CHAPTER 16 – LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION!
Eliza
Ihate roasting chicken almost as much as I hate waiting for the timer to go off.
There’s something about the uncertainty—will it be raw?
Will it be dry?—that makes me run endless anxious laps between the oven, the sink, and the kitchen island.
At Jack’s house (technically now “our” house, but he still calls it “my place” by accident sometimes), the kitchen is an arena of polished surfaces: quartz countertops, and those fancy cabinets that you only see in design magazines and Instagram.
The effect is equal parts intimidating and homey, which is pretty much how I feel in my own skin lately.
Tonight is my idea. “Let’s have friends over.
Celebrate the move-in, the new job, the, uh, new side business.
” I say it with a wink because the “side business” is the elephant in every room, even if we keep it out of sight in the guest bedroom closet—tripod, ring lights, a rolling case that says “music equipment” in case anyone snoops.
I baste the chicken again and glance at the clock.
Forty minutes until Tara and Jeremy are due to arrive.
My heart beats double-time, but I try to pass it off as culinary enthusiasm.
In the dining room, Jack uncorks a bottle of pinot and sets the table with his best dishes—actual china, with a gold rim and a little fighter jet on the underside, a leftover from his bachelor years and a gift from some long-ago squadron mate.
He surveys the scene, eyes me up and down, and grins. “You’re gorgeous, sweetheart, but also wound tighter than a drum. Want a glass now, or are you pacing yourself?”
I wipe my hands on the apron (his old Air Force one, because mine is in a box somewhere) and say, “Maybe just half a glass. I don’t want to slur my toast.”
He pours, but instead of half, it’s a generous three-finger measure. “Consider it tactical support.”
I sip, willing the liquid to soften my nerves. “Do you think they’ll notice? About us, I mean.”
Jack leans against the counter, arms folded, all easy confidence. “That you’re living here? Probably, since there’s a literal shrine of your stuff in the bathroom.”
I smile, but he’s not wrong. My skincare routine now claims more territory than the fridge’s beer drawer. “No, I mean about the… other thing.”
Jack gives me the look. Not annoyed, but the one that says, “You already know the answer.” He slides a hand around my waist, pulling me in close enough to smell the pinot on his breath.
“We’re careful when we film, Eliza. You’ve said it yourself—no face, no name, no way to trace.
Besides, Tara already knows that you cam for an audience, you said.
She just has no idea that I’ve joined you in the business. ”
I nod because that’s the craziest, but best part of my time as BunnySnowGirl.
The fact is that Bunny now has Wolf, and we’ve released a couple of pre-recorded videos.
Judging from the comments, people really like to see me impale myself on a huge dick, and I got a lot more subscriptions to my channel. Like a lot more.
But then, the timer dings, and I leap away, oven mitts already on before I hit the door. The blast of heat almost makes me drop the pan, but I recover, setting it on the stovetop with a clatter. The skin of the chicken is perfectly brown, glistening, and for a second, pride eclipses panic.
Jack’s hand finds the small of my back. “Looks like something out of Bon Appetit. Should we take a picture for your mom?”
I give him a look. “She’s blocked me, remember?”
He grins and shrugs. “Unblockable by chicken.”
Before I can answer, the doorbell rings—sharp, precise, as if whoever’s there wants to announce themselves without actually entering.
Jack nods to me, then moves to the foyer, moving with the smooth, rolling gait of a confident male animal.
I tidy up stray celery on the counter, then pull the apron over my head and toss it aside.
I fluff my hair, check my teeth in the microwave’s reflection, and try to look like someone who isn’t living in perpetual identity crisis.
Tara’s laugh comes first—a wild, throaty whoop that carries from the porch.
She’s in her usual uniform: distressed jeans, crop top, and a thrifted kimono with fringe that brushes her calves.
She’s gorgeous of course, blonde hair in long waves down her back and sparkling blue eyes, complete with a curvy figure.
She flings herself at me, arms wide, and I catch the scent of patchouli, rose, and vape juice.
“Eliza!” she yells, hugging so hard my ribs creak. “You look amazing. Oh my god, is that chicken? Are you Betty Crocker now?”
I laugh, feeling a layer of the anxiety slide off. “Only for you.”
She leans in, conspiratorial, and whispers, “Congrats on doing so well in your second job, by the way.” Her eyes glint with the secret. “I showed my roommate the one with the three toys, and she was like, ‘Who is this girl? She’s a goddess.’”
My cheeks flare, but I can’t help the pride blooming in my chest. “You’re not supposed to tell anyone! Oh my god! But tell your roommate she’s welcome to tip.”
Tara grins. “She will, and I’ll make sure she tips a lot,” then releases me to scan the house. “Where did Jack go?”
“He’s setting the wine,” I say, then hear another set of footsteps.
Jeremy—tall, bony, with the perpetual air of someone who’s surprised to find himself anywhere—follows, wearing an ill-fitting blazer over a Star Wars T-shirt.
He nods at me, then moves to the dining room where Jack’s fiddling around with the drinks. Jeremy zeroes in immediately.
“Hey yo,” he says, inspecting the pinot. “Is this the stuff that’s supposed to have notes of, like, dirt and moss?”
Jack nods, pouring him a glass. “It’s ‘earthy,’ which is wine-speak.”
Jeremy shrugs. “I’m more of a whiskey guy. But, you know, when in Rome.” He sips, winces, then drains it in a single go. “Yup, just what I thought. Tastes like ass. Thanks, man.”
Tara and I exchange a glance in the kitchen, and she mouths, “I’m sorry.
” What the heck is my gorgeous friend doing with such a loser?
But we don’t have time to chat because then, we peek into the dining room, which Jack has set with not just the fancy dishes but also candles—real candles, not the LED ones my parents use to prevent “fire hazards.” Tara claims a seat near the kitchen, while Jeremy plants himself across from Jack, already stacking his plate with charcuterie and olives.
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.