Two hours later, we’re still on the roof, sitting cross-legged in a loose circle, draining the last of the beer. The conversation has turned into swapping stories of our worst breakups. The group crowns me the de facto winner, but there are some brutal runners-up. Raj finally tells me what really happened with his ex—apparently, she broke off a three-year relationship in the middle of his birthday dinner. Sasha recounts the time her boyfriend matched with her coworker on Tinder. Jess once dated a guy who abruptly ended their summer fling by announcing “I can’t do this anymore” in the middle of a hookup.

Commiserating with my friends takes away some of the sting of my drama, but I still feel almost nauseous with guilt. My friends’ breakups weren’t their fault. And as hurtful as each one was, they were relatively low stakes, with fewer strings attached. My friends didn’t mess up the way I did—they didn’t break anyone’s heart. I have a sinking suspicion that most breakups happen because the spark fades, or two people realize they aren’t so compatible after all. I don’t know anyone who triggered a breakup in such a calculating manner.

All night long, I’ve had a jolt of anxiety every time I feel my phone vibrate. Logically, I know it’s probably just an Instagram notification or an email from J.Crew alerting me to the millionth sale they’ve had since I accidentally opted into their email list six years ago. But I can’t help but fantasize that it’s Blake. I miss the tiny, daily bursts of affirmation I felt every time he texted me. Half of me wonders if it’s my job to reach out first and apologize; half of me thinks it’s most respectful to give him the space he seems to want. But with a wedding planned for just four weeks away, and the potential fate of my business hanging in the balance, I don’t know if I can afford to wait for him to come around.

I’ve been in a depressive fog all day, but there’s a clock ticking on a wedding. I don’t have the luxury of wallowing—I need to come up with a plan to move forward. There’s too much at stake. I owe Sophie, Jess, and my parents a real chance at saving Brooklyn Jewels; I owe it to myself. I have bleary fragments of ideas floating through my brain, but they don’t gel together into any cohesive plan. I don’t mean to tune out of my friends’ conversations—especially when they gathered here to pull me out of this miserable funk—but it’s hard to focus.