“Hayes, you sound like my dad,” she scolded, bursting my bubble. “People are going to notice that she tagged you. And she’s saved it in her Highlights, so anyone can see it anytime.”

“But it’s literally just my shoes. Why would anyone care?”

My Instagram account had a total of three photos on it. A grainy shot of the Empire State Building that I took in 2011 and filtered within an inch of its life, a picture of Angie hugging my parents’ goldendoodle in front of their Christmas tree right before we got engaged, and a photo I snapped from the top of a hike I took in Vermont a couple years ago. And it was set to private. It was, quite possibly, the least active account on the site.

“People read into the stuff they see online, Hayes. I can’t believe I’m still explaining this to you after everything.” She gave me an exasperated look and shifted, tossing the saltines next to her on the couch and swinging her legs around to sit cross-legged on the cushions. “But you like her?” she said, giving me a coy smile. “It’s going well?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. “We’re running again tomorrow, and she invited me to some party.”

“You sound like you’re describing a dental appointment,” she teased.

“I’m excited, I swear,” I said. And it was true. I liked Serena, and it was easy to be around her. Comfortable, even.

“Well, not to completely switch gears,” she said, “but I’ve got another bad news/good news situation for you.”

I leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Didn’t you just give me good news?” I pointed at her belly.

She waved her index fingers back and forth, shimmying her shoulders and swaying in her seat. “There’s more!”

I clapped my hands together, bound to my fate. “Lay it on me.”

“Paul lined up some press for us, and it’s killer.” She was giddy with excitement.

I raised my brows coolly, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of having one over on me. “Well?” I said finally.

“Vogue’s covering the opening party, sending a photographer and reporter. And Architectural Digest wants to do a video tour of the new space and a piece in the magazine. Ah!” she shrieked with glee, waving her hands again.

“Whoa,” I replied. “That’s a big deal.”

“Huge,” she said.

“Well, this is amazing,” I said, no longer trying to play it cool. “That’s major press. What could be bad about it?”

“Those eighteen interior designers Tyler called?” She leaned against the couch, resigned, and I knew where this was going. My stomach sank.

“Oh no,” I said, bringing my hand up to the back of my neck, fidgeting.