A few hours later, I’m nestled under the covers of my own bed with my laptop opened to the Wythe Hotel’s site. Blake had brought me straight home, then went to Duane Reade to pick up saltines and ginger ale to settle my stomach. I take this time when he’s gone to focus. I don’t have time to feel queasy; I need to prepare for a pivotal moment in this months-long plan. If I can’t convince him that a whirlwind trip down the aisle this fall at the Wythe Hotel is a good idea, then I’m stuck. That would mean potentially canceling on the Wythe—with no guarantee that I’ll ever be #blessed enough to be offered a practically free #sponcon wedding ever again. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a high-stakes conversation in my life. Above my laptop, my palms are glossy with sweat.

I hear the click of the lock. Blake is back. I had given him my keys so he could let himself in and out for this errand, and he had simply beamed.

“I guess we’ll have to make each other copies now, won’t we?” he said. “That is, until we’re living under one roof.”

Right, let me just add that to the to-do list: stage a wedding, save my business, find a new apartment in the most competitive housing market in the entire country. I don’t have a shred of mental bandwidth to devote to moving right now. I can’t even fathom where we’d live. I wouldn’t want to move too far away from the shop, and I also can’t imagine Blake living anywhere but his Upper East Side bachelor pad. I try to picture a compromise, but nothing materializes.

Blake hands me the saltines and ginger ale, then joins me on the bed.

“Looking at venues already?” he says, craning his neck to look at my screen.

“Yup.”

“Should we, I don’t know . . . call our families and tell them the news?”

I turn and blanch. Given the events of the past few months, I can’t guarantee that Mom and Dad will have a sunny reaction over the phone, and I can’t risk letting Blake hear whatever they have to say. I snuggle closer to him and drop a kiss on his temple.

“Why not just enjoy this day together? We can tell people tomorrow,” I suggest.

“Fair enough,” he concedes. “Show me the places you’re looking at.”

I launch into a hastily rehearsed speech about how much I’ve loved the Wythe Hotel ever since I moved to Williamsburg.

“I’ve been there for parties, and I’d just die to get married there,” I say. “The rooftop has the most gorgeous view of the Manhattan skyline.”