So before I have a chance to fully consider the ramifications of Nora’s offer, I say yes, thank you, and hit Send. She emails back instantly to ask if I’m free for a phone call now to work out the details. Within the hour, we’ve hammered out the arrangement on the phone, she’s emailed over the contract, and I’ve returned it with my signature. It’s good to move quickly; I’m afraid if I don’t, I’ll back out. I post a smiling selfie on Instagram and announce in the caption that I’ve just locked in my dream wedding venue for October nineteenth. Thirty seconds later, I refresh the photo, and there are a dozen commenters celebrating my news. My wedding is exactly six months from tomorrow. All I have to do now is find the groom.

“So I have really great news and, uh, less than ideal news,” Carmen tells me an hour later. “Which do you want first?”

This week’s happy hour is at Le Boudoir, the Marie Antoinette–themed bar in Brooklyn Heights. We enter through the secret bookshelf in the restaurant above, on street level, and descend into a lounge with red velvet couches and a bust of the queen herself that serves as a tap. We both order a drink called the Guillotine, made with mezcal and honey.

“Hit me with the good news,” I say, taking a slurp of the cocktail.

She straightens up to reach the fullest extent of her five-foot, two-inch height and brushes her hair off her shoulders.

“It’s a lot,” she warns me.

“I can handle it,” I say.

Her eyes are bright and her lips are pressed together, like she can barely contain a secret. She pauses, as if recognizing that by saying her news out loud, it’ll suddenly become real.

“I think I want to launch my own company,” she says.

I can’t help it—my hands zoom across the table to clutch hers. I nearly knock over our drinks in the process.

“Tell me! What’s your idea?”

She takes a deep breath. “I’m happy at my job, I really am. But I miss working in skincare,” she explains. I can tell—Carmen can happily spend a hot Friday night testing out face masks and researching the active ingredients in her moisturizer. “And working at a relatively new company these past few months has taught me so much. It’s energized me.”

“So . . .” I prompt, waving my hands. “Your idea. Spill. I wanna hear.”

She grins. “Okay, but you have to be honest about what you think. I trust you.”

“Of course, of course.”

“It’s a skincare app. You upload a close-up selfie and it instantly analyzes your skin type. From there, it sends you a box of products every month that’s tailored to your skin’s needs. You refresh the photo every season as your skin changes.”