By the time I exit the train, I know what I have to do. There’s only one option left for me—the right thing. The hardest thing. My stomach rolls like it did on the boat, but this time, I’m standing on solid ground. I walk the few blocks to his apartment from memory now; I’ve grown accustomed to the route and don’t need to rely on my phone’s directions anymore. When I reach Blake’s apartment, the doorman waves me up automatically.

“He called down to tell me he’s expecting you, Eliza,” he says.

It’s the first time his doorman has remembered my name. That’s no small feat in a big, bustling building like this one. It’s a New York relationship milestone.

“Thank you,” I say, moving toward the elevator.

Inside, I fix my gaze on my reflection in the mirrored walls.

“You got this,” I say out loud. “Everything will be fine.”

The doors slide open on Blake’s floor, and I jump at the sight of a woman entering the elevator.

“Oh!” I blurt out.

Great, so, I’m caught talking to myself. This bodes well.

The woman pauses in the elevator threshold. She cocks her head.

“Eliza, right?” she asks.

It clicks. “Oh, you’re the girl from the coffee shop.” The one who recognized me.

“Yeah.” She holds the elevator door open for me to exit, then she enters.

“I was just, uh, talking to myself. I don’t usually do that.”

“Everything will be fine,” she says with a smirk.

The doors slide shut. I feel watched and panicked. When I turn the corner, I see the door to Blake’s apartment open. He’s standing in the doorway, looking as handsome as ever. He takes an eager step forward to kiss me, catching the edge of the door with his foot.

“Hi,” he says, smoothing back my hair. “I missed you.”

He kisses me again and it feels like a salve. I shouldn’t worry—I’ve never had to worry around him. Blake has always made me feel calm. Inside his apartment, he crosses the living room easily in a few bounding steps and crashes onto the couch.

“So, ready to do this thing or what?” His energy reminds me of a puppy.

“You know, actually, I was thinking on the way over here—is now the right time to post the photos? Shouldn’t we, I don’t know, savor it, just us, for a little while longer?” I sink onto the couch next to him.

His face falls slightly. “We have been savoring it,” he points out. “Do you not want to post anything?”

“No, no, I do. Of course, I do. I was just, you know . . . checking.”

He looks at me skeptically, then pulls out his phone and toggles through his photos.