I’m standing outside The Gowanus Studio Space in Brooklyn late Saturday morning.

After a few quick back-and-forth, business-only calls, I’ve agreed to meet Tyler at his shared studio space. He thinks we’re going to look at apartments in Williamsburg, but we’re not. Instead, we’re heading just a few blocks from here, where I found him the perfect place. If I have a talent, it’s knowing what people need—even when they don’t.

My phone vibrates. It’s Mia. “Was Ralph as cute as I remember?”

I text back. “Call him.” Even though I’m completely against women reaching out first, this guy could be Mia’s opening to finally getting over Ansell. And it’s me, not Mia, who likes to play by the rules.

“No way. Ralph thinks I’m engaged,” she responds.

Even I can’t think of a response to that one. The truth sounds too crazy, and men only like crazy for one night.

The front doors swing open and Tyler walks out. “Hi, Lottie,” he says, waving. “Thanks for meeting me here.” He reaches his arms out for a hug, but I hold my right hand out to shake. Friends hug. We’re not friends. We’re run - into - each - other - at - bars acquaintances and now broker and client. And I only hug clients after a lease has been signed on the dotted line.

“Shit,” Tyler says, looking at his dirty—nearly black—fingers. “I was rushing and forgot to wash my hands. Want to come see the studio while I soap up?”

I study my watch, even though I don’t have another appointment. But in any business, it’s a good thing to appear busier than you actually are.

“Fine,” I say. A tiny bit of me is curious what a jeweler’s workspace looks like. Definitely not the typical cubicle.

Tyler surprises me by reaching out and holding the doors open for me. I’ll admit the building is super cool. It’s a renovated warehouse that’s been turned into tiny studios for writers, woodworkers, and other visual artists. I joke and call the entire city “my office,” but a part of me wishes I had a real designated workplace.

I follow Tyler through a cavernous hallway. He pulls a key out and opens a door.

Inside, there’s a large wooden table with an adjustable seating bench in front of it. There are also about a dozen different lights of all shapes and sizes. But what really amazes me the most is how neat he keeps it. The cement floor is swept eat-off-it clean, and there are tons of organized, stacked boxes.

“You look disappointed,” Tyler says.

I shrug. “It’s very cool. But not what I expected.”

“Not all artists are insane—or tortured—or messy,” he says, turning on a light and pulling out a drawer. He removes a ring from a velvet pouch. “I finished this one today.” He shows me a greenish-blue stone encrusted with small pavé diamonds. “I call it the Valentina. I name all my rings after women. It’s a marketing thing.”

“Have any Lotties in there?” I joke.

Tyler laughs. “Lotties don’t like my rings, remember?”

I put my right hand on my hip and make sure my left hand is tucked carefully behind my back. “That’s not what I said. It was you who said your rings weren’t my type, which is true. But it’s not that I don’t admire them.”

Tyler shrugs. “Semantics.” He passes me the Valentina, which I take reluctantly with my right hand.

He gestures for me to try it on. I shake my head.

“Now, Lottie. You have to hold something to actually see it. And you have to try it on to truly know it.”

Now who’s selling whom?

I roll my eyes but slip the ring on my right ring finger when he turns his back. “I’ve never seen this stone,” I say, truly mesmerized. “It’s gorgeous, very sea siren.”

“It’s an Australian fire opal,” he explains and turns back around. “I do a lot of custom orders, but this one I did out of inspiration. It’s nice to get to do it that way sometimes because it helps release creative energy.”

He walks over to a small sink and soaps up his hands.

I nod. “It’s beautiful,” I say, taking it off when he’s not looking. “Some guy is going to make a girl very happy with that.”

Now it’s Tyler rolling his blue eyes at me. Geez, that somehow makes them sparkle even more. It’s as if they become a real-life kaleidoscope.

Tyler dries off his hands with a paper towel. “So you know, Lottie, thirty percent of my customers are women who buy my rings for themselves. I think the whole idea that men buy jewelry and women receive it is very colonial,” he says with passion.

I nod. He’s right there. My favorite necklace, a charm of a compass, is one I bought myself after a big commission check.

“I don’t make jewelry with a certain demographic in mind,” he says. “My whole philosophy behind jewelry design is to make one-of-a-kind pieces. Some people decide to use my pieces for engagement rings, but that’s never my sole intention when I’m making them. Rather, I’m focusing on uniqueness. I think the fact that nine out of ten women want the same princess-cut diamond engagement ring is sad. Why want what everyone else has? Why not have something that represents you? My hope with my jewelry is that women feel special.”

“Not everyone wants to be a unicorn,” I say with a smile. “There have to be some traditions, and having a classic ring reflects that.” I don’t go into the fact that I’m a total traditionalist. I’m sure he can figure out that much. Besides, he just described my dream ring as generic. Not that I’m surprised. Tyler and I are obviously cut from very different cloth. I can’t imagine we’d agree on anything.

I shrug and hand him back the ring. Oh shit. I go to tuck my left hand behind my back again, but I’m too late.

He looks at me with a puzzled expression. “Hey, where’s your engagement ring? I didn’t mean to offend you the other night. It’s sort of the cliché engagement ring, but it’s still pretty.”

“It’s getting cleaned,” I say. I practiced this line the whole way here. I suppose I could just say that we broke up or invent some other story, but at this point, it’s easier to keep lying. “And it’s a classic ring, not a cliché one. And I’m offended, so thanks for asking.”

Tyler tucks the Valentina ring into a velvet pouch and puts it neatly away. “I would’ve cleaned it for you.”

“Really?” I ask, relieved he bought my story.

“Yes, really,” he says. “I have all the stuff right here. Half the people in the stores use the wrong stuff.”

“Thanks, that’s generous of you,” I say, impressed with his kindness. It’s not often that people offer to do something for me like that.

While Tyler is still the opposite of my type, I admit that he’s surprising. I believe most people fit into boxes—hell, that’s how I make money—but I’m still not sure what shape Tyler’s box is. He intrigues me—sociologically speaking, of course.

“The offer stands anytime,” he says. “It’s a beautiful stone. You should take good care of it.”

“And here I thought you didn’t like it,” I say.

Tyler strokes his beard. “I think you are misquoting me again. I only said the stone could find a better setting.” He reaches up and switches off the lamp. The blinds are closed, so suddenly we’re standing in the dark, minus the crack of light from the hallway.

When the lights go out, my breath goes with it. I haven’t been afraid of the dark since I was three and had an Ariel nightlight, but my arm hairs are standing on alert.

We stand in the silence. It feels like we’re both waiting for something, but I’m not sure what. Finally, Tyler brushes against me as he makes his way to the door and opens it. The tiny studio becomes bright again.

“All right,” I say, adjusting my eyes. “Let’s get going. I found the perfect place for you. We better get there before someone else swipes it away. You know Brooklyn is hotter than Manhattan these days.”

Instilling the fear of death that someone else is taking your apartment is one of my strongest tactics. People thrive off the feeling of suspense. It’s why we watch scary movies, after all.

Tyler follows me out of the studio. “Wow. You really are all business. I’m not sure if it’s endearing or annoying.”

Business, Lottie. That’s why you’re here, I remind myself.

* * *

“All my friends are in Williamsburg,” Tyler protests when we arrive at the building I’ve arranged to show him. A building that happens to be in another area of Brooklyn. “I’ve been in Williamsburg since college. I’m an original. Hell, I’ve lived there longer than I lived anywhere else in my life. Williamsburg is my home, Lottie.”

I shake my head. “Williamsburg is your holding pattern, not your home. There’s a difference. Places there are (a) overpriced and (b) run down.” I point at him. “Plus, admit that it’s changed here. You used to be Williamsburg before half of Manhattan decided they were Williamsburg. Now you’re Boerum Hill. You can grow out of an area the same way a child has to eventually get rid of his security blanket.”

Now Tyler shakes his head. “You’re comparing Williamsburg to a baby blanket? You’re one of kind, Lottie. Normally, I admire that,” he says, and pauses to wink. He’s a pretty great winker, I must admit. He playfully stomps his foot on the sidewalk. “But I only want to see places in Williamsburg.” He points at himself and states confidently: “I’m Williamsburg.”

I point at the brownstone’s steps. “Hello, I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but this is a brownstone, not some poorly constructed tenement like the place you’re probably living.”

“Hey—” he starts to say, but I cut him off.

Talking with Tyler is like playing table tennis. Exhilarating but exhausting. “You’d have the entire second floor to yourself. Do I need to call JR to remind you that you’re currently living in a run-down fourth-floor walk-up?”

“How do you know it’s run-down?”

I shrug. “Educated guess.”

“Is this your MO?” he asks. “Convincing people you know them better than they know themselves?”

I shake my head, although that was nicely put. The thing is, I know that Tyler is looking for something very different from what he has, even if that’s not exactly what he told me. The only reason a sane person would move apartments in New York City is that they’ve run their course with their last one. Maybe they need to exorcise the ghost of an old lover. Maybe they want to move on from who they were in that apartment. So if someone comes looking to switch an apartment like Tyler is, I know that they want more change than just moving a couple of blocks away.

Plus, this place is perfect for someone with a significant other. I’m sure Tyler’s Facebook lady will love it, which is important. Girls are big influencers, even if it’s technically the guy’s place.

I look Tyler directly in his blue eyes. “My job is to find the best apartment for my client. This place is nine hundred square feet. That’s the type of footage you usually can find only in apartments in places like Cincinnati. There’s a new Whole Foods a block away and I know how you artists like your overpriced organic food.” Tyler laughs and shrugs.

“I do like my kombucha.”

“Of course you do,” I say. “Look, you can actually grow into this place; there’s tons of room. Two closets and two bathrooms,” I say, trying to allude to space for his lady friend.

Tyler shrugs. “Even from the outside, it seems a little grown-up to me.”

“Maybe it’s time,” I say gently.

“Not everyone is twenty-eight years old and engaged, Lottie,” Tyler says. “Not all of us are ready to settle down. Not all of us will.”

“I’m twenty-nine,” I correct him. And I’m not actually engaged, I think. “And you don’t need to be engaged to grow up and live nicely. Who ever made up that rule? If I wasn’t a Manhattanite, I’d live here.”

“Why are you a Manhattanite but I’m not a Williamsburg guy?”

“Listen,” I say, ignoring his question. “You know jewelry. I know real estate. This place is a deal, and it’s super nice. That combo rarely happens. If you want to look at a bunch of dumps in Williamsburg, go online. If you want me to do my job, you can follow me up these steps.”

I walk confidently up the four stairs to the front door. I don’t look back to see if he’s following. I count silently to three, and then he’s standing right beside me just like I planned.

“Thank you,” I say, using the master key to open the door to the stairwell. “There’s a basement tenant, a first-floor tenant, and a third-floor tenant. I already talked to the landlord, who told me the third-floor tenant is an elderly man. No worries about any late-night subwoofer parties interrupting your REM sleep.”

Tyler laughs. “I had a nightmare neighbor like that for two years. Sometimes, I can hear phantom heavy metal music when I try to sleep.”

I point toward myself. “If you stick with me, you won’t have that again. I never rent a place I wouldn’t live in.”

God, I’m good with these lines.

But Tyler’s face changes. “All right, Lottie. No more pitches. Now the place needs to rent itself. You need to let it happen or not.”

Tyler has no idea I’m not capable of that, but I pantomime zipping my lips. “It will,” I whisper.

We climb two stories. “See,” I say at the top of the landing. “You’re not even out of breath.”

“Hush, Lottie,” Tyler says, but he laughs his hearty old-man laugh. I feel myself smiling. There’s just something special about that laugh coming from a guy like him. For a second, I let myself wonder what it would be like to be with a guy like him.

I would hate it, I remind myself. He has nothing I’m looking for. In fact, he’s everything I work hard to avoid. He’s a Lottie-don’t.

I open the door. “After you,” I say, stepping back.

Tyler studies the mahogany wood floors. “They seem original.”

I knew he’d like those. Anyone with taste—or an artist’s eye—would be awed.

He opens the door to a small half-bathroom. “Nice. I guess it’s getting old sharing my toilet with all my friends.”

“The living room alone is four hundred and fifty square feet,” I say. “I dare you to find those numbers in Williamsburg.”

Tyler laughs and heads through the living room to the galley kitchen. He turns back to me. “Was this just completely redone?”

“An executive chef from Nobu owns the place But he got a job in Vegas, so he’s renting it. Once my contact told me about it, I knew that it was your place, Emeril.”

Tyler looks back at the kitchen. “It has a six-burner Viking stove. Do you know what those cost?”

I nod. This kitchen is, in fact, the main reason we are here. I remembered that Tyler said he loved to cook, and I found a place with the best kitchen in his price range.

When I first saw the photos, I could even imagine him in the space cooking up whatever magic he makes. I wonder if he cooks for the Brazilian babe all the time. Probably.

Tyler switches on a burner and the flames shoot up. He takes a big step back. “This is legitimate,” he says with a smile. I can tell he’s finally seeing himself here. “I guess you were actually listening when I said I like to cook,” he says and raises his eyebrows.

“That’s my job,” I say with a straight face. “Do you even need to see the bedroom?” I tease.

Tyler groans. “But all my friends, Lottie . . . My bar. My restaurant. My everything.”

“Four stops on the subway,” I say.

“Try six, Lottie,” he says, correcting my math. He’s right, so I don’t push it. Rather, I pivot. My ability to pivot is what pays my own rent.

“But you’ll be closer to the studio. And all those friends are going to move to the burbs sooner or later. Besides, Boerum Hill is awesome. Good schools. Nice parks. It’s a perfect place to settle down with someone. You could live in this area—”

“When I have kids,” Tyler finishes. “Wow, Lottie. You’re selling more than just an apartment—a life too. I’m single, you know.”

“You’re single?” I repeat like an idiot. Damn Mia and her online snooping. This is why I don’t internet. Google and Facebook lie.

“Thank you for acting so surprised,” he says. His chest inflates a little, and I find myself noticing his strong, broad shoulders.

Tyler catches my eye and smirks. “It’s a nice confidence boost that you think I’m taken, but yes, I’m single.”

I search my thoughts.

“Oh, I thought you were with a girl at the champagne bar,” I sputter.

“I was,” he says matter-of-factly. “I was there with my cousin Lilliana and her friends.”

Ah, the beauty is his cousin. Good looks must run in the DNA.

Why do I feel so relieved?

I regain my composure and try to pivot again. I picked this place thinking he had a girlfriend. This is a girlfriend place. But I really don’t want to show him anymore places. I’m ready for the charade to be over.

I give him my new pitch: “Well, it’s like that old saying, ‘Dress for the job you want.’ ”

He laughs. “I wear jeans to work,” he says, looking down. “So the analogy doesn’t quite apply, but this is a sweet place.”

But that’s why we all moved here, I think. We didn’t come to New York searching just for a place, but rather for an entire life. And real estate here is about finding the physical space to make the dream life possible.

But maybe Tyler’s dream doesn’t involve meeting The One. He did tell me on the first night we met he wasn’t sure about marriage. I find myself upset over this too.

“Can I think about it?” Tyler asks.

I nod. “Sure you can, but no promises it’ll be here in the morning. This is real estate in a city of no guarantees.”

“Women and real estate,” he says. “The two toughest parts of living in the city.”

“What’s wrong with the women here?”

He shrugs. “Nothing. Other than that you are all so complicated.”

I laugh. “Hold up. I think you’re thinking about the men.” I point to myself. “And I’m not complicated. I’m boring. Ask my friends.”

Or at least I used to be, I think.

“I didn’t mean you,” he says. “I’m sure you’re perfect. I was generalizing, but it seems all the women in New York have an idea of what life here should be like. But more than that, they have an idea of the man they want to find here. He’s totally fictional, but that won’t stop women from trying like hell to shape you into this imaginary, dream guy of theirs.”

I try not to think about how I probably did that with Rock.

“That’s an interesting philosophy,” I say. “But I think it’s that people who live here have high standards and don’t like to compromise.”

“I don’t think standards and love have anything to do with each other,” Tyler replies, then pauses before asking, “So your fiancé must be really something then if you’ve got this checklist thirty blocks long?”

I nod. “He’s incredible,” I say. “He’s everything I wanted. All the bells and whistles.”

I cringe seconds after the words fly from my mouth.

Tyler pauses. “Funny, it sounds like you’re describing a washing machine, not a partner.”

I glare at him, even though he’s right. I sounded ridiculous. “And here I thought you were against love. Now you’re giving me love advice.”

Tyler shakes his head. “I’m human, Lottie. I’m not against love. Quite the opposite. I only said I wasn’t sure about marriage for me. I also think that people view marriage as this big accomplishment or end goal, and that’s not how I see it. To me, the most important thing is waking up every day and loving the person you’re with the best you can, whether you’re married or not.”

There’s something about the way Tyler says “love.” Like he actually means it. Like he does believe in it. I find myself wanting to hear him say it again.

Focus on the sale, Lottie. I do a yoga breath to calm down.

“Well, Tyler, are you ready to close the deal? In a city of near misses, almosts, and close calls, this is the real thing.”

“Oh, Lottie, I’m surprised you can say that shit without laughing,” he says, but then he laughs. “Give me until morning, okay?”

I normally don’t let clients have until morning, but I already know Tyler’s not my average client. For him, I’m willing to bend. “Okay,” I say. “But nine a.m. sharp. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’m showing it to another very interested client.”

This, of course, is a line. A well-oiled line that scares the crap out of my clients.

“I’ll run that risk,” Tyler says with a cocked eyebrow.

I feel a bit defeated. I expected to win this battle handedly. I’m not used to clients like Tyler. I’m not used to men like Tyler.

We walk down the stairs and out the door. “Bye, Lottie,” Tyler calls out, heading in the direction of Williamsburg.

“We’ll talk tomorrow morning,” I yell out as confidently as I can. Having the last word matters. Or at least, it usually does.

I switch my phone from vibrate to ring. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to miss his call and my commission.

* * *

Date: Monday October 30th

To: , ,

From:

Subject: Regarding one more bachelorette party . . .

Good Afternoon Ladies,

I have a former colleague who now works at Dazzle magazine. We recently bumped into each other and got to discussing gender relationships. I told her—without giving names or details—about our faux bachelorette party experience. She was floored at first and then totally intrigued. She wants me to write a 1,000-word piece (that’s huge for a women’s magazine and they pay by the word) about the experience . . . but she wants me to play the bachelorette and give a first-person account. I know that the consensus was that we should be done with these parties after Mia’s awesome night out, but I’m asking if you would all please consider playing along one last time. I don’t have a lot of close friends, so I don’t have many other people to ask. This is a big opportunity for me, and it’s not often that Dazzle does a piece this size about gender relations.

Would next Friday work? The magazine would compensate any expenses up to $2,000, and no names would be used.

Thanks ladies.

Sincerely,

Jane Whitman, Ph.D. candidate

* * *

Date: MONDAY OCTOBER 30th

To: ,

From:

Subject: SAY YES.

A $2,000 budget? Do you know what kind of bachelorette gold I could plan with that? Platinum gold.

And Birdie is having a sleep regression, which means she doesn’t sleep. That means I really need this. Please.

* * *

Date: MONDAY OCTOBER 30th

To: ,

From:

Subject: Re: SAY YES.

I’m SAYing NO to the bach. This is getting silly, and we don’t even really know Jane. Besides, what if we end up exposed in some article? I don’t need the entire literate U.S. population to know I’m doing this. It’s already caused enough complications as is. Thanks, but no thanks.

* * *

Date: MONDAY OCTOBER 30th

To: ,

From:

Subject: Re:Re: SAY YES.

Lottie, I live with her. She really wants this. Unless you want her to plot revenge on me, we’re doing this. Besides, she’s very nice, and it would be an interesting article . . . and like she said, everything will be anonymous. Call your alter-ego Fun Lottie to see if she’s available.

* * *

Date: MONDAY OCTOBER 30th

To: ,

From:

Subject: Re:Re:Re: SAY YES.

It’s what my mom always said, “You can’t say you can’t play.” It’s her turn, and then we’re done. I forfeit mine since I’m already married with a kid and all that jazz.

* * *

Date: MONDAY OCTOBER 30th

To:

CC: ,

From:

Subject: We’re in

Dear faux bride-to-be,

We’re in. Come to the jeweler’s this week for a fitting. Elsa May, per usual, will handle all the planning details.

Ta-ta,

Mia

P.S. Tomorrow night is Halloween. Let’s go out!! Elsa May, send pics of Birdie all dressed up.

* * *

Date: MONDAY OCTOBER 30th

To: ,

From:

Subject: Seriously?

Are you people serious? I’m still Lottie, you know. You owe me. This is, well, it’s against all my rules.

P.S. No thanks on Halloween, Mia. I’ve done enough pretending lately. Have fun!