“You’re nuts,” she says. Her cheeks flush even just hearing about my hookup. “Just, you know, be safe, or whatever. Be smart.”

That afternoon, I head outside to pick up lunch. I can’t help but let my thoughts drift toward last night with Blake. My cheeks flush when the cashier interrupts my reverie to ask for my order. When I return to the shop, Jess is alone in the front room. Sophie’s words from earlier echo in my head: Be smart. If I want to keep Blake as a viable option for me, I need a plan to explain away the engagement announcement on my Instagram feed.

“Hey, question for you,” I ask, shifting my takeout under one arm and drumming my fingers on the glass counter in front of her.

“Yeah?” she asks.

I glance nervously toward the door. There aren’t any customers about to walk in—we’re alone.

“If anyone ever questions who runs our Instagram, do you mind saying it’s you?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” she asks, her brow crinkling.

“Like, if Blake suddenly looks me up online and sees my quote-unquote ‘engagement announcement.’ I’ll tell him the truth someday—but I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. In the meantime, if he starts asking questions, can we say that photo came from you?”

It’s embarrassing to ask so much from Jess. She looks confused, or maybe upset—it’s hard to read the storminess behind her eyes.

“But I’m, like, extremely single,” she points out.

“I know, I know. I’m asking if you would just pretend—only for Blake’s sake, and only if he ever asks.”

Maybe this was too much to ask. Maybe I crossed a line.

She sighs heavily. “Fine,” she says. “As long as my name doesn’t appear on those photos. I don’t want my friends or family finding out.”

“Trust me, that is something I understand perfectly well,” I say, relieved. “Thank you so much, Jess.”

I exhale as I move into the back of the shop to eat my lunch. I hunch over my phone to carefully edit the photos from last night. “When you borrow his robe . . .” I caption the selfie, posting it. I caption the picture of the two wineglasses with, “Date night in,” plus the hashtag, and save it as a draft to post tomorrow.

I dig into my avocado pesto pasta and watch the likes and comments roll in. There’s a flurry of praise (“werk it, girrrrrl,” “#RelationshipGoals,” “so happy for you, babe”) and a smattering of emojis (pink hearts, kissy faces). And then the same sentiment pops up from a handful of users: “Who is he?”