I collect my things, leave his apartment, and make a beeline to the elevator. My heart pounds the entire time. As I exit his building, make self-conscious eye contact with the doorman, and walk toward the subway, I try to process everything that’s happened. My relationship with Blake—no, my connection with Blake; meeting in a bar and having two subsequent dates isn’t nearly enough to merit the use of the word “relationship”—is just beginning to bud. I like him enough to see him again, sure. But do I like him enough to pin all my hopes on him and pray he’ll somehow wind up as my actual fiancé or husband? And is this wedding ruse necessary enough to drag some innocent guy into my plans? I don’t have any clear answers. I wish I did. All I know right now is that pursuing Blake is better than sitting idly by and waiting for this fake engagement to blow up in my face.

I’m late for work. I’m never late for work. Back in Williamsburg, I sprint up the stairs to my apartment, jump in the shower, and head down to the shop as soon as I can. Sophie’s sitting on a high stool behind the counter and reading something on her laptop. She looks up at my wet hair and cocks her head.

“Where were you?” she asks.

Jess emerges from the back room holding a box.

Mornings are almost always dead in the shop. And sure, there are plenty of other things to do—polish pieces, pay bills, order inventory for next quarter—but for now, that can wait. It’s time to sit down next to my sister and recount last night. I don’t mind if Jess hears, too; we’ve become close since she took this job.

“I was late, true, but for good reason. . . .” I begin.

I explain who Blake is—she stops me, she knows all about Bond & Time—and why he could be the perfect person to get me out of this mess. I tell her about running over to his apartment last night.

It’s not always easy to tell Sophie about my personal life. The five years between us sometimes felt like more. I was well into college by the time she got comfortable hearing about my dating life. I think part of her discomfort around the subject stems from the innate differences between us—she’s cautious where I’m a risk-taker. She would never pull the kind of stunt I pulled with Blake last night. She doesn’t need to have a black book saved on her laptop, since she could probably recite her entire list by heart in under ten seconds.

Sophie shakes her head at my story, but the expression on her face is clearly one of approval. She bites her lip and grins.