Page 55 of Hidden Desires

Jack gives me that smile again—the one that says, “You’re stronger than you think.”

As I walk out, the cold hits me like a slap, but it’s not enough to wake me up.

The rest of the day, my mind is a whir of what-ifs and never-weres and maybe-somedays, all spinning around a single, terrifying thought: What if I finally choose myself, for once?

What a novel idea. What would happen if I chose myself? If I decided to be honest about what I want, and stopped hiding?

The possibility terrifies me, but also lifts me with hope because I can’t keep doing this … and I don’t want to either.

By the time I get home, it’s dusk, the kind that smears everything gray and makes the day feel over already. The porch light is on, a sickly LED that turns the front step into an interrogation room.

I open the door and my heart stops because there they are: both parents in the living room, TV off, wine untouched on the end table. Nancy is perched on the edge of the sofa, spine rigid, phone in one hand like it’s a crucifix. Gerald is in his battered leather armchair, elbows on knees, hands knotted together so tight I can see the veins.

They don’t say anything at first, just watch me cross the room and drop my bag by the stairs.

“Hi,” I say with a forced smile. “What’s going on?”

“Sit,” my dad says, and the tone is a bad omen.

I obey, tucking my legs up under me, wishing for armor, or a time machine, or a hole to swallow me whole.

Nancy starts it off. “Your father and I are worried about you, Eliza.”

I nod, waiting for the drop.

“You’re out late,” she says. “You’re secretive. Your work calls happen at odd hours and you’re always shutting your door.”

Dad picks up. “Plus, you never tell us where you’re going. Or if you do, you say you’re at Tara’s. Is that really realistic? Do you go over to Tara’s three or four times a week, every week?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I have nothing left in the tank. Not a single fresh lie, not even a half-decent cover.

“Are you on drugs?” Nancy demands, and there’s actual fear in her voice. “Or is it something worse?”

I almost laugh. “No, Mom. I’m not on drugs.”

“Are you seeing someone?” Gerald asks, voice hard. “Is that what this is about?”

My heart stalls. I want to say, “Yes, and it’s your best friend, the one you think is a hero.” But my tongue won’t work. I just sit, blank, the air crackling with expectation.

Dad leans forward, voice dropping. “Look, honey, if you’re in trouble, if you’re being blackmailed, or if someone’s hurting you, you need to tell us. We can help.”

I shake my head. “I’m not in trouble.”

“Then why all the secrecy?” Nancy says. “Why do you keep sneaking around? Why are you always so tired?”

I look up at them—my parents, the people who made me, whom I’ve been lying to for months. There’s so much hurt in my mother’s eyes, and so much stubborn, scared pride in my father’s. I could tell them the truth, right now. It would shatter everything, but at least it would be real.

But I can’t. Not yet. Instead, I say, “I just… I don’t know. I’ve been working too much, I guess. It’s a lot.”

Dad shakes his head. “That’s not good enough, Eliza. We deserve better than that.”

Something in me gives. “I’m sorry,” I say, and the tears come again, not as dramatic as this morning but more honest, burning my throat and blurring the room.

Nancy reaches for my hand, but I pull away. “I need to go to my room,” I say, and they call after me, but I ignore it. I take the stairs two at a time and slam the door.

Inside, I strip off my coat and crawl under the covers, phone in hand, heart beating a bruised tattoo against my ribs.

I dial Jack. He picks up before the first ring finishes.