I can’t help but think about the gloomy financial projections I was looking at earlier this week. If I could go back in time to tell my former self not to open Brooklyn Jewels, would I? Should I?

“Look, Carmen, there are no guarantees in this world at all. Honestly, my business might not make it through the end of the year. If you’re looking for a simple, steady paycheck, this isn’t the way to go. But you’re so clearly passionate about this concept,” I say. I get a warm flush recalling the moment I signed the lease on our storefront, when I knew I had transformed my love of jewelry into a physical space to help others form that same strong emotional connection to it. I want Carmen to have that, too. “You’ve done the research, your concept is cool as hell, and you’re going to do an incredible job tomorrow with Pinnacle. Nobody ever said entrepreneurship was easy, but if anyone can do this, it’s you.”

She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand.

“All right. Then next, I’d really love your feedback on my deck.”

She shows me the presentation she’s put together and it’s gorgeous. The branding is impeccable, done in clean black and white with pretty pops of yellow and sleek fonts. I’m proud of her. By the time we drain our cups of coffee, Carmen feels more confident about her meeting tomorrow.

“You should head out,” she says, stifling a yawn. “I’m going to wrap up soon and head home anyway.”

“You sure?” I ask.

“Yeah. I feel good. Besides, a girl’s gotta get her beauty sleep.” She gets up to hug me goodbye.

On my walk back to the subway, my brain buzzes with caffeine. Late spring is always my favorite time of year; this week marks nine years since I first moved to New York. The city seems to crackle with life again as the weather warms up: restaurants reopen their outdoor seating sections so people can sit alfresco on the sidewalks with big glasses of chilled rosé; the sidewalks are a sea of bare arms again; dusk glows warm violet against golden streetlights.

“Hey,” I text Raj. “What are you up to right now?”

I haven’t seen him since that awkward moment in my apartment. It’s time to fix that.

“It’s a slow night at the bar. Come hang?” he writes back.

“On my way!”

When I arrive twenty minutes later, Raj has my favorite beer and a plate of mozzarella sticks waiting for me on the counter. He’s shed his usual hoodie for a black T-shirt. I’m surprised that his arms are muscled—I hadn’t ever exactly considered what his arms might look like under all those sweatshirts, but this wouldn’t be it.

“Where was happy hour this week?” he asks.