“Without hesitation.”
“In front of anyone who asks?”
“Anyone. Everyone.” His grip on my hands tightens. “I’ll write it on a billboard if you want. Take out an ad in the Sorrowville Gazette. Stand in the middle of Main Street and scream it into a megaphone. You already have a Main Street reputation to protect.”
“Exactly. Might as well make it a good one.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“You’re worth dramatic.” A hint of his usual dry humor surfaces. “Besides, I already have a history with Main Street breakdowns. Might as well make this one positive.”
I want to laugh. Want to fall into him and let this be the happy ending we’ve both been circling for years.
But I’m not done testing yet.
“There’s one more thing,” I say.
“Name it.”
“The bingo card.”
His expression flickers—not with reluctance, just surprise. “The bingo card?”
“There’s a square you haven’t completed.” I pull out my phone, open the photo I kept for exactly this kind of moment. “Tell the team what Gisele means to you.”
He stares at the screen. At the laminated square I created weeks ago, back when I thought I could fix him with structured exercises and measurable progress.
“You want me to tell the team.”
“Not someday. Not eventually. Now.” I hold his gaze. “If you’re really done hiding, prove it. Text the group chat. Call Shep. Whatever. But I need to see you do it—not just promise to do it later when you’ve had time to craft the perfect statement.”
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
This is it. The real test. Not beautiful words in private rooms, but action. Public, messy, potentially embarrassing action that can’t be taken back.
Bennett pulls out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“What you asked.” His thumbs move over the screen. My heart is in my throat. I didn’t actually expect him to do it right now. I expected negotiation. A counteroffer. Some version of I will, just not this second. He’s not negotiating. “Texting the group chat.”
“Bennett—”
“You said now. I’m doing it now.” He doesn’t look up from his phone. “You want to know what I’m writing?”
“Yes.”
“I’m writing: ‘For anyone wondering, Gisele LaRue is my girlfriend. Has been for weeks. I was too scared to say it before. I’m not scared anymore.’” He pauses. “Should I add anything?”
My chest feels tight. “No. That’s—that’s good.”
“You sure? I could include details. Declarations of undying love. Maybe a few emojis.”
“Don’t you dare use emojis.”
“One heart? A small one?”
“Bennett.”
