That’s true, but the full truth is more complicated than that. Back when I only had a few hundred followers, life had a different filter than it does now. I used Instagram to “like” photos my friends posted from parties and to gawk at celebrities sunbathing on yachts, just like everyone else. But now, my chest twinges when I miss a photo opp, or when I see a rival jeweler get a better one. I feel like I know thousands of people I’ve never met in real life, simply because of the ways in which they interact with my posts—there’s the Starbucks barista in Cleveland fantasizing about her dream wedding; the Real Housewife of New York, who wears so many diamonds every day they seem as much a part of her as her actual skin does; the gay teen boy from the Philippines who writes “iconic” on every single photo.

And all of this, of course, changes how I see myself. It’s hard not to feel as if you’re important when a hundred thousand people say that you are. I’m not, of course. I’m not important. I’m just a girl who’s figured out the trick, the formula: post shiny photos of this many carats (three or more) at this time (8 a.m. or 6 p.m. EST) with this kind of caption (cheery and loaded with hashtags), and presto. But sometimes, I forget that.

I don’t want to explain all of this to Blake. It feels too dangerous—like it could help him unlock my real purpose here with him. The thought makes me feel heavy and sad; I don’t want to dwell on whether or not this is fair to Blake, especially when I might actually be developing real feelings for him. So instead, I slide my phone back into my jeans and curl into him.

“Let’s watch,” I say, hitting play on the remote.

• Chapter 11 •

“Are you Eliza Roth?”

A woman’s voice jars me to attention. I left Blake’s apartment three minutes ago; I’m in line at the coffee shop on his corner now, absentmindedly picking at a knot in my hair that definitely wasn’t there when he pulled me into his bedroom last night. Prying myself from his arms felt impossible this morning. I always feel the same way about getting up from the sand on the last beach day of summer—you know you should move, but the thought of it actually hurts.

I spin around and take the woman in. She’s about my age, clad in blue high-waisted leggings and a matching sports bra, and carrying a yoga mat. A flat, round gold pendant embossed with what’s probably her first initial dangles from her neck; if I had a dollar for every necklace I’ve seen like that this year, Brooklyn Jewels wouldn’t be in financial trouble. Her face looks expectant.

“Yes. Hi,” I say.