I unlock the shop and bring Raj inside. When Sophie and I first rented the storefront, I used to savor this moment—showing friends the new space. It had felt so unimaginably adult, like the separate puzzle pieces of my life were finally clicking into place: I had a dream that was turning into a reality; I was self-employed, like I had always hoped I would be; I had a real brick-and-mortar store with gorgeous crown molding and light pouring in through the wide front window. True, I was also exhausted, cash poor, and constantly overbooked, but I had been so proud to show my friends what my sister and I had created for ourselves. I wonder how this all seems through Raj’s eyes, especially now that he quit his job in order to find something fresh and meaningful.

He wolf-whistles when he sees the shop. “This is legit,” he says, running his hand over the glass counter. “Where’s the jewelry?”

“Everything’s locked up,” I explain.

“Aw, I’d love to see,” he says.

I bring him to the back and unlock the safes. We strike up a plan: he can eat the pizza as long as he doesn’t touch the jewels, and as long as he saves me at least two slices for later. Over the past two years, I’ve learned that most guys have no interest in what I do unless they’re trying to select a piece for their girlfriend or wife. Raj, on the other hand, asks detailed questions about our business model and the intricacies of the fine jewelry industry. I like explaining the difference between an emerald cut and a princess cut, and why a low-quality large diamond can wind up costing less than a high-quality small one. I always enjoy talking about jewelry—that’s one of the reasons I got into the business in the first place. He points out the pieces he likes, careful to keep his grubby, greasy hands far away from the actual wares, and honestly shrugs at the ones he doesn’t. A lot of customers automatically gravitate toward the largest, flashiest stones. Raj seems to prefer unusual designs and underused stones, like peridot and tourmaline. I like his taste.

When his knee brushes mine underneath the desk, I hold my breath as I move it away. It must have been an accident. He doesn’t seem to notice.

His phone vibrates noisily against the table.

“Can you open that for me?” he asks, hands full of pizza.

He recites his password between bites, and I tap open his notification.

“Oh! It’s from that girl! That Tinder girl.”

“Ha. Did you write to her or did she send the first message?”

“She did. She wrote, ‘Hey, how’s your day going?’ and used a smiley face emoji.”

“Eh, I’ll write her back later. This is more interesting.”

He peers back over a row of earrings.