I roll my eyes. “It’s like the McMansion of engagement rings.”

“And now it’ll be on your finger forever,” she says.

A chill runs down my spine.

When I meet Blake at Penn Station the next afternoon, I can’t help but glance toward his pockets. They look smooth—so if he is carrying my ring, it’s not in such an obvious place. I wonder if it’s in the monogrammed L.L.Bean duffel he has slung over his shoulder. We’re boarding a 2 p.m. Amtrak to Boston, where his mom will pick us up and take us back to their house in the suburb of Needham for the weekend.

“You okay?” he asks, looking carefully at me.

“Just nervous, I guess,” I say, shrugging.

I shift the orchid I’m carrying from one hip to the other. I had been so desperate to make a good impression, I purchased his mom’s favorite flower to get on her good side. It didn’t occur to me at the time how precarious schlepping such a delicate flower across several state lines would be. Blake gently takes it from me.

“Here, I’ll hold this for now. Don’t worry, she’ll love you. Who wouldn’t love you? I mean, don’t you have, like, a million people on Instagram who adoringly watch your every move?” He laughs. “You’re good with people. I know you are.”

I’m suddenly flooded with panic. “You’ve seen my Instagram?”

He flaps his hand. “Nah, you know I don’t use it. But isn’t that true?”

I try to laugh. “Yeah. So lovable. Everyone loves me,” I say in an obviously fake, singsongy tone.

Guilt overwhelms me. The train station is grubby, grimy, and packed with New Yorkers straining to get out of town for the weekend. I have a desperate urge to jump on any one of these trains and get away from Blake: there’s the 3:15 to Washington, D.C., and the 3:21 to Albany.

Blake clutches my hand and rubs his thumb soothingly over the inside of my palm. If only he knew why I was so nervous.