Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I slide into the booth across from him. He glances up, and that smile—crooked, warm, a little dangerous—breaks the tension just enough for me to breathe.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, reaching for my hand under the table. His grip is solid, grounding. “You okay? I got your message and was worried.”
I nod, but the effort of holding it together is too much. I bite my lip, hard, but tears come anyway, fast and stupid, rolling down my face before I can blink them back.
Jack’s face shifts—worry, then anger, then something like heartbreak. He thumbs a tear off my cheek. “Talk to me,” he says softly.
I try. I really do. But all that comes out is a sob.
“It’s too much,” I say, when I can finally speak. “They know, Jack. Not everything, but they know I’m hiding something. My mom is on my case every second. My dad’s got this look, like he thinks I’m a total disappointment and he doesn’t even know why.”
Jack doesn’t flinch. “Do you want to tell them about your job? About us?”
“No!” I say, too loud, and get a glare from the barista behind the counter. I lower my voice, frantic. “If my dad found out about us—about you and me—he’d lose it. You know he would. I’d never see him again. My mom would probably make me move to a convent.”
Jack’s face gets that hard look I love. “You’re a grown woman, Eliza. They can’t control you forever.”
I sigh, sag into the bench, and wish I could crawl under the table and never come out. “I know. I just—I don’t want to lose them. Or you.”
Jack squeezes my hand. “You’re not going to lose me. That’s not on the table, okay?”
I nod, but I can feel the edges of everything starting to crumble.
He leans in, voice low. “Sweetheart, listen to me. You’re killing yourself trying to keep everyone happy. Your folks, your job, your cam customers, me. It’s not possible. Something’s going to break, and I don’t want it to be you.”
I blink hard, willing the tears to stop. “So what do I do, Jack? Quit my job? Move out? Run away and join the circus?”
He doesn’t laugh. “Move in with me.”
I stare at him, mouth open, the words caught between hope and fear.
Jack holds my gaze, blue eyes steady. “I mean it. You’re with me a lot already. You hate being at home. And if you lived with me, you could stop sneaking around. No more lies. No more hiding, and telling them you’re at Tara’s place. They probably think her parents are getting ready to adopt you.”
I smile shakily and try to picture it—my clothes in his closet, coffee mugs with lipstick prints on his kitchen counter, the sound of his laugh in the morning instead of my mother’s suspicious huff. For a split second, it seems possible. For a split second, I can see myself happy, playing house with this man.
But then reality elbows in, hard.
“What about my parents?” I ask. “What about your friendship with my dad? If he finds out, it’ll kill him. And he’ll hate you forever.”
Jack shrugs, but there’s a heaviness in it. “Maybe he will. Maybe he’ll come around. But I’m not going to let you drown just to keep Gerald’s feelings safe. You deserve to be happy, Eliza. Not in five years, or ten, or whenever your parents come around. Now.”
My heart squeezes in my chest, then does a weird, reckless flutter.
I start to answer, but my phone buzzes with a text from the office: URGENT. Partner needs draft by 10 a.m. Oh shit.
I look up, desperate. “I have to go. I’ll be late for work.”
He nods, not letting go of my hand until I stand up.
“I’ll think about it,” I promise, but I know the words are weak.
He gets to his feet as well, towering over the table, and for a second, it looks like he wants to kiss me, right here in the morning daylight, right in front of god and the hungover barista working the espresso machine. I almost wish he would.
Instead, he just says, “Text me when you get there. I want to know you’re safe.”
I nod, turn to go, but stop at the edge of the table.
“Thank you,” I say softly, and I mean it.
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.