Page 87 of Hello Stranger

But I far overestimated my acting skills.

An eye roll is a complex thing to manufacture. It’s not justeyes. Eye rolls also require a slight shrug, an imperceptible tilt of the head, a microscopic retraction of the neck. Plus impeccable timing. An eye roll, when you really think about it, requires a whole ballet of delicate and precise muscular choreography timed to the millisecond. It’s not for amateurs.

All to say: I flubbed it.

I came off like a kid actor in a bad sitcom.

And I realized I was overdoing itas I overdid it—and so then I grimaced involuntarily and gave myself one thousand percent away.

But—and I’ll always be grateful to him for this—Joe didn’t call me on it. He didn’t put me on the spot. He didn’t lean in all curious and say,Is she right? Do you like me?

He just graciously focused on the thing I clearly wanted us all to focus on: how incomprehensibly terrible Parker absolutely was. “Is that why she fainted in the elevator?”

“Pretended to faint,” I pointed out.

“Was she—making a move?”

“She was.”

“By fainting?”

“It got her into your arms, didn’t it? And it got you into her apartment.”

“I mean—sure. In amedicalway.”

“Baby steps,” I said. “Give her time.”

Joe nodded like this was all really fascinating.

“Anyway, I thought you should be warned.”

“Thanks for the warning. Though I didn’t need it.”

How very cocky of him. “And why not?” I asked.

Joe leaned forward, swiped the garlic bread off my plate, shrugged charmingly, and then said, “Because she’s not my type.”

Seventeen

MR. KIM DIDwind 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.

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