“I’m proud of me too,” I said. Last week, I’d been written about on Town & Country’s website, with a slideshow about my work designing an art-focused playroom for a summer home in Sag Harbor. The house belonged to the niece of Duffy, one of the women I’d met at the gala thanks to Cleo’s mom. And next week, I had my first meeting with Serena about redecorating her entire apartment, which she seemed very excited to go over budget on. When I saw the small diamond earrings at Catbird, a jewelry boutique I loved in Williamsburg, after brunch last weekend, it had felt like a sign. A splurge I not only wanted but could afford. Something just for me.

“Wait, hold still—you have, like, the smallest bit of mascara under your eye.” Lola was studying my face with the seriousness of a forensic investigator. “Oh, no, it’s just an eyelash.”

She pressed a finger against the soft skin under my eye and pulled away with the eyelash stuck to the top of her index finger.

“Make a wish,” she said, holding her hand directly in front of my mouth. I paused for a moment, considering my options. Franny Doyle Design was starting to truly take shape. Lola was engaged. And Anna and I had been video-chatting weekly, learning more about each other and our parallel lives. We’d even been swapping career advice, sharing work tips and client horror stories. Everything was in its correct place

Well, almost everything. I inhaled and huffed out a breath. For the last few weeks, I’d written emails to Hayes that I never sent, started and deleted text messages, and role-played with my girlfriends about how to best apologize to him. But nothing had ever felt exactly right. And every time I felt brave enough to hit SEND, I panicked or second-guessed myself—and my words. But tonight we were going to be in the same room together, and I couldn’t push it off any longer. I promised myself that when I got the chance, I would tell Hayes exactly what I felt: I’d screwed up. I was sorry. And I’d give anything to try it all again.

It didn’t mean I wasn’t still scared. I knew now that I’d always experience doubt and fear, that I’d second-guess myself again. But I was also Franny Doyle. I was, as Hayes once told me, a woman who didn’t take shit from anyone, and that included myself.

Cleo emerged from the bathroom, makeup perfected. I clapped in approval. She responded with a short bow. “Should we pop open the champagne before we leave?”

Lola scurried to the fridge and grabbed the bottle of Dom Pérignon, an engagement gift from her boss.