If this were a year ago, my reaction would’ve been different. I might have tried to place her—did we cross paths in college? did we meet at that party at Carmen’s friend’s boyfriend’s place?—but not anymore. Her demeanor reminds me of that shy girl who asked for a selfie in the shop: tightly coiled, like she has something to ask me.

Sure enough, she cracks into a smile. “I thought that was you. I’m so sorry, I saw you leaving my building and I just had to say hi.”

“You live in that building?” I ask, slightly alarmed.

“I just love your Instagram,” she says, as if she didn’t hear my question. “I’m kind of a fan.”

“Oh, thank you! That’s so sweet.”

She hitches up her yoga mat and I steal a quick glance at her hand. Her left ring finger is bare, which makes sense; most of our followers are either in research mode before they make a big purchase, or they’re single girls who save our photos for their secret wedding-themed Pinterest boards.

“So you live next door, too?” she asks.

“Oh, I . . .”

“I thought you lived in Williamsburg, no?” she jumps in.

“Um, I do.”

“Then your fiancé lives there?”

Her brow begins to furrow. I wish I had brainstormed a cover story ahead of time.

“I was visiting a friend,” I blurt out.

“Early visit,” she notes.

“Um . . .”

Her gaze falls to my hand. “Where’s your ring?” she asks plainly.

We both look at my finger. I look back up at her. My mind goes blank under pressure.

I hear a voice behind me. “Next? Next!”

The barista. Thank god. I turn toward him and order the fastest, easiest drink possible, just so I can get out of there.

“Small black coffee to go, please.”

When I finish paying and collect my drink, I turn back to the woman.

“So lovely to meet you, thanks for saying hi! Maybe I’ll see you around.”

I toss her a huge smile that makes my cheeks ache and head for the door. I hurtle toward the subway, walking so fast that my toes smack into a fissure in the sidewalk and I trip spectacularly, arms flailing. I drop my cup and coffee splatters across the sidewalk. I steady myself and take a deep breath. It’s one thing for a random, faraway person on Instagram to leave a comment questioning who I’m engaged to. It’s another to have to confront that question in the flesh on Blake’s block. I replay the interaction in my head. It could’ve gone wrong in so many ways: she could’ve kept asking questions. If the morning had gone differently, Blake could’ve been there with me. It could’ve been disastrous.