. I just refused to be that person.

I took a deep breath instead, and I ratcheted my face into a big, bright smile. “I’m so happy for you,” I said.

“You are?”

“Of course! Being kidnapped to Canada is every girl’s dream.” “But what about your portrait?”

“Pah,” I said, making the most dismissive noise I could think of. “Models are a dime a dozen. I’ll have your replacement before you can eat a beaver tail.”

“Nice Canada reference.” “You’re welcome.”

It dawned on me that we needed to wrap this up before my voice started trembling. “You realize, of course, I’m going to make you do a pretend second wedding later so I can be a bridesmaid.”

“Done and done,” Sue said.

I made her promise to text me lots of pictures. And save the bouquet. And drink a whole bottle of maple syrup. And then I blew kisses into the phone. And then I hung up …

And started crying.

Broken lock. Sick dog. No model. Evil stepsister. Best-friend-less, moneyless, jobless. Not to mention suddenly face-blind at the worst possible time. And about to fumble my first—and now probably last—big break.

What the ever-loving hell had happened to my life?

It had never been perfect before, by any means—but at least it had some potential.

I couldn’t pull it together, but I couldn’t make myself go back to Joe’s apartment, either, so I just stood there in the hallway crying. This is good, I kept telling myself. This is emotionally healthy. You’ve got to feel your feelings.

I was feeling them, all right.

I felt them and felt them—until I finally looked up to see Joe coming out of his place with a box of tissues.

“I was going to let you cry it out,” Joe said, holding out the box as he got to me. “But then I started worrying you’d get dehydrated. Medically.”

“I’m not a big crier,” I said, pulling out a tissue to blow my nose. “If you say so.”

I stuffed the tissue in my pocket and took the box from him. “Seriously.”

“I eavesdropped on your conversation,” Joe confessed. “Not on purpose, at first—but then I got hooked.”

“It’s fine.” Who cared, honestly? Eavesdropping was so low on my triage list.

“Sounds like your best friend just eloped? For two weeks? Leaving you without a model for your portrait project?”

I nodded and started crying again.

Joe waited until I slowed down, and then he pulled a tissue out of the box for me. “I’ll be your model.”

I dabbed at my face. “What?”

Joe shrugged. “How hard can it be?”

“I can’t ask you to be my model, Joe,” I said.

But he shook his head. “You just have to sit there, right?”

“It’s more than that,” I said. “This is kind of a special project.”

“Wait—” he said then. “Is it a naked portrait? Is this like a Burt- Reynolds-on-a-bearskin-rug deal? I’ll need to grow some better chest hair.”

I tolerated that. “People aren’t ‘naked’ in art. They’re ‘nude.’”

But Joe was grinning at me like he had my number now. “You’re going to make me take my clothes off, aren’t you?”

“No!” I said. “This is a completely normal, non-naked portrait. No clothing will be removed.”

“So what’s the problem?”

I looked down, trying to figure out how to explain it. It didn’t make a lot of sense if he didn’t know about the face blindness—and I was already doubling down on never telling him about that. The more appealing he became, the more he did not need to know how messed up my life was.

But how to explain it without explaining it?

“Sue and I were going to try some unconventional techniques,” I said. “That’s fine,” he said.

“I’ve been trying to push myself as an artist,” I said next. Not untrue. “And so I need to try some new strategies.”

“Are you the one who’ll be naked?” “No one’s getting naked.”

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

“It’s just…” I tried again. “I’d have to touch you.” “Touch me?”

“I’d have to draw a grid on your face. So there’d be a fair bit of touching. And staring. And studying. For a long time. It could be very … intimate.”

“But you wouldn’t be punching me, right?” “Of course not.”

“I’m still just trying to figure out which part of this is bad.” “It’s not bad, exactly. It just might be awkward.”

“I can handle awkward.”

“But why would you want to?”

Joe tilted his head, like it was already obvious. “To help you out.” At the word help, I felt my usual knee-jerk nope.

I didn’t want his help! I didn’t need—

… But actually, I did need his help.

I wouldn’t be standing in this hallway sobbing if I had any other options.

Would it be so terrible to just let him help me?

I thought about the very recent moment when I’d given my favorite dress to a total stranger in a public bathroom. It did feel good to help other people out sometimes.

Fine, I decided, with a long sigh. He wanted to help me? I’d let him help me.

What other choice did I have?

Maybe this was a moment of personal growth.

“Things I might do to you,” I said, “include, but aren’t limited to: Staring at you a lot, peering at you, and leaning in close. Studying you. Asking you to describe your face to me while I’m painting it. Projecting a grid over your face and mapping it out mathematically. Measuring your features with a tape measure. And touching your face, neck, and shoulders. Is any of that objectionable?”

“As long as you don’t put me in a Burt Reynolds toupee.” “But what do you think?”

“I think I don’t know why we’re still talking about it.” But then I had to ask: “Would it bother your girlfriend?” “My what?”

I tilted my head to gesture down the hall. “Aren’t you dating Busty McGee?”

He looked in the direction of my gesture. “Do you mean Marie Michaux?”

“Huh. I guess she has a real name.”

“You know she’s a scientist, right? Dr. Marie Michaux.”

“No,” I said. “I just know she looks fantastic in a tank top.”

Joe shook his head. “She is a trailblazing evolutionary biologist and herpetologist.”

“Herpetologist? She studies herpes?”

Joe sighed. “Herpetologists study reptiles. She, in particular, studies the effects of climate change on snake coloration.”

I stared down the hall at her closed apartment door. “That’s not the profession I would’ve guessed.”

“She was just featured in Science magazine. She’s brilliant.”

“So…” I said then, just to irritate him. “You’re dating a brilliant herpesologist.”

“Herpetologist,” he said, making a couple of tuh, tuh noises afterward to emphasize the T. “And we’re not dating.”

That perked me up a little, though I’d never admit it.

It perked me up so much, in fact, that I did not submit any follow-up questions—on the chance that he might follow “We’re not dating” with something ghastly like “We’re just sleeping together.”

Don’t ask, don’t tell. What he did or didn’t do with the snake-a-tologist was his business.

“I can’t pay you,” I said then. “Not with money, anyway.” That got his attention. “What will you pay me with?”

“Well,” I said, “I can’t give you the portrait itself, because they’re auctioning those off.”

“That’s okay,” Joe said, all deadpan. “I have too many portraits of myself already.”

“So,” I went on, businesslike. “Let’s just say you can have whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?” he asked, like it was too good to be true.

“Within reason,” I said. “If you want me to paint something for you, or if you want me to buy you dinner or give you an art lesson, maybe. Whatever you can think of.”

“Are you giving me a blank check?” he asked. “No!”

“Sounds like a blank check to me.”

“I’m saying you and I can find a mutually agreed-on form of payment at some point.”

“So in other words,” Joe said, the delight of teasing me pretty clear in his voice, “a blank check.”