“That’s the spirit. Though you really could have waited until there were cameras on us to switch on the nonchalance.”

“There could be cameras anywhere,” I say.

“Quite right. That level of vigilance and paranoia will take you far in my life. William would be so proud.”

We turn onto Florence’s street. “Danni,” Rose says in a serious voice that’s really unlike her. “If you need me, though. Just find me. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“No, promise me.”

She’s honestly starting to weird me out at this point. “I promise,” I say, and she falls back.

“Okay. You go in first. I’ll see you later.”

I want to hang back and ask Rose why she’s acting like this—like there’s some sort of terrible prophecy that’s meant to take place tonight or something—but we’re already on Florence’s street, so I can’t. All it takes is a photograph of us talking alone in the dark, and we risk the internet blowing up again.

They barely even need photo evidence at this point, these faceless strangers. If we don’t give them material, they just make it up.

For example, a few days ago I stumbled across someone online who’d found a post I made two years ago on Rose’s birthday. It was a photo of two steaming cups of tea in cute, rose-petal cups. Mom was going through a phase at the time where she bought a new flavor of tea at the nearby specialty shop every chance she got, and I had to be her taste tester then. Not only the common flavors like peppermint and chamomile, but real fancy shit like “orange pekoe” and “crème brûlée” and “fruit-basket explosion.” I drank so much tea during those months I’m pretty sure it started leaking out of my pores.

It just so happens that Rose was celebrating her fifteenth birthday in London that year. So far, so unrelated, you would think. But of course, you would be wrong—at least, according to this poster. Because this poster has us all figured out. According to them, my tea post was actually a coded way for me to wish Rose a happy birthday—and that I wished I was in London celebrating with her. Because apparently Rose and I started dating years and years ago, and the proof is clear if you just pay attention to our posts over the years.

Basically, any photos are risky, no matter how innocent. And if we’re gambling with Rose’s future, it’s not up to me to roll the dice. It’s fine, anyway. It’s not like I’m lost without Rose. I have … Eleanor, for example, who’s already making a beeline for me the second she sees me come through the front door.

“Danni,” she cries, grabbing my upper arm. “You are gonna be so proud of me. I’ve decided something.”