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)
Jack opens the box. Inside is a ring—sapphire, not diamond, a perfect, dark blue stone set in a band of gold so pale it looks almost white. The color matches my eyes exactly, a fact he once described as “hypnotic, and utterly mesmerizing.”
“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he says, the words a little bit raspy. “Marry me. Please, sweetheart. I never thought I’d be begging but you do things to me I never thought possible. Please.”
My heart swoops and heaves, as a trembly smiles comes on my lips. I just nod, mute, tears pricking at the back of my eyes. My voice, when it comes, is ragged and small.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, Jack. I love you, yes.”
He smiles, relief washing over those handsome features, and slips the ring onto my finger. It’s a perfect fit, and heavy in a way that makes it feel like it belongs there, like maybe it’s always been waiting for me. I throw my arms around him and nearly topple us both onto the floor. But the huge man catches me, easy, and we end up tangled on the bed, laughing and kissing and crying, all at once.
This is perfect. This is us. This is forever.
After a while, we disentangle a bit, and Jack stares at me with adoration.
“Do we call your parents first?” he asks, after I’ve stopped hyperventilating.
I shake my head. “Let’s wait ten minutes. I want to bask in the honeymoon before my dad threatens to drive here and strangle you with his bare hands.”
Jack laughs, then sits up and pulls me into his lap. “You underestimate your old man. Gerald’s a softie under the crust. Besides, we’re not exactly a surprise couple anymore.”
True. After a year of “don’t ask, don’t tell,” we’ve settled into a semi-peaceful detente with my parents. They’ve accepted my relationship with Jack, because I would cut off all contact with them otherwise. But the camming is another story. Gerald and Nancy never ask about it, and I never say anything either. It works better this way, and I suppose there are secrets in every family.
But I’m glad we’re at peace now. The war is over. Even more, I stare at the ring, twisting it in the light, and feel something loosen in my chest, a knot that’s been there since childhood. I’m still shaking, but now it’s the good kind, the kind that makes you feel like you’re electric.
“We should call them,” I say, and Jack nods, hand warm at the back of my neck.
He dials on speaker. The phone rings three times, then my mom’s voice, brittle and forced: “Eliza?”
“Hey, Mom,” I say, heart pounding. “Can you put Dad on?”
A brief silence, then a shuffle, and my father’s voice, cautious as always: “Hi, honey. Everything alright?”
I inhale, try not to sound like I’m over the moon with happiness. “Yeah, Dad. I’m good. I’m really good. I have something to tell you.”
Jack squeezes my hand, steadying.
“What is it?” Mom again, her voice smaller this time. “Are you okay, Eliza?”
“Yes, better than okay. Jack and I are engaged,” I say. “We’re very happy.”
There’s a silence so absolute I wonder if the call dropped.
Dad is first to recover. “You’re what?”
“Engaged. To Jack.” I say it louder, more certain. “We’re getting married.”
Another silence, but this one is different. It’s not the sound of fury, or heartbreak. It’s the sound of a man recalibrating, reaching for the right response.
“Well,” he says at last, “that’s big news, Eliza. I’m happy for you.”
“Oh good,” I say, voice quiet. “I’m glad.”
“Congratulations,” Mom adds, and her voice cracks, but not in anger. “Is there a ring?”
I glance at Jack. He grins, then says, “A sapphire as clear as the Minnesota sky, Nancy.”
A hiccup of laughter on the other end. “I’m sure it’s beautiful.”
We talk for a while, dancing around the specifics, never touching the subject of what I do for a living or how exactly we pay the mortgage on this house. We discuss logistics—dates, venues, who to invite and who to exile—and by the end of the call, Dad has almost convinced himself that this is a victory, that his only daughter is, in fact, marrying up.
When we hang up, Jack wraps his arms around me and doesn’t let go for a long time.
“Was that so bad?” he murmurs.
I shake my head. “No, not at all.”
He kisses my temple. “That’s my brave girl.”
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.