And so I let my thoughts drift off to last weekend with Blake. It’s easy enough, now that I spend nearly as much time with him as I do at Brooklyn Jewels. The hours after the charity gala are a bubbling blur of hot, breathy kisses in the backseat of a cab; the cool rush of air when we stepped out onto Blake’s rooftop, an urban ocean rippling out in front of us. I could see lit-up apartments, dark windows barely illuminated by the blue glow of a television, neat rows of brownstones, tidy squares of greenery that count for backyards, and the iconic lines that make up Midtown Manhattan sprawling out in front of us, sparkling brightly in the night sky. I braced myself against the ledge, drinking in the view. Blake came up from behind me to slip his hands around my waist, dotting my neck with kisses.

“I love you,” he nuzzled into my ear. “And I want you.”

He pressed himself closer to me, and I could feel the hard edge of his desire. I felt a sudden flash of guilt—for how grand and downright romantic the evening was, and the hollow way my feelings didn’t measure up to his—but I pushed it away. Instead, I turned around and slid my arms over his shoulders to kiss him. I felt lucky that I didn’t exactly have to fake my passion for him. He was so devastatingly suave in his tux, and I truly did like him. I let him lead me off the roof, down the stairs, into his apartment, hoping that my feelings for him would develop over time.

Later, after Blake had drifted off against the cloudlike white pillows, I couldn’t sleep.

“I love you,” I mouthed silently, staring at the ceiling, trying to get my mouth accustomed to forming the words. They rolled around on my tongue like rocks.

I wondered if I was anything like Holden, who had strung me along for so many years. Was I worse? Holden kept me around while he figured out what he wanted in life—I don’t think he meant to hurt me. I was using Blake outright.

I open up my conversation with Blake on my phone and hover my fingers over the keyboard.

“Hey . . .” I tap out.

I wait for the right words to come. They don’t. I delete the draft. There’s nothing to say that will assuage my guilt, strengthen my relationship with Blake, and keep Brooklyn Jewels running. It’s like what people used to say about college: when it comes to good grades, sleep, and a social life, you can pick two. Max. You have to prioritize. You can’t have it all.