Page 81 of Hidden Desires

We sit there, in the sunlit room, surrounded by chaos and hope, and for the first time in forever, I don’t feel like a fraud.

I feel chosen. I feel loved. I feel cherished.

And that’s more than most women ever get.

We celebrate with excellent champagne—it’s a bottle Jack bought for New Year’s but never opened because we were too busy getting hot and heavy many hours before the clock struck twelve. He pops it with a flourish and pours two flutes, the bubbles fizzing out and overflowing onto his hand.

“That’s good luck, right?” he asks with a grin.

I giggle. “I hope so.”

“Well, so be it. To us,” he toasts, glass raised.

“To us,” I echo, and clink, and then we drain our glasses in one shot because that’s the kind of couple we are.

The house smells like citrus and laundry sheets. The sun has moved from the bed to the couch, spotlighting the aftermath of the morning—jackets tossed, shoes abandoned, my phone somewhere underneath a pile of folded towels. Jack sprawls on the sofa, feet up, looking as handsome as I’ve ever seen him with his dark hair and big body. There’s a warmth in my chest, an animal comfort, like a cat purring inside my ribs.

“Should we tell anyone else?” I ask, half-serious, half-dreading the answer.

He looks at me over the rim of his glass. “You want to make it Facebook official?”

I groan. “God, no. With my job streaming, I think I’m over any other type of social media.”

He laughs, deep and full, and stretches until his shirt rides up and I can see the hard line of his belly, the faint trail of hair that leads down to things that make my insides go hot and needy. I set my glass on the table and crawl into his lap, straddling his hard thighs, and let him wrap his arms around my waist. The ring is warm against my skin, and utterly perfect.

“Now you’re stuck with me forever,” I say, and pretend to bite his bronzed neck.

He pulls me close, kisses the hollow of my throat, and says, “That was always the plan, sweetheart.”

We’re making out, lost and lazy, when my phone buzzes from underneath a couch cushion somewhere. The ringtone is the opening bars of “Maui Wowie,” a private joke between Tara and me.

I reach for it, a tiny bit annoyed, and see that it’s a video call. I accept, and Tara’s face fills the screen—blonde hair pushed back, sunglasses perched on her head, and the canny look of smart girl. Judging from the scenery, she’s in the front seat of her car, and slowly driving somewhere with a vape pen clamped between her teeth.

“Tara, are you supposed to be driving while chatting?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she says. “I’m going about two miles an hour. Besides,” she says, “you will not believe what’s happened.”

I laugh, propping the phone on Jack’s knee so he can see too. “Let me guess, Jeremy tried to get you to quit vaping and you smothered him in his sleep?”

She rolls her eyes. “Close. He broke up with me. By text.”

I whistle. “What a stud. Did he at least use the cry-face emoji?”

She nods, mock solemn. “The one with the single tear. I’m keeping it as my screensaver for when I need to remember exactly why I didn’t like him.” Then, abruptly, “Wait, why is your hair wet? Were you guys showering or—oh my god, were you⁠—”

“Champagne incident,” Jack says, perfectly deadpan.

Tara squints at him, then at me, then at the ring on my finger, which I try and fail to hide behind my glass.

“Is that—did you—oh my god, Eliza, are you engaged?!”

I smile, happiness blooming in my chest.

“Yes,” I say with a huge smile. “Jack proposed earlier, and we’re celebrating a little.”

She squeals, a sound that makes the phone mic clip, and then starts crying so hard she has to take off her sunglasses and use the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m so happy for you,” she says, then gasps, “I mean, is this real? Are you going to have, like, a wedding? With cake and everything?”

Jack kisses my temple and says, “That’s the idea.”