“Maybe a little concealer around the eyes . . .” Jess offers.

“Oh, shush, you guys will both be fine,” Sasha says, rolling her eyes.

I look around at a group of people who have all dropped whatever they were doing to be here with me, simply because I needed them.

“I have good people to get me through this,” I say.

On that note, everyone clinks drinks and toasts with calls of “Cheers!” and “L’chaim!” People splinter off into separate conversations.

It’s true that I feel more sad, scared, and—above all—guilty than I ever have before. But I’m pleasantly surprised to find that being surrounded by my friends means I don’t feel alone. I try to imagine what Blake is up to right now—binge-watching Mad Men with a glass of scotch? Scoping out new girls at Dorrian’s? It hurts to wonder. Instead, I scan the party, find Raj in the midst of conversation with Sasha and Caroline, and plunge into their circle to give him a hug. He jumps a little, caught off guard by my touch.

“You’re amazing, you know that, right?” I say.

“Eliza!” he shouts, laughing. “You thanked me already down at the bar.”

“I know, I know,” I say, breaking away. “But, seriously, Raj. Nobody’s ever done this kind of thing for me. It’s just . . . you’re a real friend.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess I’m amazing, then.”

I drift through the party, mostly listening in on my friends’ conversations, too overwhelmed by love and support and—honestly—exhaustion to contribute anything substantial of my own. Liv gives Carmen legal advice about registering as an LLC. Caroline is peppering Sophie and Jess with questions about diamond cut and clarity; it sounds as if she wants her boyfriend, Owen, to pop the question soon.

At one point, my friends roll out a series of embarrassing stories from college for Raj’s benefit, zipping from my most victorious keg stand at a Bushwick loft party to the time I may or may not have made out with three off-duty sailors so they’d buy me and my friends a round of Jell-O shots.

“She’s so much calmer now,” Raj swears.

“Ha, right,” Sophie says, shooting me a look of teasing sisterly love. “Because we all know Eliza is amazing at impulse control and playing it safe.”

I pull out my phone, take a video of my perfect crew of friends against the backdrop of the city, and post it to Instagram Stories.

“You have the best goddamn life,” one follower messages me back.

I want to believe that’s true.