I needed a place fast. My lease was ending in less than two weeks and every option was either far too expensive or practically unlivable. Then I found the apartment of my dreams—two bedrooms, huge windows, real wood floors, and affordable rent. The catch was simple and crushing: the landlord only rented to couples. Sitting across from my messy, burger-loving best friend Jamie at our usual diner, I showed him the listing. After a moment of disbelief he groaned, dropped his head into his hands, and agreed to pretend.

The house was even more beautiful in person. White wooden trim, a porch swing, and rose vines climbing the railings. Miss Helen, the sharp-eyed landlord in a pale yellow cardigan, opened the door before we knocked. When she asked how long we had been together, Jamie smoothly claimed three years and said we met at a poetry reading we both hated. Inside the kitchen she pointed out that couples should not be afraid to show affection. Jamie kissed me on the mouth with no warning. We got the keys. She also mentioned she lived next door.