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 bring in the chicken, letting the aroma do its work. Tara claps and snaps a pic with her phone. “I’m putting this on the Gram. You’re my hero, girlfriend.”
Jack carves the chicken while Jeremy narrates the play-by-play with the enthusiasm of a man calling a football game, and for a moment, everything feels normal. Better than normal, given what I’m going through at the moment.
Tara leans close and murmurs, “So, just to follow up, how’s the side hustle? I see you posting a lot more lately.”
I shoot a quick glance at Jack, but he just winks. “It’s going. Actually, it’s going great. Thanks for being supportive and not telling anyone other than your roomie.”
Tara beams, then takes a nibble of bread. “You looked super hot in the latex, by the way. That video had, like, a million views. Do you ever worry someone from work will find it?”
My stomach flips, but I keep my voice steady. “Not really. The disguise is solid, and you never see my face. Plus, I don’t exactly have a high-profile job.”
Jeremy, catching just the tail end, butts in. “You guys talking about OnlyFans again? Dude, my cousin is pulling in, like, six figures a year just showing her feet.”
Jack deadpans, “Maybe we’re all in the wrong business.”
Jeremy laughs, oblivious, then launches into a story about a fantasy football league that none of us care about but which he clearly believes to be vital. I let it roll past, focusing on the tiny, domestic details: the click of fork on plate, the way Jack’s hand sometimes grazes mine as he passes a dish, the comfort of being surrounded by people who care about me.
I glance at Jack, and for a moment, he looks so handsome—smiling, telling a story about a terrible meal in Italy during a flight layover, playing the perfect host—that it makes my chest ache. This is the man I’ve fallen in love with, and the more I see him like this, the more convinced I am that I made the right choice. For once, I’m not living out of a bag, not counting the hours until I can escape back to my old bedroom, not hiding. I belong here. We belong here.
It’s almost easy to forget everything else, in fact. The war at home, the cold silence from my mother, the last words my father threw at me like a grenade: “If you do, you’re dead to me.” They haven’t called, texted, or emailed since, and it hurts, to be honest. I swallow my disappointment and force myself to smile. Jack notices and squeezes my hand. This man is perfect.
But in the lull after dinner, when everyone is sated and loose with wine, Tara’s words bring indecision to my heart.
“So I saw your mom at Westfield yesterday,” she says, so casually I almost miss it. “Nancy looked… I dunno. Sad. She asked if you were okay.”
My fork hovers in midair. I can feel my shoulders tighten, the blood drain from my face. Jeremy doesn’t notice, but Jack does. He reaches for my hand under the table, squeezing just once, firm and grounding.
“Did she say anything else?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.
Tara shakes her head. “Not really. She was with your dad, and he looked pissed. She said, ‘We’re worried about Eliza.’ That was it.”
I force a laugh. “Typical. If I had a dollar for every guilt trip…”
Tara is silent, watching me too closely. I look away, pick at my chicken, and nod along as Jeremy continues to rattle off stats about his fantasy league, never noticing that we were on a different topic.
The meal ends with more wine, more laughter, and a decadent chocolate cake Tara brought “as an offering to the gods of domesticity.” But I taste nothing after the mention of my mother. My mind is already off in the dark, winding through old memories: Nancy slicing fruit in the kitchen, her hands quick and sure; Dad’s booming laugh echoing down the hall; the safe, small universe I used to love, now gone and probably never coming back.
After Tara and Jeremy leave, Jack helps me clear the table. I stack platters, avoiding his gaze, and load them into the dishwasher with more force than necessary. Then, the leftovers. There’s nothing more depressing than a sink full of chicken bones and cold, greasy plates at midnight. The afterglow from dinner is gone, replaced by a thick layer of exhaustion and something sharp, sad, and angry that I can’t shake. Jack stands at the sink, methodically scraping plates, rinsing, stacking them in the dishwasher with military precision. I gather glassware, working in parallel but not in sync. The wine stains on the rim of my glass look like bruises under the overhead lights.
We don’t talk. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it isn’t happy either. It just exists, heavy, until it breaks like a dam and I’m leaning against the counter, hands shaking, and I can’t hold it together anymore.