The music is no longer blasting from upstairs. I lock the ring back in the safe, trudge up to my apartment, and flop down on my own bed. The whiskey lulls me to sleep.

Morning hits like a truck. I’m jolted awake, not by the harsh light streaming through the narrow window and not by the hot, sticky sensation of my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, but by my phone vibrating at full blast. Sophie is calling—and I can’t remember the last time she actually used her phone to make a call. My thoughts in order: Who died? Was it Mom, Dad, or Waffles the cat? Is it dumb that I’d be almost as sad about the cat as I would about a real human being?

“Sophie? Is everything okay?” I ask. My voice is groggy with sleep.

“What the hell did you post on Instagram last night?” she snaps.

I rack my brain. “I didn’t post anything on Instagram last—” Wait. Shit. “Can you hold on for a sec?”

I can’t see her, but I know the exact haughty way in which she probably just rolled her eyes. Liv is probably patting her knee, as if that could help calm her down.

I open Instagram and am horrified to find an avalanche of notifications. Fourteen thousand people have liked my ring photo, which apparently did not save as a draft, but instead, must have been posted to my feed. This is terrible. I scroll through five hundred comments. Sasha, an old friend from college who I haven’t seen in months, wrote, “Omg WHAT?!” Rachel, a girl I met while drunk in line at a bar bathroom three years ago and haven’t seen since, wrote, “I’m crying!! This is beautiful!!!!!” Kate, a cousin I see a couple times a year, wrote, “I didn’t know you were dating anyone???” Holden commented, “This is simply wonderful news.” And the rest are variations on “Congrats!” or “So happy for you!” Some are from followers whose names I recognize, but most are from total strangers. As if that’s not freaky enough, it looks like the account gained more than a thousand new followers overnight. My phone is warm to the touch, as if all the activity is overheating the delicate device.

I sit up in bed, steadying myself against a mountain of pillows. My heart thumps against my rib cage.

“Okay, Sophie, I know what happened. . . .” I tell her everything about the date, Holden’s engagement, and my bad habit of letting off steam on Instagram. I leave out the part about the whiskey.

“Mom and Dad are gonna flip,” she says. “Kate’s probably already sent a screenshot to Aunt Linda, who probably called Mom.”