After that phone call I zeroed in on work for eleven straight hours. Eleven hours of unpacking Hannah gowns, shopping bags, and accessories. Organizing. Reorganizing. Calling the design team who would hang the store sign for the two weeks we would be open. And finally, calling every local media outlet I could get in touch with to make sure the press for the pop-up shop was coming along. The style writer from the New York Times had been unavailable all day, and he was the last call I was going to try to make before packing it in and heading home.

“Hello?” The male voice on the other end sounded busy. I could hear the din of street noise in the background.

“Is this Eric Stuart?” I had my script memorized and was on total autopilot making these calls, just running down the list of contacts Fiona had prepared.

“It is,” he said.

“This is Lydia Bell, calling from Hannah—”

“Lydia?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“Yes, I said my name is Lydia Bell, and I’m—”

“Lydia, it’s Eric. From NYU? Intro to Journalism with Professor Mario?”

Suddenly, memories of my team project came flooding back—long nights of laughing our asses off in Bobst Library as we scrounged through articles so old they were still on microfiche. For about five minutes freshman year I’d thought I might be a journalism major—that class had cured me.

“Eric! Holy shit. You work at the New York Times? That’s amazing!” I dropped the bags I had been sorting, and stopped to chat. “Sorry I didn’t realize it was you I was calling—I’ve been making these calls off and on all day. I’m only here for a month—I’m hosting a pop-up store in SoHo for Hannah Rogan, and—”

“You’re looking for press?” he asked, finishing my sentence, and I could hear the satisfaction in his voice.

“You got me. So what do you say? Can you help a girl out?” I asked.

“You said SoHo?”

“Yeah,” I replied, resuming my cleaning up so I’d be able to leave once this call was over.

“You there now?” he asked.

“I am.”

“I’m on Spring and Sullivan—why don’t we catch up over drinks and you can give me your pitch?”

I looked at my watch—it was nearly eight. I was starving, and I could definitely use a drink. Eric had been fun to talk to during college, and suddenly there was something so appealing about just flopping down on a bar stool and catching up with a friend. Not to mention, I really needed the New York Times to cover the store.

“As long as they’ve got food too,” I said.

“How about Raoul’s in fifteen?”

At eight fifteen I walked into the small dimly lit SoHo institution and saw Eric sitting at the bar. He was broader than I’d remembered. And blonder. He had this scruffy five-o’clock shadow journalist thing going on, complete with a beat-up messenger bag and a pen he was twiddling between his fingers. As soon as he saw me, he rose from his seat and came over to give me a hug.

“How the hell are you?” he asked, giving me a once-over. “You look great!”

“You too,” I said, following him back to the bar stools.

“So you work for Hannah Rogan now, huh?”

I nodded. “In London. I just opened her flagship store there.”

“London. Wow. I can’t believe you left New York. I didn’t think you’d ever leave the city. And the flagship store. That’s really impressive,” he said, and I could tell he meant it. “So now a pop-up here, huh? Testing the waters?”

I nodded again. “Well, actually, she’s moving into a permanent space in a couple of months on Madison—this is driving up the hype. So, you cover the fashion beat?”

And we were off. We laughed about the journalism class we’d taken together, about the horror of shadowing a television reporter through Queens the week there was a high-profile drug bust, about what we’d been up to since graduating. He told me about the Times, what it was like trying to climb the ladder from the inside of such an old established paper, how he wished he’d gone home to Vermont to make a name for himself, because at least there he’d have a fighting chance of getting on the front page. I told him about my job, about Fashion Week, and we caught up on our mutual friends.

It was two and a half hours, two burgers, and too many glasses of wine later by the time we exited the little restaurant. Eric stood by the curb looking to see if there were any cabs, but then he turned and walked back to me, his bag over his shoulder, his hands in his pockets.

“You’ll get a car home, right?” he asked. The air was warm, a hint of spring in the air, and I could feel the heat of the restaurant rolling off of me.

“Yeah,” I said, yawning. I rolled my head back, stretching my neck and rolling my shoulders.

“You’re working hard, aren’t you?”

“I am, but it’s exciting,” I said, and I held my phone in my hand, ready to open the app to summon a car. I was tired. I couldn’t wait to get back to my bed. But then I felt Eric close. Too close.

“Eric, I—” I started to say, slightly stunned when suddenly his hand was on my hip, sitting at the crease where my jeans met my blouse.

“Lydia, I’m going to kiss you now,” he said. And I could smell his breath, and it was so different. And he wasn’t so tall, so his mouth was right there. It all just happened.

Maybe I’d had too much to drink. Maybe I was just too tired and too slow. Too confused. But suddenly his lips were on mine, warm and full and wrong. It was all wrong. I instantly pushed against his chest and pulled away, taking three steps back.

“Fiancé.” I said the word instinctively, emphatically. It felt like the most important word to get out.

“What?”

“I’m engaged. I have a fiancé, Eric,” I stuttered, and he looked back at me, staring, gaping. Suddenly I felt a cloud, thick and dark, settle over me.

“Engaged?” he asked. “You didn’t say anything. I thought—”

“I thought we were just catching up. It was so nice to see an old friend…I…I should have said something earlier,” I said, the panic welling up inside me. What had I done? Why didn’t I tell him about Dylan? “I’m…I’m sorry. I have to go.”

The next thing I knew I was practically running towards the subway entrance. I kept my head down, clinging my bag to my side. If I could just make myself small enough, fast enough, maybe I’d just disappear completely.

There was a train just pulling into the station when I entered the turnstile, and I ran onto it, grateful for the doors shutting behind me, separating me from what just happened. I slumped down on the hard plastic seat and immediately, instinctively reached for my phone, my hand gripping it in my bag. Dylan. I needed to call Dylan. He’d know what to do. He’d know what to say. But I couldn’t call him. He couldn’t help me. I was alone in this.

I pulled the phone out, and there was Dylan’s nightly text sitting on the screen. It had come during dinner, and the pit of guilt in my stomach spread, thickened.

I hadn’t replied, and he probably thought I was giving him the silent treatment. Normally I would’ve said something, at least goodnight. I hovered over the reply, but I had no idea what to say. Anything was going to feel like a lie or an omission. Even if I hadn’t meant to, I’d betrayed him. Even if I hadn’t kissed Eric back, he’d be hurt. The anger I’d felt was now intricately swirled with guilt, reminders that I loved him. I put the phone down, and the tears started falling. In the mostly empty train car, I brought my knees to my chest, burrowing my face between them. What had I done?