My first impulse is to delete the comments so they don’t attract attention. If I can get rid of the questions, I don’t have to confront them. But my gut instinct tells me that’s the wrong move. That would only make it seem like I had something to hide. So instead, I type out a carefully worded response: “We’re so touched by the positive response to our engagement! Everyone’s support means so much to us. But his privacy is important to him—and I want to respect that.” I feel guiltier using this line now that I’ve had two more dates with Blake; it was easier during the elle.com interview, when I barely knew him.

A few minutes later, two users like my comment. A third replies solely with an emoji featuring a skeptical face—damn it. I need to convince my followers that this is real. But there’s also a stream of people asking for details about the necklace I’m wearing in the bathrobe shot. I respond that it’s available on our site. Ten minutes later, when I’m done with my pasta, I get a string of emails from our e-commerce platform. That necklace? The eight available ones in stock are sold out.

It’s hard to celebrate a victory when it’s tinged with fear. I make it through the rest of the day in a minor panic, wavering between triumphant moods—the necklace sold out! Blake seems to like me!—and utter misery—my scheme could be uncovered on a massive, publicly humiliating scale at any moment, and what if Blake and I don’t wind up working out? Three times that afternoon, Sophie shoots dagger eyes at me because I’m drumming my fingers too loudly against the glass counter. I can’t help it. Fidgeting gives me something to do.

I tell Sophie and Jess that I’ll go ahead and close up on my own. Sophie’s more than happy to skip out early—she says that she and Liv are looking forward to trying out a new zucchini noodle recipe. I need a moment to be truly alone, and I secretly enjoy the mindless, physical work of storing away jewels and wiping down the counter with Windex. I take my sweet time as I close up, playing electronic music as I work. I turn the locks on the front door with force, relishing the satisfying clunk as each one clicks into place.