I drag myself out of bed, throw on my most comfortable jeans and an oversized, thrifted men’s button-down that’s so shapeless I can get away without wearing a bra, and head into the bathroom. I simply run a makeup-removing wipe underneath my eyes, pull my hair back into a bun, and shuffle out of my apartment. I don’t deserve to look any better than this.

Jess jumps when I enter the shop. “Oh, hi,” she says. She can’t disguise her alarm at my appearance fast enough.

“Hi,” I say.

I’m surprised at how croaky and gruff I sound. Jess is helping a couple try on engagement rings, and they flinch as I lumber across the shop. A happy couple cooing over my own diamond rings is truly the last sight in the world I want to see right now.

In the back of the shop, Sophie is slurping a smoothie while using Matrix, a program that jewelers use to develop photo-realistic, computer-aided design models of new pieces. It’s the last step of the design process before turning a sketch into a tangible piece of jewelry.

“Oh god, you look terrible,” she says.

“Thanks,” I wheeze.

Sophie is in Helen’s leather chair, so I take one of the gray folding chairs across from her and sit down.

“What happened?” she asks tentatively.

“I told Blake the truth. He broke it off,” I explain.

It’s the first time I’ve said those awful words out loud. They don’t sound real.

“Eliza, I’m so sorry,” she says, reaching her hands across the table to grab mine. “I am so, so sorry he did that.”

“Me, too,” I say, sniffling.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

The expression on her face is one of pure pity. I shake my head; I’m too overwhelmed to speak. All I want to do is crumple up on my big sister’s shoulder and bawl. I want to cry big, fat sobs and have her rub soothing circles on my back and stroke my hair. I lean forward and let her envelop me in a hug.

Ultimately, though, I can’t relax in her arms. We have more pressing problems than my heartbreak. I try to inhale evenly to calm my jagged breath.

“Sophie, you realize what this means for us, right? For the business?” I ask.

Her face falls. “Oh,” she says grimly. “Talk to me.”

I straighten up. As upset as I am, my feelings aren’t my only priority right now. I’m the one who got us into this mess—I have to be strong enough to pull us out.

“I thought we were on track to making enough money to re-sign the lease in October,” I explain, willing myself to stop whimpering. “But that was when I was factoring in a wedding and banking on a huge spike in sales and press coverage and new customers.”