Fucking Holden. Engaged. I’m not like some of my friends who, at twenty-seven, are still deeply shocked whenever people our age announce they’re getting married. I acknowledge that twenty-seven is a perfectly reasonable age for Holden to propose to Faye. And fine, whatever, maybe he’s changed. It’s not exactly like we’ve been in touch often during the past four years since our final, brutal breakup. And more than anyone else I know, engagements are my bread and butter. Ever since my sister Sophie and I opened up Brooklyn Jewels last year, diamonds have become my world. I guess I just always assumed that between me and Holden, I would pair off for good first. I’m not good at losing; I’m not used to it. And his engagement means that I’ve officially lost the breakup.

I reach the door of my building and I’m home. I live in a second-floor walk-up on top of the shop. I dig my keys out of my purse and jam the right one into the lock. I know before I’m even inside my apartment that I won’t want to stay. From the sound of it, you’d think my neighbor was personally hosting New York’s most crowded EDM festival. I can feel the bass of his soundtrack vibrating in my chest. My walls are so thin that I need noise-canceling headphones just to sit in my own home.

I drop my rain-soaked purse on the floor of my bedroom, strip out of my damp clothes, and pull on my oldest sweats. Then I grab my phone, swing by the galley kitchen to pick up my bottle of Jack Daniel’s and the cleanest glass from the cupboard, and head downstairs to the quiet shop.