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The train rattles around a bend in the tracks. It’s gottendark outside. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with this man.

“He wasn’t,” I say. “Until he was. Anyway, he has some of my stuff with sentimental value, and my ex-future-mother-in-law is going to get rid of it tomorrow.” I look at him. “Unless you break me in.”

“So,” Noah whispers in the dark side yard of Ryan’s brownstone at nine o’clock that night, “how did you two meet?”

“Can we maybe wait until we’re not committing a felony to have this conversation?” I whisper back, standing on my toes to watch his work. He’s got the screwdriver tool of his Swiss Army knife extended and is slowly, carefully prying open the window that leads to Ryan’s laundry room.

We’ve already quite literally cased the joint, jiggling every doorknob and window, even climbing the trellis in Ryan’s back alley hoping to find unlocked upstairs access. Now Noah is just “removing the beading” from the window, which he assures me he can set right on our way out.

“Your call,” he says. “I just thought you were the one concerned with feeding me inspiration. I thought you and the ex might have had a meet-cute.”

“Are you insane?” I whisper. “You don’t get to use my ex-meet-cute. Though, actually, it was a good one.”

“Go on,” Noah says, grunting a little as he levers the pane up from the frame.

In the quiet night, attempting criminal activities, I feelpressure to tell this story better than I ever have before. And so I do, in whispered segments, as the barred owl hoots in Ryan’s maple tree. Noah listens closely, cocking his head when I reach the part about Ryan getting a ticket for riding without his helmet, telling the cop it was worth every penny because look at the woman he’d had to loan it to. I’m up to the detail about the dropped jaws of the Peony marketing department, who all saw me get off Ryan’s bike at the doors of the convention center, when Noah frees the pane from the window, turns to me, and grins.

He gestures inside with a wave of his arm. “After you.”

If he were anyone else, I’d fling my arms around him in gratitude. Instead, I keep my enthusiasm inside as I climb through. Once I’m on top of Ryan’s washing machine, he passes me Javier Bardem in his kennel, and then we wait for Noah to climb in, too.

It’s strange and thrilling to creep through Ryan’s empty brownstone. I know it well enough that I can navigate in the dark, but since Noah doesn’t, I put on my phone’s flashlight as we move through the kitchen, to the dining room, through the swinging door into the living room.

“So then what happened?” Noah asks.

“With Ryan?” I say, surprised. I’d ended the story where I usually end it. Most people assume that after Ryan dropped me off, we swapped numbers and started dating. But there was one more thing that happened that first day.

“Well, I thanked him for the ride,” I say, pausing at the foot of Ryan’s staircase, memories flooding my mind. “And then he said, ‘I’m going to marry you.’ ”

Noah is quiet. I can’t see his expression in the dark.

“And I said, ‘You don’t even know me.’ And he said, ‘I can just tell we’ll be great together.’ And then he got down on one knee. I shut him up before he could actually propose....” I trail off, remembering that feeling, how magical it all seemed, like the beginning of something amazing. Like this was the love story I’d been waiting for all my life.

It’s hard to think about that now.

Luckily, just then, the beam of my flashlight falls on a box near the front door.

“There it is!” I drop to my knees. I see BD’s robe at the top. I feel my mother’s award. I’m so relieved.

“Thank you, Noah,” I say, turning to look up him. “It was really generous and slightly crazy of you to help me.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

He’s standing very still, his hands clasped behind his back. He never looks comfortable, but in Ryan’s darkened foyer, he looks even more uncomfortable than usual. We should get out of here.

“Hey,” I say, hefting the box into my arms. “Wanna celebrate?”

When Noah said he knew of a place nearby, I was not expecting a cash-only dive called Poe’s and two cold cans of Natty Boh. But it turns out, a snug booth at the back of this crowded bar is the perfect place for Noah, Javier Bardem, and me to revel in my reclaimed possessions.

“You never told me what you’re doing in D.C.,” I say, still high on our achievement, and a little loose from the beer.

“I’m visiting my mom.”

“She lives here? I don’t know why I thought you grew up in New York.”

“I did. I grew up on West Eighty-Fourth. My mom moved down here about ten years ago. I’ve been trying to get her back to New York but... it’s complicated.”

“Oh,” I say, thinking back to the day I saw Noah showing Javier Bardem a building on the Upper West Side. Was that his old apartment? Also, why didn’t he mention he was visiting his mother earlier? Now I feel guilty I’ve taken too much of his time. And what does he mean, complicated?